Shake Down the Stars (11 page)

“But I didn't ask you.”

I toss my napkin on the table. I'm hoping to come off as confident, but by now I'm starting to think I have the word
Loser
emblazoned on my forehead. “I don't understand why I have to be the bad seed and the one who has to get picked on instead of supported.” I rise from the table. “I have to use the restroom.”

“No one's picking on you,” Mom says.

“We love you,” says Margot.

I march off, though, before they can see they've gotten to me. I need a minute alone and only wish I'd grabbed my phone so I could call Spencer. I know I've imposed a moratorium on talking, but it would be so nice to hear his voice now, to have him make the perfect sarcastic comment about my crazy family.

I walk past the restroom and directly outside where I hug myself against a strong wind. I walk toward the bay. I wish for the gazillionth time that Hailey was with me and that I could go back to those four years when everything felt normal, when I didn't need anyone but my nucleus of a family—me, Spencer, Hailey.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I walk a little farther. I'm nearing a cross street when I hear someone say,
“Kilowatt?”

I turn and squint my eyes.
It can't be.

“Selwyn?”

He walks up in a suit and tie, face beaming. “Is it really
you
?”

“Is it really you?”

We laugh and share a long hug.

When my smile broadens, he clutches at his chest as though he might faint. “Oh lawd! There it is! You're killin' me, baby!”

“Stop acting crazy,” I tease.

“It's so nice to see you. I can't believe it.”

“I can't either. What are you doing here?”

He glances at a gray-haired man standing off to the side. “I'm here on business. Dave, this is Piper.” He pauses and smiles. “An old friend.”

Dave and I shake hands before he turns his attention back to Selwyn. “Listen, Selwyn; I should take off. Call me next week, and we'll set up that meeting.”

“Sure thing.” They say good-bye, and Selwyn quickly grips both my arms as though I might be an apparition. “Am I dreaming?”

“Stop being silly.” I laugh.

“What are you doing in the city?”

As soon as I think of my intervention, it's as if someone has raised an it's-okay-to-cry lever, and I well up.

“Kil? Hey now. What is it?”

“Nothing. Everything. My family. We're having lunch and I hate them. And they hate me. I don't know why they hate me, but they do. Actually I do know why. I'm a fuckup. And why do I always feel like I have to tell you
everything
?” I manage to smile. I don't know what it is about Selwyn that makes me divulge so, but here I am telling him everything, admitting things I wouldn't admit to anyone.

“Hey now, stop putting yourself down. Is there anything I can do?”

I think of asking him to whisk me away as he did at the engagement party, but that would only prove them right—that I can't handle awkward situations, like family interventions, without freaking out or disappearing. “No. I'm fine. I'll be all right.”

“It's so good to see you, Kil. I think about you—a lot, if you want to know the truth. Are you busy? Can I take you out for coffee?”

“That would be nice, but I'm having lunch with my family.”

“Right. Of course. Well, when can I see you? I have to see you again. This is kismet. Serendipity. If today doesn't work, when? I've wanted to contact you, but you made things so clear last time, I thought I should leave you alone. But now here you are! This is fate, what we're dealing with right here.”

I feel excited myself. It's not lost on me that we're having one of those serendipitous moments in life, too difficult to explain. I mean, who knows why all that matter and energy decided to collide one day, and—
boom
—the big bang? Or who knows what events led Selwyn here, right at this moment. The point, it seems, is that he's here. And what's more, I honestly can't believe how good it is to see him. And he looks
good
,
too. I realize now, in the light of day, how he gives off the impression of a man who likes himself and who lives well. He seems like a guy who's . . . What's that word again?
Happy.
Yes, that's it. He's that rare thing in my circle of family and no-friends-to-speak-of: a genuinely happy person.

“You know,” he says. “I've been wanting to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“Yep. Thanks to you, I am now the proud owner of a Meade 280.”

“A Meade 280? Are you serious?!” Now I
am
tempted to run away with him. My telescope is of good quality and nothing to be embarrassed about, but the Meade 280x is a gorgeous telescope, top of the line, and used primarily by professionals who can afford its high-end price tag.

“I told you that our night together meant something to me. Seeing Saturn that night? That changed me. I bought the Meade a couple of weeks after we met. I was hoping you'd call and I'd be able to show it to you.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. Now is what matters. So when can I take you to dinner?”

I find myself shaking my head no. It's great seeing him, but my sense of excitement is mixed with an underlying anxiety, partially due to a gnawing sense that Selwyn and I aren't good for each other. No, strike that. I'm not good for Selwyn. It's obvious he's a nice man, but his crush, or whatever, is unnerving. I don't deserve it. And then there's an even more important factor.

“I can't, Selwyn. I'm trying to work things out with my ex-husband, and I can't deal with any other complications. He's my focus right now. I'm sorry. My husband and I . . .” I try to think of the words. “We just have this history.”

“Ex-husband,” he says. “You keep forgetting that.”

“Right. See what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do. That's fine. But we ran into each other like this for a reason. Hey, I know how to do friendship. I know it's hard to believe I can contain all this powerful love energy, but I know how to hold back.”

“You are so crazy,” I say with a laugh.

“But it's true. Seriously, I respect whatever it is you have going with your ex, but I would like to be friends. Can I at least get your number?”

I feel my head shaking back and forth as if the decision has been made deep in my bones. I wouldn't know how to fit Selwyn into my life, regardless. How would I even introduce him to Spencer once we're back together?
By the way, here's a guy I almost slept with at my sister's engagement party.
No. We should leave things as they are.

“I don't think so, Selwyn. It was really nice seeing you, though. You're good?”

“I'm good.” He studies me while letting out a long, hard sigh. “You don't want to try friendship, Kil? I'm telling you, this is fate.”

“Let's just be happy we saw each other, okay?”

“Damn, girl, you're as stubborn as a hungry mule with a bale of hay.”

I glance toward Aqua. “I should get back. If I don't hurry, I might miss my intervention.”

“Intervention?”

“Never mind. It's nothing.”

“You're gonna regret this day, Kil. Passin' up a good man like me—
twice
. You know you like me.”

“I do like you,” I admit, my tone serious. “But—” I lower my gaze. “Things are complicated. My life is . . .”
A fucking mess,
I think. I don't know any happy people. I wouldn't know what to do with someone like Selwyn.

“Hey, let me stop pressuring you. It's okay. Always good to trust your instincts.” He reaches up and kisses my cheek. Oddly enough, it's not until then that I remember he's shorter than I am, our difference in height made more pointed, again, by the fact that I'm in heels. “You stay well, Kilowatt. Try not to let people bring you down. You're a thin-skinned girl. Feisty, but thin-skinned.”

We hug as people make their way around us. I wish I had something to offer him besides conflicted feelings and rejection. I feel him staring as I walk back to the restaurant. It's sad to see him only to say good-bye, but I do feel infinitely better as I walk back to Aqua. There's nothing like seeing a friend before having to face family.

I
t's past ten p.m., and I've been on the roof stargazing for the last half hour. It's been a good night. I have a nice view of Pollux, a first-magnitude star thirty-five times the sun's luminosity, and Castor, which some refer to as Pollux's twin, is almost as bright. I'm still gazing when I hear several people talking down below. When I lean over the rooftop, I see a group of ten or so people passing, some carrying glass votive candles. Christmas is less than a month away, and I wonder if they're conducting some kind of holiday ritual—except, we're not a holiday ritual kind of neighborhood. Hardly anyone puts up Christmas lights, for instance; if anything, around here you worry about your Christmas bounty getting stolen.

Mrs. Mathews leans out of her window. She lives in the complex across the street and serves as the block's cable news network. She knows everyone and is known for shouting the day's events from her window. She wears a Christmas hat and munches from a bag of chips. When I ask what's going on, she yells, “Tank died! Everybody's going over to Gaskill!” She tends to shout, even on a quiet night like this. “You know Tank!” she adds, when I don't respond. “Big guy! Always on that bicycle! Yeah! He dead!” She begins fanning herself. “You hot?”

It's actually cold out, and I'm wearing a down jacket. “Can't say that I am.”

“I'm hot as hell. I think I'm gettin' them hot flashes. You know Delores got that menopause. I think she gave it to me.”

“I don't think you get menopause through contact.”

“You up there looking through that telescope?” she says, ignoring my comment. “If you see any aliens, you let me know!” This has been her running joke since I moved here. Before I know it, she slams the window shut.

I don't remember Tank, but I've never been around when people are actually making an altar, so I quickly put my telescope away and join them.

The procession ends at Fiftieth and Gaskill where there's a larger crowd of thirty or so people. Lit candles are spread out in front of an apartment complex's carport, along with empty bottles of Hennessy, flowers, and teddy bears. Several balloons are tied to a stop sign.

Hennessy is being passed around, and everyone talks and laughs loudly while drinking from plastic cups. If not for the poster board lining the carport with
RIP Tank
spray-painted in large letters, no one would suspect people have gathered to mourn and pay their respects. There are as many young women as men, their ages ranging from teens to midthirties. A few girls sit on the hood of a car, holding balloons and kicking their legs and laughing. Others write messages on the poster board or the garage wall itself. I walk closer and watch a woman draw a heart on the wall and write Tank's name in the center. Her heart joins messages such as
Tank, I miss you, bro
;
Gaskill MB Mob Forever
; and
We Have 2 Stop the Violence Fareals!
A young man taps my arm and hands over a bottle of Hennessy. It's been almost five weeks since my “intervention,” and except for an occasional nightcap, I haven't been drinking at all. Figuring what the hell, though, I raise the bottle—“To Tank”—and take a long, hard pull.

“Don't hold back,” the man says, watching me.

“I never do.” I take another swig and return the bottle. “How did he die?”

“What else? Over some nonsense. He used to be in a gang. He got out several years ago. Some fool popped him over in West Oakland over some fight they had long long time ago. You know how these gangbangers be.” His voice sounds as if he's been smoking since the age of three. But he has a soft beard and soft eyes that contradict all his muscle and girth. He looks to be in his early thirties and wears a bomber jacket and construction boots. “Did you know him?” he asks.

“I don't think so. I live around here, but I don't remember seeing him.”

“If you live around here, you saw him. Everybody knew Tank. Big dude. Got them light green eyes. Always on his bike.”

“How did you know him?”

“We worked together out near Fruitvale, building them new town houses. Name's Jeremy, by the way.” He extends his hand, and we shake.

“Piper.”

“Piper? What kind of name is that?”

“The kind my mother gave me.”

He grins and gives me the bottle. We pass it back and forth until I feel a warm buzzing in the back of my brain.

“Tank and me volunteer with Youth Construction, helping the young brothers and sisters learn construction skills. Tank was a mentor to a lot of these kids out here tonight. He was just coming home from a job when that fool up and shot him.”

“I'm sorry for your loss. It's all so damn tragic.”

“Yes, it is.”

Two boys, both in their late teens, approach. They wear matching T-shirts with a picture of another boy their age on the front with
RIP ANTHONY GREEN
at the top. T-shirts like these are worn at funerals and kept as keepsakes. My students wear them frequently at school. Jeremy cups each boy's hand and claps them on the back. As they exchange condolences, I make my way to the carport just as a woman finishes taping up more poster board. I watch as she takes out a marker and begins writing.
Thank you, Tank, for teaching me to believe in myself.
She hands the marker to me.

“I didn't know him.”

She smiles with a shrug as if this is of no importance and walks away.

I start to write in the center of the poster board, taking up more space than I need to. The poem I write was included in the program at Hailey's funeral, and I know every word by heart. I take my time, writing slowly in big cursive letters.

When I'm finished, I hear Jeremy behind me. “That some kind of Shakespeare?”

“You're close. John Donne. ‘Death Be Not Proud.'”

He reads the last lines in his throaty baritone: “‘One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.'

“I likes,” he says, handing me the bottle. “I likes.”

•   •   •

S
pencer is telling me that he loves me, but the sun is shining in his face and I can't see him clearly. I try to move out of the bright glare, but every time I do, the light only brightens. “I want you back, Piper. I never should have left you in the first place.”

A loud ringing noise starts. “Do you hear that?” I ask him. “What is it?”

“Someone's calling.” He takes me in his arms and we begin to kiss, but the ringing phone distracts me. “Is that your phone or mine?”

I open my eyes and try to look around, but I have to shield my face from the sunlight streaming through the window. I blink a few times as I sit up and slowly shift from the dream I was having to what appears to be reality: me in my bedroom, a throbbing headache, and no Spencer.

But I do see someone else.

“Mornin'.” Jeremy sits in the chair in the corner of my room, tying his construction boots, dressed in his jeans and jacket.

“Morning.” I feel around under the covers to see if I'm dressed and exactly how much I'm dressed. T-shirt. Underwear. I sit up while drawing the blanket to my chest.

Jeremy walks over and kisses the top of my forehead. “I gotta bounce.”

“Okay.”

I look around my bedroom for clues and catch sight of Scrabble pieces strewn about the floor. I point. “What's that about?”

Jeremy strokes his beard with the tip of his fingers. “You don't remember? I beat your ass at Scrabble and you started throwing your pieces at me.”

I stare at the Scrabble pieces until our night together slowly surfaces. While at Tank's altar, I told him I was a teacher, and that somehow led to a shared love of Scrabble. We played all night while drinking Hennessy. I was drunk-pissed when I lost and chased him around the apartment until we landed in bed.

“You only beat me because I was drunk.”

“Girl, you need to quit. I won fair and square.”

He gives me another kiss before starting toward the door. “Listen, like I told you last night, if it weren't for Amy, I would see you again, but even just the little foolin' around we did last night can't happen again.”

I latch onto “little foolin' around.” I have to ask. “So did we . . . ?”

He catches on and blinks hard. “Naw, we didn't do anything. Nothing worth writing home about, anyway. Don't worry, girl. I didn't take advantage. I don't play like that. It was because of Tank I ended up here anyhow. 'Sides, Amy is one of them psycho bitches, if you wanna know the truth, and messin' around on her would likely get you and me both killed.”

“No need to explain.” Truly. He does not know the depths of my disinterest. “It was just the night. No problem. I'm seeing someone, too.”

He gives the wall a pat. “You be good.”

“You, too.”

I hear the door close and try to recount the details of our “foolin' around.” I lie back in bed and close my eyes. Jeremy's probing fingers slowly come to mind. His gravelly voice: “I can't do much else, girl. Amy would kill me.” I doze for a little while, but then I remember the ringing sound in my dream and check my phone. I expect to see Mom's or Margot's name on my caller ID, but I'm wrong. Happily wrong. It's Spencer.
Spencer!

“Hey, it's me. It's been too long. I miss you, P, and I can't stop thinking about you. I was wondering if we could see each other. I'd like to talk.”

After I replay the message a second time, I run for the shower. My headache, Tank, my night with Jeremy; all of them are forgotten.

•   •   •

T
he house has a kind of Sunday-morning quaintness to it. There's a wreath on the door and while the lawn hasn't changed, there are potted flowers on the porch and a potted bougainvillea, its bright fuchsia-colored flowers already beginning to frame the side of the house.

I give an excited knock. On my way here, I picked up a coffee cake from Lulu's. Spence and I always liked Sunday mornings—reading the
Times
in bed with coffee and a favorite baked good from Lulu's. I'm hoping my gift, in its own small way, will show him how much I'm willing to go back to who we were.

When I hear the latch at the door, I pull my shoulders back and hold up the cake with a big smile. I'm all set to announce
Surprise!
when Tisa of all people opens the door.
“Piper?” She opens the door farther, her robe and pj's, her messy curls and dewy face signaling that she's just woken up. “What a surprise.”

I try my best to appear unshaken, but I can't help wonder what the hell is going on. Spencer misses me, and can't stop thinking about me—and yet the nitwit is here?

“I hope I didn't wake you. I know it's early. I thought I'd pop by with some of Spencer's favorite coffee cake. But I could just leave it and talk to him another time.”

“Don't be silly. We're in the kitchen reading the paper—Spence is reading the paper.” She suddenly wraps her arms around me. “I'm so happy to see you.”

I remain frozen with the coffee cake in midair.

“You wouldn't know this, but my hope has been that we can all be friends. I just think that the Universe is constantly providing us with ways to connect. Love is made with small steps. That's what I wrote in my journal yesterday. And now, you're here.”

I watch the butterflies swirling around her head; a group of fairies and nymphs soon join in. I'm sickened by the thought that I'm being invited into what was once my own home by a twenty-year-old ninny, but pride wins out and I politely follow her inside.

I try to peek into each room for evidence that she's moved in, but it's been only a few months, and I talk myself down from the notion.

She leads me to the kitchen where Spence sits at the table in an old Stanford sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. He has his laptop out and a coffee mug in his hand.

“Honey,” Tisa says, “look who's here.”

Spencer practically jumps from his seat when he sees me. “Oh. Wow. Whoa. What a surprise. Hey, you.” He collects himself and rises from his seat. “What are you doing up so early?”

I choose a lie—of the white variety. “You called and I had a few errands to run, so I thought I'd stop by. I brought you coffee cake.” I hold up the box. “From Lulu's.”

“We love that place,” Tisa says, reaching for the box. “Why don't I help you with that. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

I watch her take a mug from the kitchen cabinet and pour coffee as if she owned the place. I have to keep myself from staring. Only a few months ago I was spending almost every night here, and now I'm suddenly a guest. Who does she think she is? Spence and I bought this place together, I want to tell her. We raised a child here.
Get out! Get the hell out!

I find a seat at the table where I once served breakfast to my family. The same table where Hailey once ate her cereal and Spencer and I would sometimes have candlelight dinners. I sit. I keep my mouth shut.

“Excuse my mess,” she says, setting down my coffee and taking the second laptop to the counter. “I was shopping online while Spencer read the paper,” she explains. “I was telling him about bargains I'm finding while he was keeping me current on the news.” She moves her computer to the counter, takes out the coffee cake, and sets it on the table along with forks and knives. All I can think is that she doesn't know that Spencer told me he misses me. Knowing Spence as I do, he probably doesn't want to tell her anything until he talks to me.

“So, how's school?” he asks. “How are things?”

“Everything is great.”

Tisa starts to leave with her laptop and a slice of a cake. “Babe, I'm going to finish in the other room. Give you two some privacy.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you two go ahead. I'll join you later. Why don't you show Piper the backyard. You guys can sit out there and enjoy the sun. You can use one of the heat lamps if it's cold.”