Shake Down the Stars (2 page)

“Lucky for the rest of us, your humility remains intact.”

“Seriously, P, I'm truly grateful. Last night Curtis was so sweet. After kissing me all over my face, he fell down to his knees and kissed my—”

“Too much information! I keep telling you, I don't need to know every detail of your sex life.”

“I was going to say he fell to his knees and kissed my
hand
, stupid. He proposed all over again.”

“How many times is the man going to propose?”

“As many times as he wants, thank you very much. I can't believe how God has blessed me. He's handsome. Rich. Kind. What more could a girl want?”

“Intelligence?”

She cuts her eyes.

I feel the troll give my ankle a shake. Message received, I ask, “So, what do you want, anyway? I was about to take a bath.”

“I wanted to talk. I'm a little down, I guess. I wish Grampy were here is all.”

She sits next to me on the bed. I worry briefly that she'll catch on to the fact that there's a man under the covers, but no surprise, she's completely oblivious.

“I keep imagining how happy Grampy would be if he knew I was marrying the one and only Curtis Randolph.”

Margot's father raised me from the time I was eleven. His father, Grandpa Wright, or Grampy, died two years ago. My own father, the deadbeat, left when I was barely two months old. He sent Mom money from time to time, but never with a return address. By the time I turned three, he'd disappeared altogether, turning Mom and me into characters from a Dickens novel. Mom worked two jobs, as a waitress and a sales clerk, but money was as elusive as that person you've always had a crush on but who never notices you.

After years of life on the poverty line, Mom met Charles Wright, Margot's father. Charles was a banker at the time, and, like some kind of economic superhero, swooshed in, married Mom, and moved us three rungs up the socioeconomic ladder. Margot was born a year into the marriage, and suddenly Mom had the life she'd always wanted: a man, a home, a little girl she could afford to spoil rotten. I, meanwhile, gained a sister eleven years my junior. Then, sometime while I was in high school, Charles announced that he'd been called to serve God. He started a church in a small movie theater, and now that same church is some one thousand members strong.

“I know you miss Grampy, Margot,” I say, “but you should be grateful that your father is alive and present in your life. Try to focus on that.”

“You're right,” she says, taking my hand. “You're right. I wish more than anything that someone else could be here, too.”

I lower my gaze. “Margot.”

“Dad is going to say a few words about Grampy, and I'd like him to say a few words about Hailey, too. I think it's important that they
both
be remembered tonight.”

“Margot—”

“I want tonight to be about family. I think we should honor her.”

I pull my hand away. “I don't think that's a good idea. Just leave her out of it, okay?”

“But it's a blessed event, and we need to have her presence here.”

“Blessed event? What makes an engagement party a blessed event?”

“It's blessed to me. Curtis and I are making a holy promise to each other. Daddy agrees. I think it would be nice if he said a few words. Just a few, that's all. I want everything to feel spiritual, and I want my niece to be with us.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “This isn't about Hailey, Margot; it's about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Look at all the money you're throwing around, and it's not even your wedding yet. Everything is out of control.”

“And so what if it is? Curtis and I have been through a lot, and now we're tighter than ever. I want this party to represent that.”

“Been through a lot” meaning Curtis has
cheated
a lot. Only eight months ago he was caught messing around with a groupie. Margot forgave him, spurred by his tearful apology and the pair of diamond earrings he gave her. The marriage proposal followed soon after.

I feel the troll's breath on my thigh, slow and labored. I wonder if he's passed out under there, but there's nothing I can do. I need to make sure Margot doesn't sabotage me. “It's your engagement party,” I say. “Your marriage, your life. Just whatever you do, please leave Hailey out of it.”

“She was my niece, you know. I miss her, too. We all miss her. We will
always
miss her.”

“I don't want her mentioned during your party, Margot. I don't.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“Why do you have to be so selfish? Just leave her out of it, okay?”

Resigned, she rises from the bed. She glances at the drink on the nightstand, then makes a point of staring at Selwyn's drink on the opposite table. “You need help, Piper. You really do.”

“Okay,” I say. “As soon as you leave, I'll get on it. Thanks. See you later.”

She saunters to the mirror in response. “I just need one more thing.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“The girls aren't feeling well. Hélène says it's a mild fever. I just checked on them, and they seem fine. Anyway, she says she has some family thing she has to go to—a christening or something—and has to fly to LA. She says she told me, but I swear she didn't. Of course she gave me one of her voodoo stares. I'm certain she's put a curse on me.
That's
why it's so cloudy today.”

“You really need to quit with the stereotypes.”

“I wanted everyone to see the girls in their chiffon dresses, but now I'm not sure.”

Margot's ten-year-old twins, Sophia and Little Margot, are the product of her relationship with the hockey player no one speaks of. Like my own father, the hockey player disappeared after he learned he was going to be a father. Unlike my dad, he's been sending monthly checks since the girls' birth—enough money that they attend one of the most expensive schools in the Bay Area, have a nanny who may as well be their surrogate mother, and are set through college.

“Just how sick are they?”

“Sophia's been throwing up, and Margot has a mild case of diarrhea.”

“Margot!”

“Well.”

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Of course I called the doctor. She said to watch them overnight, make sure they get their fluids, and if they're still under the weather, bring them in on Monday.” She shrugs. “I think they're making a turn for the better, but I can't see forcing them to participate. And I can't ask Mom to watch them—
I need her.
”

“So you want me to watch them.”

“Would you mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks. I knew you'd say yes. I just don't want you to be upset because you'll have to miss the ceremony. But I've already thought it out. You'll be able to watch the film version, and it'll be even better. You can pause and rewind.”

I imagine fast-forwarding for long stretches.

I feel a weak hand squeeze my calf and think of all the brain cells Selwyn must have lost by now. “Sounds good. And if that's all you need, I think I'm going to take a bath now.”

“We need you upstairs by four o'clock. If I'm not there, tell the voodoo priestess I want her back by Monday morning.”

Satisfied, she gives a ta-ta wave—“Thanks, Sis!”—and is out the door.

I wait a few seconds. “All clear.”

Hearing he's safe, Selwyn crawls out from beneath the covers like a man recently shipwrecked, clawing at sand and inhaling massive doses of air.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes roll upward as he offers a weak nod.

I get out of bed and lock the door. Selwyn, though, remains on his back, still trying to catch his breath.

“You sure you're okay?”

His chest rises up and down in great heaves. He covers his forehead with his arm as he stares into the ceiling. It takes him a while, but then he suddenly jerks his head in my direction.
“
Hold on now. Wait a second. Your sister is marrying
Curtis
Randolph
?”

I nod.

“
The
Curtis Randolph?”

I nod again.

“Curtis Randolph of the Oakland Raiders Curtis Randolph?”

“Yes, Selwyn. Curtis Randolph of the Oakland Raiders.”

“Curtis Randolph,” he murmurs. “
Curtis Randolph
. That man . . . That man is the top quarterback in the country! He's going to take the Raiders all the way to the Super Bowl! Damn, girl, I just might have to dump the wedding I'm going to and check out your sister's engagement party. What time does it start?”

“None of your business.”

“But it might be fun to—”

“You're not invited.”

“Damn,” he mumbles. “Curtis Randolph. What if I just stop by for a second?”

“You're
not
invited.”

“Okay. All right.
Damn.
Curtis Randolph. That man is a wizard with the ball. A genius.” He eases himself up with a grin and kisses my shoulder. “Lotta love between you and your sister, huh? You two are like
this.
” He crosses his fingers and chuckles.

“Shut up.”

I refuse to look at him but feel his stare and big goofy smile all the same. He takes a finger and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Mmmmm. You sure are pretty when you're pissed,” he says. “Which is a good thing, 'cause I get the feeling you get pissed a lot.” He laughs to himself.

“Not funny,” I say, giving him a playful slap near the shoulder.

“Aw, come here.” He takes me in his arms and kisses my temple. “Shall we continue?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not, baby? We'll find our groove in no time. I have a feeling it's just around the corner.”

“More like the next state.”

“Aw, come on. Don't be like that.” He smiles and lets his fingers do a little dance on my shoulder.

I push him away.

After giving his head a scratch, he sighs and falls back against the bed. “Curtis Randolph. Damn. Curtis Randolph.” He sucks in a breath and adds, “Well, I should probably get ready for the ceremony anyhow. Would you like to be my date?”

“Can't. You heard—I'm watching my nieces.”

“Well,” he says, “can't say I didn't try. You're a lovely woman, Kilowatt.”

“Thanks.”

He pauses, eyes locked with mine. “May I ask what your sister was talking about? What you need to move on from?”

“Absolutely not.”

He raises a hand in surrender. “I understand. I do. I just want to say, though, if you ever need anyone to talk to—well, I understand pain. Me and pain? We go
way
back.”

I see how sincere he is and take his hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He kisses my cheek and climbs out of the bed. After finding his slippers and robe, he goes to the door. “So I guess this is good-bye, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“Well, if you're ever in Livermore, promise to look me up.”

“I will never be in Livermore.” I'm not even sure where Livermore is, actually. Not to mention the ugly sound of it—makes me think of various organs like kidneys and spleens.

“But if you are. I'm an attorney. I work in the mayor's office. City hall. Can't miss it. Now, what do you say you give me one more smile before I leave?”

I toss my shoulder up, as Margot might, and smile as if posing for a picture.

“Beautiful,” he says, shaking his head. “Just beautiful.”

I
don't need to rely on my college French to understand that Hélène is pissed. I stand just inside the girls' room, watching her pick up clothes while cursing under her breath. Margot's twins are camped out on the Edwardian sofa, watching TV.

Hélène is Senegalese and arrived in the States via France. She has wide square teeth and small red eyes she lines heavily with black eyeliner. As usual, she wears her signature overalls and bright yellow sneakers. The front of her hair is braided into what looks like an upside-down basket with a fluffy synthetic ponytail shooting out the back, much like feathers on a rooster. The first sign that she was a nanny to be reckoned with was her absolute refusal to wear a dress or straighten her hair. Margot threatened to fire her over her appearance, but the girls instantly fell in love with her and begged their mother to keep her on.
Hélène: 2; Margot: 0!

Hélène is the only nanny not afraid to stand up to Margot, and the only nanny who's lasted longer than a year. Margot keeps her around not only because Sophia and Margot adore her, but she considers it a bonus that she speaks only French to the girls and is willing to work on the cheap. We have no idea how old she is. An older-looking twenty? A younger-looking forty? No one dares ask.

She marches up to me. “Your
sis
tah,” she says, pointing an inordinately long finger in my face. “Your
sis
tah is
no
good. I tell her my sister have a baby and I need to go to the christening, but she
no
care! The christening is in LA. I have to catch the plane, you know? I told her last month I no stay for this party because I have to be with my family.” She thumps her chest. “
My
family. What she think? I have no family? I tell her I fly today, and she calls me a liar. A liar! Why would I lie about such things, eh?” She glances over at the twins, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Her girls are sick, and she don't care. All that woman cares about is her party.”

She's right. Since Margot started dating the football player, the girls have been getting the short shrift.

I say, a little too late, “I'm sure she cares.”

Hélène guffaws. “Care. What she know about care?”

“I'm sure after the wedding Margot will—”

“She have party tonight for engagement. She have party last weekend for engagement. How many parties does one person need, eh?”

Last weekend's party was with her closest friends—in-house manicures and pedicures followed by a catered tea, the event covered by a style magazine. She and the football player have also been featured in various magazines with the occasional spots on entertainment news programs. Since the engagement, they've also been followed by paparazzi, giving Margot the excuse to buy several pairs of expensive sunglasses.

“Last night I tell that woman—your
sis
tah—I tell her she needs to—” She glares hard as if she's suddenly had enough with me, too. “Eh. What good does it do to talk except I waste my breath. That woman—that woman, she never change.” She finds her purse and rattles off to the girls in French as she kisses their cheeks. She then stares me down. “Sleep by eight, eh?” She juts her chin toward Sophia. “And don't let that one there eat no ice cream. I don't care how she beg.”

She gives me one last hard stare before deciding it's okay to leave. After she closes the door, I walk over to the girls and join them on the couch. They have blankets up to their chins as they stare at the TV. They are identical down to their dusty-colored skin and elongated faces; their light brown curls and hazel eyes are remnants of the hockey player. “Should I order soup?”

“Yeah,” they mumble simultaneously
.

Sophia says blandly, “I want celery root with porcini.”

Little Margot says, “I want the butternut squash with marjoram.”

“When I was a kid, we had the choice of tomato, bean, or chicken noodle.”

“Ew!”

I love the girls, of course, but they've grown up in a way that has afforded school lunch menus with choices like pan-seared tuna sandwiches and organic mashed potatoes. Even now, at ten years old, they carry the world-weary attitude of the rich, where only trips to Paris or Italy will suffice.

I call room service. On TV, a tween with an eighties-style blond do holds court in front of her locker. She's in a dither about—what else? A boy.

“What are you watching?”

“Dena Delaney,”
they reply in unison.

Margot says, “We own, like, the entire series.”

“Seasons One through Six,” Sophia adds.

“We're watching, like, every episode starting from Season One.”

“It's our
Dena Delaney
marathon.”

“We're, like, already halfway finished with Season Three,” says Margot.

“So are you two upset that you can't go to the ceremony?”

“I am,” Sophia says. “Margot isn't.”

Margot says, “The wedding is, like, way more important—that's why. I'd rather be sick for this than the wedding. We can't miss the wedding for anything. We'll be pissed if we do.”

“Yeah, pissed.”

I start to watch TV along with them, but one minute in, I'm shocked at how everyone is behaving as if they're much older. And while the twins are in the habit of overusing the word
like
,
this show, like, takes it, like, to a whole other, like, level.

“You guys wanna play a game of cards?”

“No.”

“Monopoly?”

“
No.”

They don't bother looking my way. They're,
like
,
transfixed.

I reach out and simultaneously touch their foreheads. “Are you feeling any better?”

“We are,” Margot says. “It's Britney Bartles-Smith's fault we're sick in the first place. She had it, and now almost everyone in our class has it.”

“Every. One,” Sophia says. She's the quieter of the two, watchful and old-lady acting since birth. She says, “I'm feeling better. I think I'll have some ice cream after I finish my soup.”

“You can't,” Margot says. “We'll have ice cream tomorrow with some of Mom and Curtis's cake. Besides, if we have it tonight, we might throw it up.”

“Yeah, we'll be like Ashley Burrows.”

I gather from their high-pitched giggles that they're feeling better.

“Ashley throws up on purpose,” Margot explains. “She doesn't want to get fat.”

“How old is Ashley Burrows?”

“Ten.”

Margot says, “She has a therapist she sees every week.” She looks toward the television. “We'll have cake tomorrow when we're feeling better,” she announces as though speaking aloud to herself.

Sophia says, “Yeah, when we're feeling better.”

They perfected their relationship as zygotes swimming in Margot's uterus. I imagine when they're much older, they'll continue to function like a well-mechanized impenetrable team. At ninety, after long lives with their husbands and their own kids, they'll share a house, locked in a comfortable routine of TV watching and gossip. The only person missing, of course, will be Hailey.

I sigh quietly and reach for the phone. “Soup. Coming right up.”

•   •   •

T
he sound of people applauding wakes me. I'd meant to sneak out and watch the ceremony from the beginning, but I must have fallen asleep. I check on Sophia and Margot. Seeing that they're sound asleep, I find my sweater and quietly make my way downstairs and outside.

I stand close to the main building, far enough away that I won't be noticed. Almost every single seat is filled, and all eyes are glued to the gazebo, which is lit up with soft pink trellis lights. The sun is setting, right on cue, the wind has died down, and the sky is magically clear of rain clouds. It's as if even the weather knows to obey my sister or else.

The football player takes Margot's hand and gazes into her eyes. Both he and Margot are miked. “I want you to be my woman. I wanted you to be my woman from the second I saw you.”

I wait to see if he might beat his chest and drag her off by the hair, but instead he bends to his knee. His suit strains against all his muscles. Applause breaks out as he takes Margot's newly de-ringed hand and he reaches into his pocket. A woman in the back yells, “Aw, right now!” and everyone laughs.

“Margot, I want you to be my woman for life.” He opens the small velvet box, and Margot screams and covers her mouth in a way that signals Curtis has gone off script.

She goes for the ring, much like Curtis chases down a football, all hands and speed, and before Curtis pops the question (again), she's already put the ring on her finger and is waving it to the audience. “Can you all believe this? He got me a new ring!” There are a few chuckles in the back as Margot fans herself as though she might faint. She manages to settle down, though, and finally gazes at the football player who is still on his knee with a big dopey grin on his face. “Margot Marie Wright, will you marry me?”

In the silence that follows, Margot reaches down and takes the football player's chin between her fingers. “Curtis, I am your woman and you—you are my man. In front of God, in front of our family and friends assembled here today, I humbly accept your proposal of marriage.” Curtis brings her to his knee, and they put their tongues through a kind of roping exercise.

Mom and the Reverend stand up in the front row and begin to applaud. Everyone joins in, and Margot and the football player finally come up for air. Margot grins and holds up an I'm-not-finished-here-yet finger. She then takes the football player's hand and stares deeply into his eyes. “I will love you till I'm old and gray. You are mine and I am yours, Curtis Francis Randolph, and I want everyone here to know how much I love you.”

He looks at her adoringly. “Oh baby,” he says with a sigh, going in for a deep kiss.

“Oh God,” I moan. I can't take another second and sneak off to the side of the main building, past the front parking lot, and down the path that leads to one of the lookout benches surrounding the grounds. I sit near a pathway next to a secluded wooded area. The sky is clear enough that I can see Venus and Hercules to the south of Serpens. If I had my telescope, I'd focus on Jupiter and its three satellites—Callisto, Ganymede, and Io. It's a perfect night for Jupiter.

When I was young, I was called more than a few names for my obsession with astronomy, but I never cared. Looking at the stars has always been one of the few things in life that's given me a sense of calm. Mr. Hoffman, a man Mom dated for nearly three years, introduced me to astronomy. He taught science at an all-boys Catholic prep school in Manhattan and would dress fastidiously each morning in a suit and tie. It was weeks before I realized he was a teacher and not a banker or office employee.

He lived in a two-bedroom house one block from our apartment building, and while Mom worked her night job waitressing, Mr. Hoffman would babysit. He loved Mom with the kind of love that's painful to watch, even for a nine-year-old girl, but when I asked her one night when she was going to marry him, she laughed like I hadn't seen her laugh in months. “Now where did you go get that idea from? Me and David? Marriage? Child, you have gone and lost your natural-born mind.” She'd just come home from her job at the department store. When I pressed her on the matter she said, “He's a nice man, Piper, I'll give you that, but nice doesn't pay the bills. I'm looking for someone who can help us out of this shitty situation we're in, and marrying a Jew who doesn't make good money makes no sense.” She laughed again and flipped off her shoes as she headed toward her bath.

But she continued to see Mr. Hoffman just the same. We spent most nights at his house, in fact. He'd have dinner waiting for her when she came home from work; he'd massage her feet while we watched TV, and he'd take her out whenever he could, usually dinner and a movie.

On the nights when Mom worked late, Mr. Hoffman would heat up TV dinners, and we'd watch our favorite sitcoms, followed by tapings of
Cosmos
or
Nova.
Mr. Hoffman always talked excitedly about space; he'd give me books on the solar system and astronomy and would tell me about the laws of planetary motion and measuring space through light. He'd often take out his telescope, too, a Meade TX with auto star, and we'd go into his backyard and spend hours stargazing. He'd often say he'd love for me to grow up to become an astronomer or astronaut, as easy as Mom would say she'd love for me to grow up and find a job in a nice office that paid good benefits.

When Mom started cheating on him, we both pretended nothing was going on. But I'd already met the other guy, Uncle Gerald, and when she'd call late and say she'd have to work, I knew she was lying. Eventually, while we watched TV one night, Mr. Hoffman admitted he knew what she was up to—“She's with the other guy, isn't she?”

I was devastated when they broke up. Not only was she dumping Mr. Hoffman, but we were moving to Maryland to live with her sister—our eighth move since my birth. On the day we were set to leave, I imagined things would play out as dramatically as they did on TV. I envisioned two different scenarios while Mom and I loaded the U-Haul. In scenario one, I waited patiently for Mr. Hoffman to show up, teary-eyed and begging us to stay. I imagined Mom recognizing how much she loved him and announcing that we would always be together. To celebrate, he'd give me his old telescope after buying a new one for himself.
Here, Piper, I want you to have this. I love you as much as if you were my very own.
In the second scenario, the sadder of the two, Mom would tell him we were moving no matter what, at which point he'd get his telescope from his car and hand it over to me.
Here, Piper, I want you to have this. I'll miss you.