The Half Life of Stars (20 page)

It’s all so much bigger than I thought it would be: a wild sweep of nature trails, picnic grounds and woods, spread out over more than thirty acres. Most of the serious astronomers have gravitated to the observatory at the southern entrance to the park, but everywhere you look, families, couples, children and slouchy teens are pouring in and setting up camp. Men hump coolers and cameras, women carry telescopes and canvas chairs; kids walk briskly–hopping and jumping–fuelled with the excitement of staying up late. Everyone wants to get a good pitch, all fifteen thousand of them.

‘
Really
? You think there’s that many?’

‘Not yet, no. But there will be by the time the show starts. Going to be quite a thing. You ever seen one before?’

I shake my head.

‘Know much about meteors per se?’

‘No.’

The teenager in the yellow shorts with the yellow hair and the goofy smile makes it his mission to enlighten me. He has a book, several books, about his person, and he flicks through the heaviest, balancing its well-worn spine on his portable camping table.

‘These particular meteors are called Perseid.’

‘Right.’

‘Perseid meteors come from the comet, Swift-Tuttle. Every 130 years, the comet swoops in from deep space, way out beyond Pluto, and plunges through the plane of our solar system, not all that far from Earth’s own orbit.’

‘I see.’

The boy squints.

‘Astronomers used to worry that Swift-Tuttle might hit our planet one day.’

‘Will it?’

‘No.’

He quotes from his book.

‘Recent data suggests there’s no danger of a collision for at least another millennium, probably longer.’

‘Phew…that’s a relief.’

‘Yeah. It is. But it doesn’t mean we won’t get hit by something. The chances are, I mean you’d have to say, statistically speaking, the earth’s bound to get hit by a comet or a significantly sized meteor of some kind. Sooner, I’d say, rather than later.’

He smiles. He almost seems pleased about it. If he had a pair of glasses on this would be the moment that he’d push them backwards on the bridge of his nose.

‘But not tonight, though?’

‘Nuh-uh. Definitely not tonight.’

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. I peel off one of my photocopies.

‘I was wondering…have you come across this man?’

‘Don’t think so. Is he out here somewhere? Have you lost him?’

‘I hope so. And yes.’

The kid blinks.

‘Might be tough to find him tonight though, in all these people. It’s going to be a heck of a job.’

He’s right, they’re still pouring in. The crowd is so dense now it looks like a solid block, a single organism. I can barely pick out the faces any more, only the shades of hair or waterproof jacket. But, I won’t be disheartened. I won’t.

‘How many stars are out there right now?’ I say, pointing to the heavens. ‘How many of them are there in this one galaxy?’

‘Roughly…around a billion.’

‘Which is your favourite?’

‘I’d probably have to say Betelgeuse.’

‘Can you find it?’

‘Sure,’ he says pointing skyward, ‘it’s a red giant, right there, in Orion.’

I smile. This cheers me up. The boy in the yellow shorts shakes his head.

‘OK, I see what you’re saying. But a person isn’t anything like a star. A star stays put like it’s supposed to. For millions,
billions
of years. People, they tend to move about some. With people you have to know where to look.’

But I do. I know
exactly
where to look.

‘If you had three minutes to live what would you do?’

‘If there was going to be a nuclear war, you mean?’

‘Yeah, if they set one off. If the bomb was coming, from Russia or something, where would you hide?’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’d be no point.’

‘You’re meant to get underneath a table. You’re meant to paint yourself white to deflect the heat from the blast.’

‘A table? You think that’s going to help? You think a table will stop your skin from peeling off like wrapping paper? You think a table will stop your eyeballs from melting out of their sockets?’

I thought about my eyeballs melting. I didn’t appreciate it, not one bit.

‘Well, it’s never going to happen, so
there
. I don’t even know why I asked.’

‘Daniel, stop it now. You’re scaring your sister.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes you are. Give it a rest.’

I dug my fingernails hard into the kitchen table and ran my thumb along it’s rough splintered edge where the melamine had begun to peel back. Daniel ate his cornflakes noisily, kicking his chair with his heels.

‘So…then, where…?’

‘Would I go?’

I nodded.

‘Same place I’d go, if a rogue comet appeared, or a giant meteor was going to hit us. I’d stand in the middle of the widest open space I could find, right in front of it. Just like that.’

‘You wouldn’t try to run away?’

‘No.’

He shook his head.

‘What’s the good? There’d be nowhere to run.’

I head for the widest open space I can find; away from the swampland and the patch of scrubby mangroves; away from the observatory and the towering palms. I don’t see him. No one tall and limber with a young face and a middle-aged hair cut, holding his arms out to his fate. No one lonely, wandering, depressed or confused, with dirty running shoes strapped to his outsized feet. The space shrinks and tightens as people crowd into the park and eventually I give up and move away. Past the nerds with their binoculars and their sheets of elaborate star charts, past the Christians singing bible songs round a fire.

‘You like a map, miss?’

‘A map?’

‘Help you know what it is that you’re looking for.’

I’m one step ahead of him. I already know what I’m looking for.

‘This is a map of the night sky. Shows you where to look for the best shooting stars. On the back here is a list of our bible meetings. How long since you last read the bible, miss?’

‘Long time.’

The man reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a pocket bible.

‘What you see tonight will bring you closer to God. Remind you of His hand on the universe. God made the heavens and the stars and the earth. Seven short days. That’s all it took.’

‘Right, well…uh, fast mover.’

He smiles; that smile they have.

‘I’d guess you’re an evolutionist, am I right?’

I don’t answer. There’s no point.

‘Evolution is a dangerous thing, don’t you doubt it. The greatest threat there is to the modern world.’

I shudder. I start to move away.

‘I’ll pray for you,’ he says, pressing the bible towards me. ‘Remember, Jesus is with you.’

I stop. I do the decent thing. I hand him one of my flyers in return.

‘Who is this?’

‘A missing person. My brother. I think he’s out in the crowd somewhere.’

The zealot shakes his head.

‘Well, you won’t find him here, ma’am; far too many people. Be a miracle if you came across him tonight.’

I frown. I walk on. Seems like I’m more open to a miracle than he is.

Back at the main entrance near to where I first came in, a man is shuffling papers on the lecture stage. He’s humming to himself, he looks content. I climb up the slim wooden steps behind him and cough.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Did you have a question about the lecture?’

‘No. I didn’t see the lecture.’

He has dark brown hair; wide mouth, soft skin, smart eyes.

‘So?’

‘So?’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Are you an astronomer?’

‘In my spare time. I work as a meteorologist.’

‘The weather?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, how’s it looking?’

‘It’s going to be clear for the rest of the night.’

‘That was quite a storm earlier.’

‘The edge of a hurricane, did you enjoy it?’

‘I did, it was beautiful. You don’t get many storms like that at home.’

I stare at him. He stares back. I like his shirt, it’s a nice colour blue.

‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘No. Brother.’

He nods. He likes me. He’s definitely single, I can tell.

‘My girlfriend’s over there. She’s volunteering with the park rangers tonight. She might be able to help you.’

The meteorologist waves his girlfriend over, her name is Ashley. She looks like Nicole Kidman only short. Serious. Immaculate. Pretty. I feel dishevelled, scruffy, too tall.

‘No, I haven’t come across him,’ she says, sweetly. ‘But I’d be happy to help you with your flyers. I could hand some out if you’d like.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’d appreciate it.’

The meteorologist smiles. It’s a beautiful smile.

‘So, where you headed now?’ he says.

‘I thought I’d go out to the lake.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘I don’t know, it’s stupid really. But I thought that my brother might be fishing.’

‘I’m fishing, that’s what I’m doing.’

‘With a stick and some
bread
? That’s not going to be any good.’

‘Fish
like
bread.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘How do you know?’

I didn’t. I hadn’t the faintest idea.

‘I think they might prefer meat. Or potatoes. I left some ham on my plate, shall I go and fetch it?’

‘Yeah, come on. We’ll both go.’

A fishing pond in Cromer, East Anglia; an autumn visit to my Aunty Jarvis, mum’s older sister. I don’t know why we called her by her surname but we always did. Perhaps it’s because she was a lesbian.

‘Dad says Aunty Jarvis is a lesbian. Do you know what that means?’

‘Course.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yep. I know for sure. It means she has sex with her dog.’

Daniel stopped in his tracks. This was something. I’d shocked him.

‘Aunty Jarvis has a miniature schnauzer.’ I said. ‘If she’s a lesbian, I imagine she has sex with
it
.’

Daniel coughed. He nearly dropped his makeshift fishing rod.

‘Fats, where do you even
get
an idea like that?’

‘Mum’s got this book which I thought was about gardening, but it’s not. It’s about this woman who lets her dog lick Pedigree Chum off her’–I whispered it–‘her
you know what
.’

The book was
The Secret Garden
, by Nancy Friday: a collection of women’s sexual fantasies that I’d found in the corner of my mother’s sock drawer while I was hunting around for
The Joy Of Sex
.

‘You shouldn’t be reading that.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re too young. And for fuck’s sake that’s not what a lesbian is.’

‘Maybe I should ask Aunty Jarvis.’

‘No, Fats, I’m telling you. You’d better not.’

Back inside the house, away from the pond, my parents and my aunt talked about this and that. Their voices strained, their inflections clipped. They talked the way relatives talk.

‘Can I have the ham that I left behind please, Aunty Jarvis?’

‘What do you want it for, dear?’

‘Daniel’s made a fishing rod and there’s a pond outside with fish in it. We’ve been trying to catch them with bread, but I think sliced ham will do better.’

‘Sorry, dear. I just gave the last of it to Max.’

‘Your miniature schnauzer?’

‘Yes.’

‘You gave him my ham?’

‘Yes.’

‘And yours?’

‘Yes, dear. I did. Max likes my sliced ham. It’s his favourite.’

Daniel and I fell to the floor and howled. We laughed so hard we thought we’d throw up. They didn’t know what was wrong with us; we were kids, who understands kids? Who knows what nonsense sets them off? All the way home in the car, in the traffic jams, we couldn’t stand to catch one another’s eye. My cheeks hurt from the strain of it. They hurt so much.

Daniel isn’t fishing by the lake with a rod made from a stick and some bread for bait. He isn’t rolling on the floor, clutching his stomach, choked up by a joke we both made. We used to talk in those days, we used to laugh; before we came out here to Florida. It was always us and them: me and Daniel versus the world.

I stare at my reflection in the lake. I can see the whole sky, clear now and vast, glinting right above my head. I know this is the kind of place that Daniel would like. It’s quiet down here, private, concealed, but still wide open to the water. This is where the serious astronomers have gathered up: people in ones and twos, chatting and charting and sharing out snippets of astronomical information. No children yelling, no Christians singing, no families setting up braziers and cooking sickly smelling burgers and buns. Perhaps I should stay here a little longer. Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet. Perhaps if I wait out here patiently and dangle my toes in the water, I’ll see him trudge up the hill behind me.

‘Hey Fats.’

‘Hey Pinhead.’

‘I’m back.’

‘Where you been?’

‘Here and there.’

‘You want to sit down for a minute?’

‘Yeah. I think I’d like to sit down.’

Some shouts from the other side of the lake. I stop daydreaming and splash water on my face. I look at my watch; it’s well past midnight. I suddenly have two men to look for.

‘You sure you don’t mind me waiting up here with you?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘It’s just, I arranged to meet my boyfriend near the park entrance. And it’s so full now, I think this will be the only place he’d spot me.’

‘Really, don’t worry about it. You can stay up here as long as you like.’

The meteorologist’s name is Connor and I’m going to watch the light show with him from up here on the lecture stage. We sit on a couple of deckchairs, sipping beer: we have the best spot in the park.

‘Where’s your girlfriend?’

‘Out on one of the quad bikes making sure everything goes off OK.’

‘Have you two been together long?’

‘About a year. You?’

‘Me and Michael? Uh, about a week. But we used to be married so, all in all…if you count the eight and a half weeks we went out before we got hitched…that makes it about two and a quarter years.’

Connor rubs his head.

‘You two were separated?’

‘Divorced.’

‘And now you’re back together?’

‘Yes.’

Connor blinks. He shrugs. He’s not going to ask me any more about it: he thinks I’m strange.

‘Do you think I’m strange?’

He laughs.

‘A little bit.’

It’s another hour before the first perseid meteor comes into view. It streaks across the horizon: thin, uninspiring and low, accompanied by a few muted shouts from the crowd. By that time the meteorologist’s girlfriend is back from her rounds and Michael is in front of the lectern shouting up at us.

‘They’ve
started
.’

‘I see that.’

‘Sorry, I’m so late. I got held up at the club.’

‘How did it go?’

‘Pretty good. Pretty good. Can I come up there?’

Michael scrambles up onto the stage without using the stairs; he makes a big show of turning up. He has a funny story to tell about the taxi, that’s not all that funny; he has news about the jazz club that I don’t find interesting.

‘It was great, they really liked me. I think they’re going to offer me a gig.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know, they didn’t say. I told them I had a few commitments to take care of.’

‘Are you a musician?’

Michael simpers and rubs his fingers through his fringe, directing all attention to the meteorologist’s girlfriend.

‘I’m a pianist. Classically trained, I play jazz.’

The girl smiles. Connor doesn’t say a word. Michael is off on a rant: who he likes, who he loves, who he hates in the world of modern jazz. He’s had a line of coke–or several–and he’s keen to talk about himself. I wait. I’m patient. He’ll get round to it sooner or later.

‘So, Claire, what’s been going on? Any news?’

I shake my head.

‘There’s too many people, I haven’t seen him.’

Michael puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes them a little too hard. A pop like a flashbulb makes us jump and look
up. A radiant, bitter-orange coloured meteor is diving towards us, dead ahead.

‘We’re on,’ says Connor. ‘Here we go.’

Every so often nature comes up with something so beguiling, so winning, it washes your mind of all thoughts and worries. A dozen shooting stars clap their hands in the sky announcing the start of the show. They race one another–playful and athletic–cajoling us, warming us up. Larger ones follow on after them–older and wiser–painting elegant arcs on the horizon. Brilliant missiles burst apart above our heads, ripping the sky like fiery whips. I feel disorientated suddenly, and unstable, like I might tumble into the very sky I’m watching; like it might suddenly devour me in its fizzy blackness. The horizon is pulsing with light, now: twenty, thirty, fifty meteors all at once, some of them combining and crossing over and almost seeming to explode. It’s not a shower, it’s a storm. Something rare and beautiful and largely unexpected, even by the most experienced observers.

‘Fuck, it’s like fireworks,’ says Michael. ‘It’s just like watching fireworks.’

He’s wrong, it’s nothing like fireworks. Fireworks are man-made and ordinary: simple cones of gunpowder, garish and noisy, lit up to make tired children gasp. This is something else altogether: ancient grains of matter slamming into the earth’s atmosphere at two hundred times the speed of sound. There are so many of them, fizzing, pulsating and dancing, that at times it feels like an assault. Michael puts his arms round my waist, clumsily roughly; his voice is loud. He whoops every few seconds and cries out from deep in his lungs, and I want him to be still, to be quiet.

‘Look at them go? How many is there up there? Must be hundreds,
fuck
.’

Michael starts to leap about.

‘We should wish. We should
wish
. What should we wish for? Guys, we should all make a wish.’

The meteorologist holds his girlfriend’s hand; he doesn’t squeeze it or maul it.

‘A number one album, a house by the sea. For Huey to win a best actor Oscar. How great would that be? Me with a Grammy, Huey with an Oscar, you and Tess strutting down the red carpet in your sexy dresses?…have you wished yet, Shorty. Did you wish?’

I watch the meterologist brush his lips up against his girlfriend’s cheek.

‘Yeah, Michael,’ I say, staring down for a moment. ‘I did. I made a couple.’

Another streak, fierce and bright, scorches the sky from east to west. It seems to last for minutes, glowing and blossoming before it dies, and the crowd falls silent, stunned by its energy and brilliance. Then comes another. Then another. Then comes the sound of heavy footfalls; someone walking up the wooden steps.

‘Hey, guys, how’s it going? Pretty spectacular show, huh?’

We nod with our heads tilted back at the sky; it’s one of the park rangers, a friend of Ashley’s.

‘So, Ash. I may have spotted that guy you were asking me about.’

‘Which guy?’

‘The guy on the print-out, that Xerox that you gave me.’

I stand up out of my deckchair. Michael lays down on the floor. He spreads his arms out in the shape of a crucifix and asks the park ranger if he has any dope on him.

‘Where did you see him?’ I say.

‘He was over behind the picnic grounds. He came up to speak to me, wanted to know if there was anywhere quieter he could go watch the show. Some people were lighting bonfires and shining torches, it was too bright out there, messing with the view.’

‘Did you…did you recommend another place?’

‘I told him he ought to try it out by the lake, it’s a whole lot quieter down there. I didn’t recognise him until after he’d gone…I didn’t unfold the print-out until later.’

I leave Michael just where he is, laid out and giggling on the floor. He’s drunk and high and irascible and he’s in no fit state to
come with us. Connor offers to drive me over to the lake on one of the quad bikes and I have to put my arms tight around his waist to stay on. He drives agreeably fast: taking short cuts through the mud and long grasses, and tearing up the rubber wheels on the gravel paths. The meteors shine hard above us as we go–huffing, puffing, and showing off–but by the time we reach the far side of the lake the display is beginning to die down. The streaks come every few minutes instead of every few seconds and they’re fainter, shorter, less colourful. People with sore necks are rubbing their aching muscles: taking a break, eating a sandwich, fixing themselves something cold to drink.

‘I think this is where he meant, do you see him?’

I climb off the bike and take a breath. My heart is racing from the drive. It is quieter out here and darker, but there are still a couple of hundred people milling around. It takes me a few seconds to be sure, but I’m certain this is the same spot I came to earlier. We walk up and down the crowd, back and forth, back and forth, until my eyes are sore from the staring. I hand out my leaflets but most people ignore them or screw them up into balls after I leave. The last person I talk to takes a leaflet from my hand and actually bothers to returns my gaze. He stares at the bleached-out picture and squints.

‘Yeah, I just talked to him, he just left. Cool guy, knew a lot about meteors.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

He looks closer at the photocopy.

‘Yeah, I’d say so. An English guy, right?’

I seem to stumble. Connor takes over.

‘When did he leave…did you see which way he went?’

The man shakes his head, he doesn’t know. He thinks my brother moved away as soon as the meteors died down, perhaps he wanted to get away early and miss the traffic. He might have walked in the direction of the car park, he might have gone off through the woods.

‘Did he say where he was headed? Maybe he mentioned where he was staying?’

‘A motel, I think. He didn’t say which one. Said he was travelling around a fair bit. Thinking of heading down to Mexico…or was it Canada…just waiting on a new passport, or something.’

I can’t stand up any longer. Somehow, I can’t seem to stand up. If he moves on from here, if he gets brand new documents; there’s no way on earth that I’ll find him. I’ll be done for. If only I’d trusted my intuition and stayed put. If only I hadn’t left to find Michael. I would have seen him. I would have
had
him. I knew he’d be out here. I
knew
it.

Connor bends down to help me up, offering me his arm.

‘Are you OK?’ he says, gently.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not really. I was here earlier, barely a few feet away. I should have stayed where I was. I should have trusted my instincts.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

I frown.

‘Because…my instincts are usually lousy.’

We make one final scan of the crowd and trudge wearily back to the bike.

‘Hey…wait up.’

The man is chasing after us.

‘Hey, I forgot to say…I just remembered. I don’t know where he’s headed long term, but I
do
know where he’ll be Monday afternoon. He’s going out to Cape Canaveral for a rocket launch. Was pretty definite about it. A little obsessive, even. A little psyched.’

‘You’re sure?’ says Connor.

‘Yes,’ says the man. ‘I’m positive.’

I start to cry.

The meteors stop.

On the drive back to the observatory, Connor says little. We park up a way before the lecture stage and walk back together in the quiet. People are exiting from every direction; pushing past us with their baggage and their equipment, knowing the show is over, knowing there’s nothing left to hold on to. I can see Michael
up by the lectern, spread out on the wooden floorboards, possibly snoring.

‘Look, this is none of my business,’ Connor says, as we walk. ‘But that guy, your ex…he seems like a bit of an asshole.’

‘He is.’

‘So why…?’

I shrug.

‘He’s not like that all the time, he just drank too much…he has his moments.’

‘Well…sure. I understand.’

He doesn’t. I feel the need to explain.

‘I know where I am with him. I don’t expect too much. That way…he doesn’t disappoint me.’

Connor stops for a moment.

‘Well, I could be wrong,’ he says. ‘But when I look at you…I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more disappointed.’