To Catch a Falling Star (31 page)

MEL IS PUSHING me away. It scares the shit out of me. Interacting with Mel is like dancing over hot coals. You need quick feet, tough skin, and a great deal of courage. The woman is intimidating. I’m officially a pussy. Since when have I ever found a woman intimidating? Oh, well, since I met Mel.

For the last few days, we settled into a real comfortable routine. I go to her house and we talk, eat, and hang out. Sometimes her eyes sparkle as she gazes at me. Her lips parts as if pleading for a kiss. I reach to the stowed strength I never knew I had and restrain form touching her. Hell, I won’t flirt with her. I’m terrified of doing the wrong thing and place an obstacle between us.

Tonight Mel was evasive and distant. Not for a minute did I buy the shitty excuse. My take is she’s avoiding me. But why? With my lame ass insecure as hell, I crawl in bed.

MY PHONE RINGS and it’s Adele singing about setting fire to the rain. Mel’s ring tone. I put my guitar away and anxiously answer. Since last night when she said she couldn’t see me today, I’ve been a bundle of nerves.

“Yes, Melody.”

“Hi, Tarry, I need a favor,” she says.

“Shoot.”

“It’s Ella. I got a call from the school. I’m on my way there. It appears she needs to go home, but Pop is at dialysis, Mom and Dad are—”

“Mel, no need to explain, I’ll meet you at the school.”

“Thanks.”

“See you in a bit.”

Within a few minutes, I park the Jeep beside Mel’s patrol car. An ambulance with weary, spinning red lights and a loud siren speeds out of the parking lot. Before I get out, I see Mel strolling my way. Ella walks a step behind her, head down. I jump to my feet.

“What happened? Is Ella okay?” my heart speeds. The thought of Ella getting hurt makes me wild.

“She’s okay. I can’t say the same for the other kid.”

“Oh,” I kneel before her. My fingers tuck her curls behind her ear. She looks down. I put my finger under her chin and gently force her to look at me.

“Are you okay, princess?”

She nods in response. I can see she is struggling with unshed tears glittering in her eyes.

Mel kneels beside us. With a firm voice, she says, “Ella, I’ll be home by four, and we’ll talk about what happened okay. What you did is wrong.”

“Sorry, Mommy,” she murmurs.

It cracks my heart. She’s so sad. I want to shield her from Mel’s harsh tone. I want to erase the sadness in her expression. I feel so helpless. I take her hand from Mel’s.

“Thanks, Tarry,” Mel says.

“No prob.” I smile at her. She looks so lost.

“I love you, Ella. I’ll be home soon.” She smiles and gets inside the patrol car.

“So, where to?” I ask Ella.

“Home,” she says.

“Did you have lunch?”

“Yeah.”

Of course she did, I’m so clueless.

We get inside the car. Ella is unusually quiet.

When we get to the house, I retrieve the key from under a rock and usher her in. She heads straight to her room.

I feel disoriented. What do I do? How do I handle this? I’ve never been in this situation before. Feeling inept, I scratch my chest ferociously. Common sense. What would I want when I was a child? I had wanted someone to talk to me and reassure me that whatever terrible wrong I did that someone had my back.

I go upstairs and knock on her door. “May I come in?”

“Yeah,” she says.

Ella’s hair covers her face. She is lying on her bed.

“You okay?”

“Hmm-hmm.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She is silent. I don’t think I can get anything out of her.

“I haven’t had lunch yet. Portia will be so mad if she finds out. Do you think you could prepare something for me to eat? We can trade a guitar lesson for some food.”

She brushes the hair from her face.

“Okay.”

I wrap her hand inside mine. My heart contracts and smiles. It feels so right to be here.

“What can you cook?”

“I like to make pancakes.”

“Sounds good, can you also make scrambled eggs?” I ask, hopeful.

“Yeah, but it’s not breakfast.”

I shrug and she offers me a tiny smile. It’s warm and perfect, like the midday sun on the equator line on an equinox day.

Following her directions, I open the fridge to collect eggs, butter, and milk. Ella climbs on the kitchen counter and grabs a bowl.

We find the pancake mix and start to mix ingredients. Standing on a stool, Ella cracks an egg. Holding the eggshell in her hands, she looks at me petrified.

“I cracked his nose, Uncle Tarry,” she says and a sob rises in her throat.

I put the shell on the counter and gather her small body in my arms. Ella finally succumbs to the tears, and cries on my shoulder. Her small frame shakes as she sobs in my shirt.

I just embrace her and pat her hair.

After a few minutes, Ella’s sobs subside. I place her on the counter and grab a paper towel. She blows her nose.

“I’m starving here, you know,” I say.

“Sorry,” she says.

We go back to the eggs.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asks.

“I’m sure he will,” I say.

“There was so much blood,” she says with a sigh.

“Gross,” I say, feeling stupid that I don’t know what to say.

“Yeah, I thought so too.” She smiles, and I take that as a hint on the direction to go.

“I didn’t want to say this, but now I’m a little afraid of you, Ella.”

“I would never hit you, Uncle Tarry,” she says solemn and serious. Wow, she sounds so much like her mother.

“Why did you hit… what’s his name?”

“You’re funny. His name is Bernie.” She sighs. “He’s mean.” I want to coax her into saying more, but don’t know how. So I remain quiet.

“He always calls me ‘Ghost.’ He says he can see through me sometimes, because I’m invisible like a ghost. Do you think it’s true?”

“That would be awesome. But, no, he’s not telling the truth. You’re solid. I can always see you.”

She doesn’t seem convinced, but she goes on. “Our class will have a dance, and boys take their moms as dates and girls go with their dads. Bernie said that Dad isn’t allowed because he is a ghost. But Dad’s not a ghost. Mom said he was alive before I was born. Bernie and Jenny said it’s impossible to have been born from a dead man, so Dad has to be a ghost.” Her eyes glisten again.

What the hell am I supposed to say?

“Can you keep a secret, Ella?”

She nods, and fat and fresh tears roll down her cheek.

“I’m happy you broke the nose of that what’s-his-name kid.”

“It’s Bernie, Uncle Tarry,” she informs me solicitously.

“If you hadn’t, I would have to. And grown-ups aren’t supposed to hit kids. Your mom would need to use her handcuffs on me.”

“Mommy said we should use our words instead of our fists,” she says, mimicking her mother’s tone.

“I suppose she’s right. But I still would have broken his nose.”

“You’re funny.”

“But don’t tell your mom I said that or she might yell at me.”

“Yeah.” She laughs a little. I might not be a good role model, but it sure feels good to hear her melodic laugh.

We cook the eggs, flip the pancakes, and sit down to eat.

“Do you think Mom is still mad?” she asks apprehensively.

“Your mom isn’t mad, Ella. She might be a little upset. But she would never be mad at you.” I reassure her.

We clean the kitchen.

“Thanks for feeding me, Ella.”

“You’re welcome,” she says with a serious tone and returns to pouting.

“What do you and your mom do when you are sad?” I ask.

“When we are feeling blue, we sing ‘My Blue Suede Shoes,’” she says.

I download the song on my iPhone and hook the device to a dock in the living room. I would go with “Sweet Death Agony.” But this might be more appropriate for a five-year-old.

“But we need blue shoes,” she says, sounding unconvinced.

“Do you have something I could borrow?”

“I’ll go get it,” she says with a small grin.

She comes back wearing a pair of blue slippers and hands me an identical pair.

“These are Mom’s,” she states matter of fact.

I take off my Converse shoes and slide my feet into the blue slippers. My feet fall over the edge of the slippers’ edges.

“It looks funny,” she giggles.

“Are you laughing at me, Ella? I aim for applause when I perform.”

I hit repeat on the iPhone and grab Ella’s hand, guiding her into a spin. Yeah, that’s a language I speak. Dance and rock and roll.

By the end of the hour, I have the lyrics memorized, a laughing Ella, and a ruined pair of blue slippers.

“You’re good singer and dancer, Uncle Tarry,” Ella says. Her cheeks are rosy, tousled and untamed curls cling to her sweaty face. She smiles genuinely.

“Yeah, Ella, I kind of do that for a living.” We plop on the couch.

“Hmm,” she smiles.

“How about we go out for ice cream and then buy dinner so your mom won’t have to cook?” Ella rewards me with a bright smile.

I’m gleaming. I don’t suck too much at this.

IT’S ALMOST FOUR. Almost time to go home. I can’t wait to get home and talk to Ella. What’s gotten into her?

“Patrols dispatched to forty-two Florence Road. Neighbor complaint of multiple sounds of gunshot. Approach with care.”

I flip on the siren.

“I’m two streets over Florence. Checking in. Over,” I inform the dispatcher.

“Possible gunmen. Proceed with care.”

“Copy, over.”

I park across the house and exit the car.

“Entering forty-two Florence. Over.”

The colonial house is eerily quiet. Scanning the premises, I see a manicured garden. Mums and daises huddle silently next to a perfectly trimmed lawn. Parked outside the garage is a pristine Suburban. Stickers adorn the back glass of the car indicating a family of five, a cat, and a dog, advertising to the world the joys of middle-class America.

I enter the porch. A pink baby stroller is perfectly placed in a corner. A brown doormat welcomes me. Everything is without fault. The hair on the back of my neck is up. Something is off. I push the bell, knock at the door, and say, “Police, open the door.”

Nothing. I walk up to a sparkly clean window and peer inside. Red, I see red everywhere. “Crime scene, send reinforcements. I repeat, need backup.”

“Copy, wait for backup.”

“Help.” I think I hear a whimper.

“Possible victim in need of assistance. Going in,” I say to the radio.

With my gun in hand, I turn the knob. It is unlocked. I enter the house.

I hear the song “Hallelujah” from the movie
Shrek
coming from a TV sound system. The air tastes murky and salty, like rusted steel. I recognize the stench. Bloodstains smear the flat screen, covering Shrek’s green face. Blood permeates the interior of the house.

In the middle of the TV room, in the center of a blood-saturated rug lies a male. An inert gun lies beside him. I check his aorta for a pulse. Nothing. I step to the woman next to him, and search for her radial pulse. Nothing. I see a child splattered on the couch, eyes and chest wide-open. Also no pulse.