Light from a Distant Star (38 page)
Read Light from a Distant Star Online
Authors: Mary Mcgarry Morris
S
TRANGE, WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG, HOW QUICKLY PROBLEMS DISAPPEAR
. If you don’t have to think about them, if no one’s talking about them, or better yet, if no one knows about them, then they cease to exist. And so it seemed with the Australian letters, lost in the blurred cascade of half-forgotten summer days. Surely by this time the dusty pages had been nibbled into oblivion by the autumnal influx of field mice, which were being caught in their cellar traps at the rate of one or two a day. For Nellie’s mother, the removal of each small gray corpse was more sickening proof of their hastened decline. For her father it harbingered winter’s premature arrival, deep snow, thick ice. He wondered aloud if he should double his shovel and salt stock at the store. Her mother didn’t answer. Instead, he pounded red-and-white driveway reflectors into the ground earlier than he ever had.
The trial was starting. Jurors were being selected, a slow process, according to the district attorney’s office. They’d been keeping the Pecks informed, though at home, the trial was never mentioned. Not in front of the children, anyway. Far more pressing for Nellie were the history paper she had to write and a report for English class on Steinbeck’s
The Pearl
, both due in a week, and nightly worksheet pages of advanced algebra problems to solve, as well as the flattering and complicated attention of beautiful Brianna Hall to negotiate.
The newspaper’s most recent account of the murder had run with a front-page picture of a younger, sweeter-looking Dolly, taken from her high school yearbook. The article mentioned “Ms. Bedelia’s thirteen-year-old neighbor, who had discovered the body, along with the accused.” In Brianna’s eyes Nellie had become a most desirable friend, a
burgeoning celebrity touched by life’s darker forces. It was all she could talk about. Every day she presented a new scenario.
“You know that guy, the killer—”
“He’s not a killer—”
“—yeah, well, what if you say something he doesn’t like, and he knocks the defense table over and attacks you?” she mused as they trudged uphill under the ever shifting weight of their backpacks.
“He wouldn’t do that. And besides, I won’t be saying anything bad about him.” She’d said the same thing yesterday.
“Yeah, and my father said there’ll be all kinds of police there, too. I hope it’s not like that show last winter. Remember?
The Prosecutor?
They’re in the court and the killer, he’s got this, like, knife thing he made, like, all pointy and sharp, like, from a spoon or something …”
Nellie enjoyed Brianna’s company, in spite of her fascination with serial murderers. She said her parents had an entire bookcase filled with crime books, and they loved watching the Crime Channel, which, until then, Nellie’d never even heard of. Brianna told her all about Ted Bundy, this handsome guy who lured pretty college girls to their doom by wearing a fake cast on his arm so they’d take pity on him. She told her about this sicko who’d dress up like a clown and kill kids, then bury them under his house. And then there was the guy who killed an apartment full of nursing students. It was the first time she’d heard these stories, and they were a numbing distraction in their creepy way. Dolly’s murder scene paled compared to Brianna’s gory tales. Nellie could almost think about it without feeling dizzy.
“Imagine,” Brianna mused while they waited for the light to turn. “Everything you say, every single word, someone’ll be there, writing it all down. You’ll be like, oh, my God, what if I say the wrong thing, they’re all gonna be, like, flipping out all over the place,” she said, tenderly adjusting the strap on Nellie’s backpack. For one so conversant with violence, she was very caring.
“Not really,” Nellie said. “It’s not like on TV. People don’t yell and scream. They just don’t.” More and more lately she found herself making important pronouncements. She was starting to sound like Ruth.
“Wait!” Brianna stopped, and in her admiring gaze Nellie saw her
well-earned place in her pantheon of all things strange. Brianna was taking a camera from her backpack.
“Smile!” She took a picture. “Now, look upset, like, oh, my God!
What’s that?
Like you just discovered the body.”
With the second flash, Nellie said she’d better get home.
“Okay, and then you can show me where it happened, the murder.” She said she’d call her mother from Nellie’s house. Nellie told her she couldn’t, that she had to work on her paper. Telling her she’d see her tomorrow, she hurried off. All Brianna’s crime talk was starting to get to Nellie. In that way she was like Jessica: once latched on to a subject, she couldn’t get off. Lately though, Nellie hadn’t had to worry about avoiding Jessica. She was always with Bucky. They’d even been caught smoking in the Coopers’ pool cabana. If Mrs. Cooper had any concerns about Bucky, she’d surely overlook them as long as Jessica finally had a friend.
At home the mailbox was stuffed with catalogs. When Nellie pulled them out, the regular mail fell onto the porch floor. On top was a long manila envelope.
Mr. Daniel Brigham
, read the return address label. She ran straight up to her room. Sealed shut, then taped, there’d be no steaming open this one. With it trembling in her hands, she sat on the edge of her bed. Why so thick? Was it some kind of warning? A threat? A lawsuit? She might have confiscated the other letters, but Ruth had kept right on writing. Nellie ripped open the envelope.
There were two handwritten sheets of lined paper. Folded inside was a newspaper clipping headlined
ROBBERY FOILED BY STORE MANAGER
. The grainy picture showed a paunchy, round-faced man. Balding, with wire-rimmed glasses, he stood next to a supermarket register. Instead of a wild Hawaiian shirt he wore a snug, dark jacket with a store logo on the breast pocket. Brigham had tackled an armed robber fleeing the supermarket in broad daylight, with receipts from the office.
What propelled Mr. Brigham into action was seeing the robber shove a woman carrying a small child out of his way as they were entering the store. Mr. Brigham said, “It was hard losing the day’s
receipts, but company policy says to do whatever the thief wants. They don’t want us risking harm to customers or ourselves, and I was in full compliance. But then I saw the punk knock the mum and her baby down, and, well, that was just too much for a man to take. Pure reflex, that’s all. So off I went, and took him down.”
The article called him “… a genuine hero, bringing the thief down with an American football tackle. Brigham’s actions may contradict company policy, but his employees say they’re not surprised by his quick-thinking bravery. Lucille O’Day, head cashier, describes him as “a fair boss who runs a tight ship but is always kindhearted and pleasant.”
“Dear Ruth,” began the letter’s almost illegible scrawl. Nellie had to decipher each word, reading sentences countless times to understand it.
After I received your last letter, I felt very bad. I didn’t understand why you kept ignoring me when I asked you not to write. It was so upsetting to me that I finally told my wife and asked for her help. She said she would write and explain how I felt. But you kept writing anyway. And to tell you the truth, that only made me angrier. You see I haven’t had an easy time of it lately. My wife has had many health problems and has been let go from her job. Our youngest daughter (we have three) has spina bifida and requires special care. Our middle daughter has severe learning disabilities so she has to attend a specialized school that is almost an hour’s drive from home. Thankfully, our oldest girl is blessed with good health and normal intelligence. I tell you all this so you’ll understand why your complaints about your lot in life fell on such deaf ears
.
But then came the incident at work—you’ll see what I mean in the clipping. Anyway, it was one of those breakthrough moments. It has taught me a great lesson. It’s made me realize that what’s most important in life is confronting difficulty straight on instead of looking the other way or running away. The Brigham family may not have a lot, but we have each other and that is the most important thing. I hope you will forgive me for not being more welcoming
when you first wrote. Even though I always knew this might happen, I guess I was still too afraid of the unknown. But now I’m not. In fact, I would like to get to know you. I have your picture, and I plan to show it to my daughters and tell them that they have an American sister
.
Your father,
Daniel Brigham
With the pillow over her head, Nellie sobbed until her chest ached with loss. Their family was coming undone. Ruth would surely leave, her only sister, now with her pick of Aussie sisters and accents she’d be only too eager to imitate. Of course, she would prefer her own heroic blood father over her disappointing stepfather. And after Ruth, who then? Her mother, who’d been so nervous lately, so beaten down, who now, in addition to weekdays, was working Saturdays and two nights a week.
She threw open the closet door, swept out the shoes, and laid to perpetual rest this deadly letter with the others. A few days passed. Life went on.
H
ALFWAY THROUGH DINNER
there was an urgent tapping on the door glass. Agitated, short of breath, Mr. Cooper rushed in, clutching a peat pot of burgundy mums to his chest. With his quick desperate glance, Nellie’s legs locked around the chair rungs. At last. Tormented by guilt, he’d surely come to confess. A devout churchgoer, he couldn’t let an innocent man be tried for his sin. She was already dredging her heart for forgiveness. She’d known him all her life. He must have been provoked, maybe even trying to protect himself. Though she didn’t deserve to die for them, Dolly’s explosive rages were no secret to Nellie. She would tell everything she’d heard and seen, all the while respecting Dolly’s memory and the tragedy of Mr. Cooper’s helpless infatuation. Knowing he was married with a bunch of kids, she’d gone after him anyway. She was good at getting what she wanted, flirting with Max so he’d get her car started, flattering her landlady instead of paying her rent on time. Promising ice cream, she’d even lured Nellie and Henry
into her ploy for meeting Mrs. Cooper. Nellie’d been her easy victim, too.
Mr. Cooper apologized for barging in, but he’d just left Ray Mikellian. After weeks of excuses and unreturned calls, he’d finally marched into the bank president’s office, demanding answers. He stood by the table, peering over the mums. Her father had pulled out the extra chair, but Mr. Cooper didn’t seem to notice.
“ ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, shouldn’t be a problem,’ that’s what he kept saying, which, coming from Mikellian’s good as gold, and you know that, right, Ben? There’s never been a time, not one single time, in all my dealings with the man when he’s gone back on his word, so I just wanted you both to know so you’d feel better about this whole thing. Especially now, and you’re right, you’re right to hold my feet to the fire. It’s the economy. Money’s tight everywhere, but I made you folks a sincere offer and I don’t want you thinking for a minute I’m backing down, because I’m not. Of course I wouldn’t. So just be patient a little while longer, that’s—”
“But every day that goes by, Andy, it’s—” her father tried to say.
“I know. Believe me, my friend, I know. The press of time, I know it well.” Mr. Cooper finally slipped into the chair across from Nellie. Her mother’s eyes followed the streak of dirt from the pot he was pushing to the center of the table. “But things’re bad everywhere. Right now I’ve got three deals just barely holding together. It’s not just me. Everyone’s got the jitters. Everyone.”
Her mother got up and carried the mums to the counter. She wet the sponge then wiped the table clean. Mr. Cooper’s pale blue shirtfront was smudged with dirt. The two men were discussing the art supply shop on Main Street, which was going out of business after twenty-three years in the same location. Sign of the times, Mr. Cooper said. So much of their merchandise was easily available online.
“Or Target,” Ruth interjected. “That’s where we went, right, Mom?”
Her mother didn’t reply. She tapped the rim of Henry’s plate. He hadn’t touched his peas. He hunched over, gripping his belly.
“Last year, the dance posters, remember?” Ruth persisted. “It was, like, so much cheaper.” The new mature Ruth was struggling to be part of the conversation. Little did she know the strange forces driving it.
“There’s no competing,” Mr. Cooper agreed, as Nellie stared, boldly, accusingly. She was prepared to give him every ounce of understanding and support. But he had to confess.
“America’s gone off course, that’s what Mr. Barnes told us in Gov. One,” Ruth continued. “We’ve, like, lost our way. This whole immigration thing, it’s like thrown everything off-kilter. They take all the jobs and suck up all the benefits.”
“That’s not only an inaccurate statement, Ruth, but it ignores the fact that we’re all descended from immigrants. Unless we’re American Indians,” her father added.
“Native Americans. Careful, Ben,” Mr. Cooper warned with a sly smile.
“I was talking about illegal immigrants. That’s what I meant!” Ruth was miffed.