Yesterday's Stardust (4 page)

Streaks of dampness remained on the counter. Dani could picture a hysterical girl scrubbing her hands.

Had she found him dead or witnessed the horror?

An icy chill crept up her back. Did the police believe it was suicide?

The insanity of being there hit her full force. She backed out of the bathroom and retraced her steps, not looking at the mattress this time. Untucking the tail of her blouse, she wiped the door handle on both sides, ran down the steps, looked around, and did the same with the outside door.

Heart slamming her ribs, she ran toward the alley. Two garbage cans overflowed with papers, clothes, and books. A plastic milk crate sat on the ground between them, filled with spiral notebooks. The front one, every inch of its cover decorated with ink drawings, was labeled “Algebra.” Dani bent, flipping through them. West Civ., Psych., Spanish. Wedged between them was a black leather book, worn and frayed at the corners. M
Y DIARY
was lettered in muted gold across the front.

Looking both ways again, she grabbed the crate and ran to Vito’s car. She tossed the basket in the backseat, slid behind the wheel, and drove around the corner.

In front of the Laundromat, a little blond girl rode a bike with training wheels, a twenty-something man close behind. At the end of the block, an elderly man shuffled out of the grocery store, newspaper under one arm.

The dash clock read 5:56. She drove around the block and parked on the one-way street next to the Italian restaurant. China would return sometime, if only to gather her things and run.

Until the sun went down, she’d have a perfect view.

September 12, 1924

Toying with the broken strap of her overalls, Francie compared the gown she’d just sketched with the one in McCall’s. “Mine’s better,” she mouthed.

Downstairs, the screen door opened and bounced against the frame. Daddy’s barn boots stomped the wood floor. “You’ll be going to Mrs. Johnson’s tonight?”

“Of course,” Mama answered, her voice tight with the strain of Friday. “I would appreciate it if you would tell Francie to go with me.”

“She’s fine here.”

“I’d rather she not—”

“She’s fifteen, Signe. Not a baby. She understands what I need to do to keep the farm.”

“But if there’s trouble…”

Daddy laughed. “If there’s trouble, Francie just may be the one to break it up.”

Mama huffed the kind of sigh that ruffled the hair hanging over her forehead. Francie heard her gathering her things. She scrambled off the bed, crawled through the open window, and jumped onto the roof of the shed.

When Mama poked her head into the shed, Francie was sitting on the three-legged stool, laying the bowl ring from the milk separator out on a clean flour sack to dry. Mama smiled. “Good girl. I’ll be off now. Stay in the house tonight.”

“I will.” Pretending to stretch, she slipped both hands behind her back.

A lie doesn’t count if your fingers are crossed.

Half an hour later, she lowered onto her belly in the hayloft, careful not to dislodge a single blade of straw. The open door framed an orange ball of sun, low and huge, melting into the pines above their valley. Through the spaces between the boards, she had a perfect view of Daddy’s “office.” Beyond the curtain that separated the office from the rest of the barn, Applejack nickered and Tess answered with a soft snort. Francie rested her chin on her hands and waited.

Almost dark. And Friday. Something would happen tonight.

Daddy lit kindling in the stove, poured water from a dented bucket into the iron kettle, then filled a small pan with sugar. He wiped off the old, scarred table and set a tin cup in the center. “Thirty-five cents a pint, gentlemen,” she’d hear him say. And then the stories would start. Stories of birthing calves and record rainfall, of life before the War. And the War.

Mama spent Friday evenings reading to Mrs. Johnson. Francie was always invited, but there were too many things a fifteen-year-old girl would rather do than sip tea and read the Bible to an old lady. Things like listening in on Daddy’s “business.” And hoping for another good fight.

Below her the door opened. She hadn’t heard a car. Daddy looked up. His eyes widened. “Signe? Is something wrong?”

Mama never came into Daddy’s office. Francie couldn’t see her face, but she could hear her breathing like she’d been running. Her brown shift quivered over wide hips as she caught her breath. She held something out to Daddy. “Carina is ill. I came back to get slippery elm. She got a letter for us by mistake.” Mama thrust an envelope at him. “From your daughter.”

Francie pressed her face into the boards. Suzette had left home going on three years ago. They hadn’t heard from her since.

“My
daughter?” His eyes lit with a rare smile. “Well, what does she say?”

“She says”—Mama hissed the words—“we have a grandchild.”

Daddy’s jaw slackened. Tired eyes widened. “A baby?”

“No, Henri. A child. A two-year-old boy.”

“And she just tells us now? Is she—”

“Married? Of course not.”

His hands knotted into fists. “What does she want? She knows she won’t get money.”

“She wants Francie.”

Daddy gave a laugh that sent shivers down Francie’s back. “I will not lose another daughter.” He held his hand out for the letter. “Hide the envelope. We may want her address.” He tossed the letter into the raging flames in the stove. “Francie cannot hear of this.”

T
he shadows disappeared. A slight breeze stirred through the open car window. Dani stretched and rubbed her eyes then pulled the front of her shirt away from her belly, letting the air dry her hot, sticky skin. Every pore in her body cried out for a shower, and her stomach growled. The smells coming from the restaurant called to her.

She’d made a call and found out the police had taken China in for questioning and then released her. The woman at the police station who always gave Dani more information than she was supposed to had no idea who China had left with or where she’d gone.

Three hours and still no sign of her. She’d come back for the rest of her things, wouldn’t she? Or send someone for the half-packed boxes? Or would she just walk away, leaving every reminder of life with Miguel behind?

Doubts danced on the night breeze. “What am I doing here?”

“This is your ‘What’s next.’”

Mitch’s commission warred with Evan’s warning—
“You don’t have to do this.”

“I can. I have to.”
China was out there somewhere, hating herself for what had happened, blaming Dani for starting the Domino chain that led to a gunshot.

A cold clamminess circled her mouth. Her fingertips tingled. She needed food.

Vito’s car door creaked as it opened. Through the red and gold of B
RACCIANO
lettered behind iron bars on the front window, she spotted a small table facing the street. A perfect vantage point. After reshaping her ponytail, she looked around, hoping no one was watching. She still had the guilty feeling she was doing something wrong.

Fresh paint and the neon sign seemed to be the only updates the outside of the restaurant had experienced in decades. On the second story, each tall, narrow window had its own wrought-iron balcony.

A bell dinged overhead as she opened the door. The rich scents of oregano, sausage, and fresh-baked bread intensified her hunger.

Dani surveyed the red-walled room crammed with tables covered with checkered tablecloths and surrounded by black-lacquered chairs with red cushions.

The thin, long-legged girl walking toward her with a stack of menus under her arm looked to be in her late teens. Her nametag read “Renata Fiorini.” Anger snapped in dark, red-rimmed eyes smudged with mascara. As if she’d been crying. Black hair, short in back, hung over one eye. Half moons of silver decorated each ear. She wore a short black leather skirt with a wide zipper up the front and a white button-down blouse.

“Welcome to Bracciano.” She pronounced it Bra-CHA-no, and her tone was anything but welcoming. “One?”

“Yes, please.”

“Over here.”

“Could I sit right there by the window?”

The girl slapped the menu on the table. A button slipped open at the top of her blouse, revealing a tattoo in the hollow above her collarbone. Reddened edges indicated fresh work. Dani stopped a gasp as she stared at the stretched and warped 7.

The girl tugged at her shirt, her face pinking as she turned away. She walked to the far side of the room and returned moments later, blouse buttoned, face once again pale. She smacked down silverware rolled in a napkin and a glass of water. “You ready to order?”

Dani smiled at the menu she hadn’t opened. “Do you have calzones?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

The girl sighed. “Spinach or sausage.”

“I’d like a spinach calzone, please.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Just water.”

Without even a nod, the girl walked away.

Dani walked to the restroom. She splashed cold water on her face and neck, hoping for some revival. The eyes that stared back at her from the small cracked mirror above the sink looked older than the image in yesterday’s paper. Victory no longer tasted sweet.

She dried her face and turned, catching her image in a full-length mirror on the back of the door. Smoothing the front of her rumpled peasant blouse with a damp hand, she tightened her abs and pulled her shoulders back. The smocking on the shirt she’d found at her favorite resale shop allowed the fabric to flow over her hips, concealing the fact that she hadn’t been to the gym in three weeks. She thought about brushing her hair or refreshing her lipstick, but that all took effort, and she wasn’t going to be seeing anyone tonight who cared what she looked like. Snapping off the light, she opened the door then walked back to the table.

A lamp glowed in the downstairs apartment across the street. Dani began to let herself relax. If China came home she’d have to turn on a light, and Dani could see windows from two of the upstairs rooms from where she sat. She pulled out her legal pad and pen, drew a slanted 7 then scribbled it out. The tattoo, the emblem on the shirt in the bathtub—gang signs. She’d heard of the Sevens. And they weren’t the only gang in the Swamp.

What am I doing here?

A rush of angry Italian from the kitchen slammed over her question. A male voice followed by the waitress’s, equally harsh. Thanks to Vito’s frequent peppering of Italian, Dani could pick out a few words.

A minute later Dani’s order smacked the table in front of her. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.” She smiled at the girl. “Bad day?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Bad life. Bad family.”

“Parents?”

“No.” She blinked hard. “My brother. King of the Universe.”

Dani laughed. “That makes you royalty, too, you know.”

The girl swiped at tears and smiled weakly. “Yeah. Part of the Royal Pain family. I’m disowning them.”

“Smart move. Who wants to be related to someone suffering from delusions of grandeur.”

This time she actually laughed. “Hope you like the calzone. It was made by the king himself.”

Dani cut into the stuffed pastry. Melted cheese pooled around her fork and stretched like a bungee cord when she lifted it. She took a bite and closed her eyes. Italian heaven. She studied a poster on the window advertising a new all-you-can-eat Italian buffet on Friday nights. Ravioli, chicken marsala, baked ziti. She might just have to come back sometime. With friends, for a happy occasion.

In the growing darkness, the light filtering through the first-floor windows across the street outlined the broken swing. Black windows stared at her from the upstairs apartment. Resting her fork on the plate, she picked up her pen.

She recorded the scene in Miguel’s living room as objectively as she could. She outlined questions and topics to research.
Signs of suicidal behavior. Statistics. Demographics. Effects of suicide on peers. Copycat suicides. Miguel’s age—check obit. Substance abuse? Prior record? Gang involvement?
She filled the page then turned to a blank one and gave vent to her feelings.

I just want to talk to China. I want to tell her it wasn’t her fault— but was it mine? Why didn’t I tell her to take him seriously, to call a suicide hotline? Why didn’t I call for her? When will I learn to just ask questions and not meddle? If she does anything to hurt herself I’ll never—

Renata returned. Her eyes sparkled. “Is everything okay? Would you like dessert?”

“No thanks. Everything was delicious. Things okay with you now?”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “I just told my brother he was suffering from delusions of grandeur. He almost fell into the tortellini.” She set the check down on the table. “Thanks for your help. Have a good evening.” With a wave, she walked back to the kitchen.

Just before closing her notebook, Dani’s eyes fell on
When will I learn to just ask questions and not meddle?

Maybe never,
she thought, ripping out a sheet of paper. She folded it in half and wrote a quick note then left it on the table, covering it with a generous tip.