Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light Series) (20 page)

I shook my head and smiled.  I stacked the brushes on their shelves and the buckets in their nook.  I ran the faucet in the corner and found the mop hanging on the wall--oddly stringy, like it hadn't seen use in years.  I wet the mop and cleaned the mess on the floor.

Rafael was frazzled and sweaty when he trudged back into the milkshed.  "The bull calves are going crazy out there," he grunted.  "Why is the floor wet?"

"That's how you wash it, Rafael."

He grunted again.  He opened a paper sack next to the east-facing door and sprinkled sawdust on the floor.  I picked up the heavy milk pails--careful not to spill their contents--and carried them to the low stove on the opposite wall.

I don't know why they call it "pasteurizing."  All you're really doing is heating the milk--just slightly--to kill the bacteria.  After that you chill it again.

I sloshed the milk into a pot on the stove.  I lit the burner on low heat. 

"He reminded me of my dad," Rafael mumbled.

I looked at him with consternation.

"Aubrey," he clarified.  "When he was holding the babies like that.  One in each arm.  There used to be a photograph on my uncle's mantel."  He drew off momentarily.  "With my dad holding Mary and me like that, back when we were babies."

"What happened to it?" I asked softly.

"Mary smashed it years ago."

I reached sideways and squeezed his shoulder.  His hand rested on top of mine.  His hand was rough and dark, his fingers short and square.  Mine was soft and pale and freckled, my fingers long.  On the outside we were nothing alike.  On the inside...

"You look a lot like your mom," Rafael said quietly.

I smiled at him with regret.  "You look a lot like your dad."

I found his gaze and held it. 
He asked for you, you know
, I wanted to say.  Rafael's father had asked for him seconds before he'd died.  No matter what else he had done wrong, he had cared for his son.

I didn't know that I could hate him.  All the lives he had taken--the tangible trail of agony and turmoil he had left in his wake--I couldn't hate him for that.  Because he had loved his son.  He had loved the person I loved more than anything on earth.

I couldn't hate the man who had loved Rafael.

I watched his eyes behind his glasses when they dropped from my eyes to my throat.  He knew what I was thinking about.  I didn't need to tell him; he just knew it, the way a tree knows when its roots aren't strong, the way a hummingbird knows it will die if it stops flying.  And maybe, over the years, some of his crazy mind-reading prowess had rubbed off on me; because I knew what he was thinking, too.

He tucked my curls behind my ear.  He touched his fingertips to the scars on my throat.

Long ago he'd told me how conflicted he felt about his father.  How he loved him; how he hated him.  How he could never forgive him.

"Not after what he did to you," Rafael said.

I smiled at him.  I was sorry for him, in one way.  In another, I was touched.

"I'm glad I met you, Rafael."

"Say my name again," he said.

If I weren't already smiling, I would have smiled all over again.  "Rafael."

It was a milkshed, for crying out loud.  It was hardly the most appropriate place to start--you know--"thanking" each other.  But there he was:  The best thing I'd ever seen.  And it didn't matter that his hair looked like he'd brushed it with a cow's tongue.  It didn't matter that he was slick with perspiration and he smelled like fresh grass and stale hay.  What did matter was that his arms locked around me; his arms felt familiar around me.  His chest felt familiar against mine through the fabric of his damp shirt.  My second heartbeat.

And his mouth on mine, open and hot, was second nature.  Sometimes it was the only thing that made sense.

We took the milk off the stove and left it out to chill.  We went back inside the house in search of Annie.  Serafine was sweeping up the dust and dirt in the foyer.  She nodded over her shoulder, in the direction of the back patio.

Annie and Aubrey were on the wood-paneled patio, Celia and Elizabeth sound asleep in a shaded twin bassinet.  Mother and father were engaged in a very animated discussion the likes of which I couldn't hope to determine.  I noticed Zeke was with them, too.  He looked up; he spat out a mouthful of chilled rose tea.

"Hahaha!  Hey!" he said, pink spit dribbling down the front of his shirt.  "I was looking for you two losers!"

"You might have tried their house first," Annie pointed out.

"What are you talking about?  They're here, aren't they?  So I did something right.  What was I saying?"

"Please don't wake them?" Aubrey begged, wincing, glancing at the twins.  "We had such a long night..."

"Aubrey, I just remembered," I said.  "If croup is all it was, I could have given you some bloodroot.  I've still got some, I think."

"Oh, could you give it to me at dinnertime?  That would be terrific, thank you."

"We did your stupid milk thing," Rafael told Annie.

"Good.  I'll remember it the next time you need a favor."

"Why would I ask you for a favor?  It's not like I need a duck gutted or something."

"Why, you--!"

"Why isn't anybody paying attention to me?!" Zeke demanded.

"Aagh!" Aubrey cried.  "
No!
  You woke Celia!  Why would you do that?"  He scurried over to the bassinet.

"What is it, Zeke?" I asked temperately.

"About Michaela," he said impatiently.  "Do you guys wanna adopt her, or not?  Because if you decide you wanna go through with it, I've got to write up a homestudy first.  So you have to let me know."

Rafael's fingers bit into my arm.  I knew immediately there was no answer for him but a definitive yes. 

"Can we talk about it first?" I asked.  "With Michaela?"

Rafael looked sideways at me.  "How do you mean?"

"We have to make sure she's comfortable.  We're little more than strangers to her right now."

I knew how much Rafael wanted her.  I wanted her, too.  But it was Rafael who had first said that adoption should be about the child's needs.

"Yeah," Rafael said, slouching.  "We'll let you know."

We went home a few hours before sunset.  It wasn't long before Racine dropped Mickey off on our doorstep.  Mickey was singing Ring of Fire, for whatever reason.  Rafael and I traded quick looks.

"Can I have ice cream?" Mickey asked.

"Not before dinner," I said.

"Okay," she said.  "Racine is so cool.  She said she'd show me how to shoot a rifle after the ghost dance."

I didn't quite catch what Rafael said in response, but it sounded something like, "Oh God."

"We'll see," I said.  "Did you read that book Mr. Red Clay gave you for the summer?"

Mickey raised an eyebrow at me.  "You mean Mr. Siomme."

"Right, that."

"I read it.  It wasn't as good as Charlotte Doyle.  Do you know how to make potato chips?"

"No, I don't," I said.  "Sorry, honey."

"Mary does," Rafael said.  "We could ask her."

"Cool."

"Oh, you know something?" Rafael went on.  "She built a carburetor once.  I've gotta show it to you."

"What's a carburetor?"

"Part of an engine, or something like that.  She's good with car stuff."

I sat on the armchair in the sitting room.  I cleared my throat.

"What?" Rafael and Mickey said at the same time, each as testy as the other.

I gave Rafael a pointed look.  I thought it was the right time to bring up the adoption.  I looked from Rafael to Mickey.  Suddenly I wasn't so sure.  It's not that I didn't want her--far from it--but in truth, we'd only had her for a few months.  Discussing something so permanent, and so soon...  I don't know.  Maybe it would have made her uncomfortable.

"Do you know what the ghost dance is for?" I asked.

Mickey shook her head.

"It's a dance that lets the dead come back to us," I said.  "Just one night every year."

"Oh."  Mickey's eyebrows knitted together.  She curled up on the throw rug on the floor.

"Well," Mickey finally said, "it sounds like bullshit."

"It's not bullshit," Rafael said.  "If you believe in it, that makes it real."

"Like when you wish upon a star?" Mickey asked.

Rafael's familiar, muted smile made its way to his face.  "Yeah," he said.  "Like that."

"I miss my cat," Mickey said. "The one Mom choked when she got mad at me."

My stomach turned.  Of all the cruel ways to punish a child...

"Well," I said, "that's why you should go to the ghost dance.  You'll get to be with your friend again."

"In spirit, you mean," Mickey said.

"You're very smart."

Mickey screwed up her face in concentration.  "Wait," she said, "aren't you going to do music for that thing?"

"Me?" I asked.  "I am, yes."

"What kind of music?  I wanna learn."

I smiled teasingly.  "Okay," I said.  "Go get my flute from the mantelpiece."

We sat together, Mickey perched on the chair's armrest, and together we played the plains flute.  I played the Thunder Song  for her, a dark, fast piece written thousands of years ago.  Even back then the Shoshone were accustomed to flash floods. 
Rumbling, thundering darkness breaks loose
, goes the song.  The first time I heard it, it scared me a little.  The notes are tumbling, one note crashing into the next; erratic and frantic and fierce.  One of the most impressive smoke dancers I've ever met danced to that song some years ago.  I still remember the way she moved; relentless; as powerful as nature, as dangerous as the monsoon.

After that I played the Song of the White Wolf.  You know, in summertime, gray wolves shed their outer pelt and end up looking like they're coated in snow.  That's where the name of the song comes from.  The Shoshone used to pray to the Wolf as the benevolent half of God; but in summertime, they prayed to the White Wolf specifically.

"Play it again," Mickey demanded.

"You blow," I said, handing her the flute.  "I'll cover the holes.  Then you can try covering the holes yourself."

Rafael searched the mess that was his hair for a pencil stub.  It happened to be one of those rare occasions when he didn't find one.  He marched into the kitchen in his neverending pursuit.  I swore I saw a smile on his face.

The night of the ghost dance was a chilly one.  I bundled Mickey up in a fleece jacket and zipped it to her chin.  She giggled, her eyes as bright as the stars above our heads.  The cascading brook reflected an argent moon.

"Next year," Mickey said, "maybe I can play the music with you, too."

I straightened up and looked at Rafael.  He was a shadow in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob; keys hanging from his fingers.  I couldn't see his face.  I could feel his smile.

"I'd like that," I said.

"Hey," Rafael said.  "Hold up.  You forgot something."

He skulked over to us and knelt on the ground.  He showed Mickey the small, hollow turtleshell in his hand.

"What is that?" she asked.

He shook it, the stones sounding inside.  "It's a rattle," he said.  He tied it around her leg.  "When you dance," he said, "it'll match the rhythm of the music."

Mickey shook her leg experimentally.  She looked appeased.

Rafael stood up.  "C'mon," he said.  "We don't wanna be late."

We walked through the woods together.  Owls hooted softly from the copse of brush-soft aspen trees tangled at the end of the brook, winglike lupins in lavender and frost blue crowded together at their gnarled, raised roots.  Mickey's rattle clattered on her leg, her arms swinging at her sides.

She surprised me when she reached out and wrapped her hand around mine.

We followed the dirt path to the firepit; we followed the firepit to the north.  The sky's hue matched shadowed ocean slate; the slate matched Rafael's eyes.  I heard doors snapping shut in the wind.  I saw Gabriel, Rosa, and Charity filing out of their house beneath the southern oak tree, Grandma Gives Light tagging after them.  The four of them caught up with us when we were walking the slope to the badlands.

"You can stand next to me in the circle, Mickey," Charity said.

Grandma Gives Light narrowed her eyes at me.  I smiled helplessly in return.

"Numu paa kutsapi'kontuih wuchamata huuppiammu."

"No thank you," I said politely.

Rafael and I held Mickey's hands when we walked out to the badlands, blue-gray clay crumbling beneath the soles of our shoes.  "Careful," Rafael said to Mickey.  She slipped twice.  We righted her both times before she could fall.

"Kimma!" yelled Immaculata Quick at the front of the group.

She led us down a more stable path between the gullies.  A gulch curved to our right.  The hilly promontory drew closer, closer still, coyotes yipping at the moon.