Beyond the Farthest Star (5 page)

T
WO MONTHS HAD PASSED
since the Wellses arrived in Leonard, and the season had slipped past Thanksgiving into the beginning of December. Tonight the streets were deserted. Given that it was past eleven at night, with a chill wind stretching icy fingers all the way from Canada across Oklahoma, the citizens of Leonard preferred their warm living rooms or even warmer beds.

Earlier in the evening the town had bustled with holiday cheer. Coffee cups in Jeffrey’s Diner were served embellished with peppermint candy canes—ninety-nine cents for two dozen at the Piggly Wiggly.

Down on the corner of Main and Second, Willy Potrero had waited until tonight to unveil the Christmas art decorating the front window of his barber shop—an annual Christmas season event. This year’s edition brought applause and laughter from the onlookers. It featured a cartoon version of Willy, dressed as Santa, riding a surfboard atop a curling wave toward a barber pole-striped palm tree on a sandy shore. A pack full of toys was flung across Santa Willy’s back while an immense shark fin rose menacingly close behind.

The First Church choir practice broke up in time for hot chocolate and cookies. Since all the numbers being practiced were old, familiar carols, prepping for the three Sundays between now and Christmas was no effort at all.

Now carolers and bystanders and the denizens of the diners and coffee shops of Leonard had all gone home.

All, that is, except one lean figure made bulky by an expensive overcoat who waited across the street from the town square.

Having been a United States senator, John Cutter was not content to be merely an “important” man in The Biggest Little Town in Northeast Texas … not by a long shot. Ever since voters had sent him packing from DC four years earlier, Cutter had been plotting a return to the national stage. Thanks to the arrival of the Miracle Preacher Boy, Adam Wells, Cutter saw his opportunity.

In his enthusiasm to revitalize the town’s spiritual connection, Pastor Wells had gotten the town council to erect the church’s wooden nativity scene on public property. Painted figures of Mary and Joseph, shepherds and wise men, angels and sheep, clustered around a baby Jesus.

There had not even been any discussion before the mayor and the council agreed. Put up the nativity, they said. It’s Christmas, they said, just like last year.

It never crossed anyone’s mind to object.

Truthfully, Cutter didn’t think anyone in Leonard did object. The former senator could not picture one member of Leonard’s 2,057 population who would be remotely offended.

Since Cutter’s wife, Candy, attended Adam’s church, the mayor and the council probably thought Cutter himself approved.

They were in for a surprise.

American civil liberties had been violated in Leonard, Texas. The rights and sensibilities of non-Christian citizens (had there been any) had been trampled on. It was time that northeast Texas got dragged into the twenty-first century.

Tonight’s action wouldn’t garner many votes in Amarillo or Tyler, but in LA and NYC Cutter would be celebrated as a hero of the progressive movement … beginning tonight.

Uncapping the two-and-a-half-gallon gasoline container, Cutter began methodically splashing the wise men, the shepherds, the
sheep, and the manger. When the first jug was empty, he opened a second, to be sure of doing a thorough job.

The square was empty. There was very little wind. No cars or structures would be threatened. Cutter poured a final trail of gas a dozen feet away from the crèche.

This was not arson, or even vandalism, Cutter told himself. This was civil disobedience, for a good cause.

From a safe distance away, Cutter drew a box of matches from his overcoat pocket. In the frosty air, striking the match made a distinctly audible scratch. Dropping the flame straight down between his shoes, Cutter watched with satisfaction as fire raced across the frozen grass and climbed the back of a shepherd. It reached out toward a kneeling wise man, then leaped across to Mary’s blue robe.

With a
whoosh
and a roar, suddenly the entire scene was engulfed in flames. The conflagration swirled into the night sky. Arcs of flame erupted from Joseph’s head and the points of angel wings jumped upward to flicker like grinning mouths before vanishing into the stars.

Cutter watched with interest to see that the figures and the structure representing the stable were completely enmeshed in the inferno before he left the scene. He went directly to the fire station to report the blaze, then walked down the street to the Leonard police station to turn himself in.

Kyle followed his father into the trashed-out living room of their mobile home. A gun rack full of hunting rifles and shotguns hung over the TV.

Myra, Kyle’s stepmom, had gone to Dallas to visit her sister, leaving Kyle and his father, Jackson, to fend for themselves. This was always bad news for Kyle. Myra was a good influence on
Jackson most of the time. He drank more than usual when she left. Kyle was never sure if she was coming back. There had been other women before Myra.

The drinking and the violence were worse when Jackson was alone. He took out his troubles on Kyle. It had always been that way.

“I tole you not to leave this morning afore you cleaned up the yard.” The yard was a small square of dirt occupied by two pit bulls. “I git home and them two dogs ain’t got a lick of food and the place is covered in …”

Jackson unbuckled his belt and slid it out of the loops. He began swinging before Kyle could answer. “I TOLE YOU!”
Whack!
“How do you like that? I TOLE YOU!”
Whack!

Kyle covered his face with his hands and tried to protect himself.

“Now what were you thinkin’, boy?”

“Pa! Don’t!”

“Don’t you look at me like that!” Jackson’s boot landed hard against Kyle’s belly, sending him sprawling.

“Please! Please, Pa!” Kyle had read somewhere that when a bear attacks, the best thing is to lie still and play dead. Maybe it was true with drunken fathers. Kyle curled into a fetal position and tried not to flinch or cry out.

“Worthless! Like your ma was! Stupid! Idiot!” Every word was punctuated by the belt buckle landing hard against Kyle’s back. Finally Jackson staggered out the door and roared away.

It was a long time before Kyle got up.

T
HE MORNING DAWNED CRISP AND COLD.
Frost blanketed the lawns and made Maurene yearn for a white Christmas like the ones in their Michigan childhood. Too bad Adam couldn’t have found a church closer to home. The lyrics to Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” kept echoing through her mind.

She sighed and looked bleakly around the room.

Still-packed moving boxes had become an issue between Maurene and Adam. He nagged and she ignored. She promised that today she would at least make an effort.

Instead, warm in her bathrobe, Maurene sat at the desk and studied the message from the one she thought of as Lord Nathan on the computer screen: “Missed you and Adam at high school reunion.”

Maurene focused on the word
missed,
then
you,
and then finally read on: “Business in Dallas. Will be in Leonard tonight.”

Could he mean that he was coming here? To the house? To see her? To see her with Adam? What was he thinking?

Maurene’s heart raced at the thought of seeing him again. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of the last time …

Then suddenly the back door slammed and Adam called, bringing her back to reality. “Mo! Maurene!”

With trembling hands Maurene jotted down the e-mail address and then deleted the e-mail. Ripping the scribbled note from the pad, she folded it and tucked it into the pocket of her robe as Adam entered the room.

“Where were you, Mo? I was calling.”

“Nowhere. Here. Getting earplugs.” Digging through the moving boxes, Maurene felt the flush climb to her cheeks. Would he see that she was nervous? She could not look at him.

He instructed, “Remember, you have to share at the women’s luncheon this afternoon.”

“I remember.”

She heard him pull a sheaf of notes out of his briefcase. “I’ve written a few things. Without the revivalist flare you hate. More … your words.”

Her chin lifted defiantly. “I can write my own speech, Adam.”

He mocked her gently. “Just in case you get the urge to run off to Chadwick Castle and spend your morning with Lord Nathan.” He extended his notes for her speech.

Anger flashed. “Who gave the valedictorian speech at our high school graduation?”

He avoided answering and ran their conversation backward. “Earplugs?”

Maurene handed Adam the earplugs as heavy-metal music erupted below them. “She found friends.”

Adam glared at the earplugs.

Maurene glanced out the window at their elderly neighbors and their yappy dog in front of a giant Santa across the street. The couple scooped up their dog, covered their ears, and hurried away. Heavy-metal music was not the way to win the hearts of the citizens of this small Texas town.

Adam began rummaging through a moving box marked ADAM’S OFFICE. She turned for a moment to see him pull out a burgundy hymnal and a file labeled PRESS CLIPPINGS.

So Adam’s glory days had resurfaced to remind him what a wonderful, amazing kid he had been—quite a contrast to his daughter. An incredible comparison as Anne’s music drove the neighbors indoors and made their dogs howl.

Maurene hated the ever-present memory of what Adam had been: Miracle Preacher Boy. How she despised the truth that Adam blamed Anne for what he had become. His disappointment in his mediocre life translated into disappointment with his daughter … and with his wife. Did he really think Anne didn’t notice the way he spoke to her, the way he looked at her? As the hindrance to achieving his dreams? Just as Maurene herself had been … all those years ago?

Maurene swallowed her bitterness and turned away just as Adam’s eyes fell on the computer screen. It still read CONNECTED. She hurried from the room before she could see his anger—or hear his question—and into the relative sanctity of her kitchen.

Even separated from the wailing by the thickness of the garage wall, the kitchen seemed to vibrate. The pounding drumbeat of Anne’s music was almost drowned out by the electric guitars. Anne’s voice belted lyrics of amplified misery.

Anne’s choice of music was another cause of disappointment to her father. Such a beautiful voice, wasted. Wasted on angry lyrics.

And Maurene knew the anger in Anne’s music fed the anger in Adam’s soul.

Maurene stood at the kitchen sink. At last the music stopped. The doorknob into the garage rattled as the final bass guitar notes sustained, then fell away.

Suddenly the door burst open and three sixteen-year-old boys, dressed in snap-button country shirts, marched into the kitchen. Maurene clutched her robe tighter around her and stood among the packing crates.

“Morning, Missus Wells.” The tallest of the trio, Stephen, addressed her politely. His blue eyes were warm, almost amused at the mess. Hair lay curly brown over his ears. The sleeves of his plaid shirt were rolled up as though he was ready for work.

“He’s easy to like,” Maurene thought. She was grateful Anne had found three wholesome kids to hang out with, even if their preference in music would irritate Adam. But then everything irritated Adam.

Anne entered the kitchen last. She carried a large canvas and headed straight toward the back door.

Maurene called, “Anne. Anne, honey!”

Anne halted reluctantly. Her expression conveyed resentment as Maurene opened a prescription bottle and gave her a pill, followed by juice. Maurene was used to the way Anne rolled her eyes and grimaced, but she accepted the medication without other protest.

“How’d your practice go?”

Anne held her pill. “Didn’t you hear us?”

“Of course we …” Maurene looked at the back of Anne’s canvas and changed the subject. “What’s this, Anne? Is this …”

“Homework.” Glancing at Stephen, Anne popped the tablet and swigged the juice.

Maurene said, too cheerfully, “Really … you did your … May I see?”

Anne flipped the canvas over, revealing a black painted surface with gray streaks and arcs through it, like an inky star frozen in sable-colored ice.

Maurene blinked at it a moment, then caught herself. “Oh … a … a painting.”

Stephen’s pleasant Texas twang interjected, “It’s called ‘Sunny Days,’ ma’am.”

Behind them Adam’s stern voice interrupted. “And yet I don’t see the sun, Anne.” Hymnal in hand, he stood framed in the kitchen doorway, his brows knit in disapproval.

Stephen, amused and unintimidated by the pastor’s grim tone, defended, “Think that’s the genius of it, sir. The ‘no sun’ part.”

Maurene said to Adam, “You know Stephen, of course? Well,
these are the Leonard Bullriders.” She was thankful for Stephen’s cheerful presence. A good kid. Polite. He had defused a confrontation. Clifford wore a goofy grin. Kyle remained aloof, reserved.

Stephen added, “
Formerly
the Leonard Bullriders, ma’am. As of this morning we’ll be goin’ by the name of Inger Lorre’s Magic Pillow.”

Kyle muttered, “Even though we have no idea who Inger Lorre is.”

Clifford said, “I do!”

Adam’s face hardened. “She’s a vampire. Our daughter’s favorite vampire.” His tone was flat, and he spoke as though Anne was not in the room.

“Which she’s not!” Anne returned belligerently.

Clifford laughed. “She ate a teacup of maggots in a music video once.”

Adam’s lip curled in a sardonic smile as he turned to Maurene. “Since you’re not spending the day with Lord Nathan, Mo, maybe you can do a little unpacking today as well.” Adam gestured to the stacks of unopened moving boxes. “Three addresses behind on some of these.”

Maurene saw confusion play across Stephen’s face. The boy was clearly sensitive enough to grasp the conflict, the tension in the room, even without understanding the references.

Without acknowledging the three boys, Adam stalked out of the kitchen.

Maurene knew her face was flushed as the boys’ gazes moved to her. She swallowed hard, then lifted her chin as though nothing had happened. “Have you boys had your breakfast?”

Anne climbed onto the hood of Stephen’s rusted Ford pickup. Spitting the prescription pill into her hand, she tossed it away in
the bushes. Glancing across the street at the inflated Santa lawn ornament swaying in the breeze, she lit a cigarette and lay back on the hood. Clouds scudded across the sky above her head.

Inhaling deeply, Anne remembered a story she had heard somewhere about Inger Lorre’s agent. How he was cooking swordfish steaks in his backyard when he showed Inger the exact spot where a UFO landed and Jesus Christ Himself got out and told him to sign Axl Rose. And just because the guy was her agent and he happened to have signed Guns N’ Roses, Inger had to just sit there and listen and say, “Wow, really,” the whole time the guy was talking.

Anne thought that life was like that, wasn’t it? People were always listening to crazy, stupid stuff other people said and, so as not to offend, nodding and saying, “Wow, really.”

Anne didn’t want to live that way. She didn’t want to agree with stuff because it was easier than asking hard questions, finding true answers. She didn’t want to say, “Wow, really,” to other people’s stupid stuff just because she was intimidated or afraid.

Suddenly the burgundy hymnal slammed down on the hood of the pickup, jarring her from her reverie. Startled, she sat up and slid off the hood of the pickup.

Adam stood glowering in front of her.

“What?! What is that?”

He fumed, “That, Anne, is a hymnal. Hymns in that book have comforted the saints through war, plague, famine, and earthquake.”

Anne’s eyes narrowed. Her words dripped with sarcasm. “Wow. Really.”

“So I thought it’d be an excellent idea if you and your Magic Pillow would update one …”

Anne shook her head slightly in disbelief. “You mean cover a Baptist hymn? Yeah. Right.”

Adam was in her face. Angry. “Let me rephrase it, then, Anne.” He gestured toward her backpack. Reluctantly she unzipped it. Adam forced the hymnal into it. “If you wish to keep playing your vampire music—”

“Which it’s not!”

“If you wish to keep playing your music, Anne, in the garage of the church’s parsonage, I’d suggest Hymn 567. A Christmas favorite of mine and—” He ripped Anne’s cigarette from her hand and tossed it into the street. “—don’t let me catch you smoking again!”

Her eyes were fierce as they faced off. “Okay, Adam. You won’t.”

He gestured for the pack. “No more smoking, Anne. And it’s
Dad.
Not
Adam.
I’m your father. Not one of your little friends. All right?”

She did not respond. Not even with a “Wow, really.”

Through gritted teeth, he snapped, “All right, Anne?”

Defying with a surly look, she surrendered the pack. He took it and turned to go. But it wasn’t over. “What?” she cried. “What now?”

He labored in a too-late attempt to “connect.” “Do you remember what Dr. Cruz said about happy thoughts, Anne?”

“Yes.” Oh no, here it was. The same lame, trite, stupid, useless clichés she’d heard a hundred—make that a million—times before.

“That happy thoughts are just as easy as sad ones.”

“Yes.”

“The hymn, Anne. The lyrics of the hymn would make an excellent happy thought. It’s all about a new and glorious morning. Wouldn’t that make you happy, Anne? A new and glorious—”

“Here in Leonard, Adam?”

“All right, Anne. I’ll leave you alone.” He took a long last look
at Anne. His face told her that he needed a “new and glorious morning” himself.

Turning sharply, Adam marched to his car, got in, and sped off.

Watching him drive away, Anne angrily dumped the hymnal into the trashcan. Then she pulled a cigarette out of a box of crayons, lit up, and took a long drag.

Starting back down the driveway, she saw Stephen holding the pickup’s door open.

“What?” she demanded. Was this the morning for everyone to act lame and stupid?

Stephen smiled at the rebuke, closed the door, and backed off.

Anne opened the truck door for herself and climbed in onto the threadbare and ripped blanket that had replaced the long-vanished upholstery.

Clifford jumped into the pickup bed. “Gotta stop fetchin’ doors fer her, Stephen. She doesn’t like that.”

There was a crazy thought. Could it be that Clifford … brainless Clifford … was the only one who had any spark of understanding?

Stephen picked up Anne’s painting and handed it to Clifford. “Yeah, I know, Cliff.”

Kyle sauntered toward them. “They got a word fer the kind of man she’s turning you into, boy.”

Clifford laughed. “Yeah.
Dracula
.” He made a creepy motion with his hand, mimicking vampire teeth.

Kyle snarled, “Shut up, Cliff.”

Clifford would not be quiet. “She is turnin’ him into Dracula, Kyle. Her father even said.”

“What’d I say, puke?” Kyle threatened. “Didn’t I just say ‘shut up’?”

“Get in the truck, Kyle,” Stephen ordered. “Gonna be late as it is, and I ain’t waitin’.”

Kyle grudgingly joined Clifford in the pickup bed as Stephen slid behind the wheel.

Anne challenged, “There a problem, Sticks-boy?”

Stephen shook his head. “Just wonderin’—Lord Nathan? Is that your dog, Annie?”