Consumption (3 page)

Star pulled the backpack from her shoulders, hunching behind an old, rusted-out fridge. The field out here half a mile from their farm didn't have zoning as a junkyard, but that was what it had become, a place for locals to drive to and dispose of their trash.

She pulled the bag of circus peanuts out, ripped it open, and shoved an orange peanut into her mouth. The candy was firm and stale, its sugar melting in an unpleasant gummy mess in her mouth. She spit it out, an orange stream of saliva hitting the dry ground.

Of course. Why should she expect anything else with the luck she'd been having? This, like everything else in her life, was fucked up. Star sank against the fridge and pulled her school bag over her head, letting it shade her from the worst of the sun.

Her day had started off by giving her its big, fat middle finger.

Debbie Malkowski, Star's supposed school best friend (her real best friend, Mabel Joyce, went to Cavus High instead of Star's Catholic school, so Star had to find somebody else to hang around with during the school year) was caught by the school administration giving Seth Richardson a blow job in the teacher's parking lot. Which wouldn't have been such a big deal—hell, Star considered herself open-minded, a fucking liberal, for God's sake, whatever that meant—so no, it wouldn't have been such a big deal, if Seth Richardson hadn't also been Star's boyfriend.

The rumors started after third period, and by lunch, they were flying fast as balls in a batting cage, so that Star practically
had
to skip her last class.

Debbie's betrayal was only the beginning of her day's troubles, a fact she was well aware of as she snuck the attendance sheet from its resting place in the plastic envelope beside her homeroom's door and erased the
A
the teacher had marked for “absent” beside her name before returning it. Not that it mattered. It was the last day of school, after all, what were they going to do, drag her back to make up the hours during summer? But she didn't want to mess with the bother in case they
did
decide to do something. Especially if that something was call home.

She'd walked the five miles to the convenience store near her house instead of calling her father for a ride home. She hadn't wanted to face him, not yet.

Still didn't. Star sank onto the dirty earth of the field, moving an ancient and faded Sprite can out of her way.

Star's mother had always warned her away from the place, but her father, knowing that she was bound to find the warnings more appealing than repellant, took her by the hand one spring day when she was seven and walked her through each and every nook and cranny, showing her what was safe and what wasn't.

It had become their special place after that. Sometimes, she and her father would hunt through the wreckage together, find pieces of discarded furniture that the two of them would work to salvage. Star used them to build a kind of playhouse for herself and Mabel.

But mostly, the junkyard was just a place for Star and her father to spend time together.

Star flipped her arm over and looked at the black ink of the bear there, its dark shadow framed inside a five-point star. Star Bear. Her dad's nickname for her since she'd been a little girl. She'd gotten the nickname, he told her, from the very minute she was born.

“Hairy,” he told her. “All covered in fur.”

“Daaad.”
As a little girl, she'd loved this story, loved to take delight in the first part, at her role of indignation. “I was not. Tell me the real reason.”

Her father would always grow serious then. Look her in the eyes, lean down to her level.

“All right. It was because when I first held you, you grabbed my finger. And you looked at me. I swear, you weren't no more than a minute old, but I haven't ever seen anybody give me that kind of look before.”

“What kind of look was it?”

“Strong,” her father would always say here. “Just like your grip. And that was it. I knew you were my little bear. My little Star Bear, and hadn't nobody better mess with you.”

“And?”

“And I made a promise to you, right there.”

This was her favorite part.

“What promise?”

“That I would help keep you safe and strong. That I would give you anything you asked for, Star Bear.”

And here was her line. “Anything?”

“Anything,” he'd say. “So long as you really meant it.”

Star studied the ink on her arm. Fresh. She'd gotten it only last week and had hidden it since then, waiting. Wanting to show it to her father. To remind him. And then to ask.

Well, now was the time. No more putting it off anymore.

At her feet, the place where she'd spit the candy peanut out had dried into a hard, dark spot of dirt. She was sweating profusely, the backpack doing little to protect her from the sun's heat. A sweat bee buzzed near her ear, tried to land on her cheek, but she brushed it away. Shakily, she stood.

In her mind, she ran over her speech.

I know you miss her,
it began.
I know you miss her, and so do I. But it can't go on like this. I can't live in the same house with you if it does.

Star pressed a hand into the dry earth, her palm landing in the sticky mess of candy before she could stop it. Disgusted, she wiped the mess against her jeans. It didn't come off. She looked around for a patch of grass amidst all the trash and hollowed-out junk where she might rub her hand clean.

There, ten feet to her left, was the shadow of an old wood dresser, the top two drawers missing, and the third one pulled out. In its shade, a small clump of weeds and grass sprouted up green, finding a kind of protection in the protruding drawer. Star leaned down to wipe her hands on it…and paused.

A glint of silver gleamed in the weeds. Star picked it up, turning it over to find a sky-blue stone on its other side.

A ring. Large and gaudy. Turquoise.

What the fuck?

People threw good shit away, sure. As kids, she and Mabel had made some awesome finds here. A beauty salon chair—in perfect condition except for a crack in the leather of the seat—with which they'd taken turns playing beautician. A rocking horse missing its springs but still painted in bright, fresh hues.

But this.

Star turned it over again in her palm.

Real silver. Real turquoise. And the stone was big, too. As large as a robin's egg.

No, people didn't just throw something like this away.

An unpleasant tickle began at the back of Star's mind.

She'd seen this before, hadn't she? This ring? There couldn't be many of them here in Cavus. Its style was wrong. More Southwestern than Northwestern.

A cold jolt hit her, and she felt a shiver work its way across her body despite the hot sky.

Cindy.

Hadn't that been her name? She was one of the women her father had started bringing home.

Cindy was thin with teased blond hair and shaky, ripped-fishnet-covered legs. The tights hadn't been able to cover the scabs, not entirely. They worked their way up the woman's legs and disappeared under a short skirt. Above the skirt was a cheap, nearly see-through tank top, and the woman's clear blue eyes. That's why Star remembered the ring. It, like the eyes, hadn't seemed to belong on the woman. The ring, large and expensive, was nearly the exact same color as the woman's eyes, which looked out from under heavy makeup with a clear, clean
respectability.
The eyes of a kind housewife, maybe, or a teacher.

What had the woman been doing out here, half a mile from the house? And why would she just leave her ring?

It didn't matter. With all the strength she could muster, Star hefted her arm back and then propelled it forward in a single, fluid arc. The ring flipped over once, twice, in the air and then was lost, disappearing twenty feet away into the mounds of the junk, lost forever in the cast-off stories of other people's lives.

Star Williams didn't give a fuck.

She had more important things to worry about right now than some hooker's goddamned ring.

When Star opened the door to her house and stepped into the kitchen, all her carefully rehearsed words died at her lips.

Her father stood at the stove in his police uniform. His back was to her as he stirred something in a pot. He did not turn around at the little gasp she made, and for a second all she could do was watch him.

“Dad?”

Things had either gotten a whole lot worse, or…She hardly dared to let herself hope.

“Hey, honey,” she heard him say as he turned to her. “Aren't you back early?”

“They had a half-day today,” said Star. “End of school teacher workday or something.” She rode a wave of dizziness into a seat at the kitchen table, where she had not sat in a very long time.

Her father approached. She watched with wide eyes as he set something in front of her.

A bowl.

“Think you could do me a favor?” he said.

“What?” she said. Her voice was shaky.

He cocked his head and frowned. “Can you give this a taste test? I think the basil might be a little strong.” The kitchen lights caught one of her father's silver uniform buttons, sending it gleaming as he said it. He saw her looking at it. “It's true, Star Bear. I'm going back to work. Part-time for now, but…” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “We'll see how it goes. Now, care to taste?” He nodded toward the bowl.

With a weak smile Star looked down at the bowl again.

Her father had always loved to cook; it was he who made the family meals, never Star's mother. Star had learned what little culinary skills she had from him, cherishing the Sunday meals that they'd make together. But since his wife's death, Thad Williams had not made a single meal. Had been more interested in…other things.

“Well?”

He stood there, offering the spoon to her, as if nothing had happened. As if she'd walked through the kitchen door and found herself in the time Before
.

Could she really do this?
Star wondered. Pick up the spoon, take a taste, let all the strangeness, all the hurts that had passed between them in the last months go unspoken?

Star felt the sugary sweetness of the circus peanuts rising on a wave of bile in her gut. She picked up the spoon. Took a bite.

There was a faint twinge of bitterness at the front end, but then that mellowed and blended into a delicious taste—of basil, of tomatoes, and an earthiness that she identified as mushrooms.

“Heavenly,” she said, shutting her eyes. “Just heavenly, Dad, really.”

Her father beamed at her, his whole face lighting up as it hadn't done in months. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.” Star took another spoonful and slipped it over her tongue, watching her father as she did so. He looked like a little kid standing there, so eager to please. And he looked happy.

Star stood up, pushed the chair away, and walked over to him. She felt herself shaking, tears threatening to fall, but she swallowed them. With all her strength, she pulled her father close to her, hugging him. His smell was as familiar as her own breath.

“Hey, Star Bear, what is it?” her father asked, sounding alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” said Star, breathing in that wonderful mix of Old Spice and food that was her father. Behind them, Star heard a thumping, and she turned to see Styx, her dog, her tail wagging eagerly up against the table leg.

“I think that's my cue,” said Star, pulling away from her father. She needed a breath, a moment to take all this in. “I'm going to take this one out to potty.”

“I'll finish up in here, then. I'll get the pasta going and we can have an early dinner, how does that sound?”

“It sounds great,” said Star. “It really does.”

“Oh, and Star?”

“Yeah?”

“Leave the dog out, okay? She must have gotten into something. Whatever it is, it's giving me a rash.” He touched his chest briefly, where now his badge was hanging.

“Sure, Dad.”

Star whistled for Styx and opened the kitchen door. The dog didn't need to be told twice, and bounded out in front of her. Styx had lost her puppies the same time that Star lost her mother. Star wondered if the dog ever missed her children, ever grieved for them. Maybe she didn't even remember them.

She took one last look back at her father, stirring the pot over the stove, humming some unintelligible song as he did so. “Dad?”

“Hmm?” He didn't turn around. She remembered her earlier suspicions about her mother's affair and wondered, for the first time, if her father had had them, too, if that had played a part in his recent actions as he struggled to deal with her death.

“I'm glad about the job,” Star said. There were those damn tears again, creeping up on her unexpected. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

“Me too, Star Bear.”

“And I'm glad about you,” said Star. “I'm glad I still have you.”

Without looking back, she shut the door behind her and let the warm outdoor air hit her face.

Fifty yards out, Styx was already sniffing happily at the earth, nudging holes and trying to uncover secrets from beneath the pile of old wood stacked beside the shed. Star breathed in. The air bit at her lungs, refreshing her. For the first time all day—no, for the first time in a long time—she felt happy.

Without thinking about it, Star threw her arms out at her sides and did something she hadn't done since she was a little girl. She shut her eyes and spun, once, twice, and then a third time. When she opened them, the world spun before her, its shapes fuzzy and rocking. Star lifted her eyes toward the distance and the hills, toward the direction of Cavus, where her real friend, Mabel, lived. Mabel, who would never think of doing what Debbie had done, who probably didn't even know what a blow job was.

“Probably thinks it's something you do to a sucker,” said Star, and she laughed to find she'd said it out loud.

She whistled for Styx to come, and the dog bounded back past her father's patrol car, and onto the driveway. But Star's gaze stopped at the car.

Sitting in the backseat was a woman.