Follow the Stars Home (8 page)

For the next few years Tim had stayed at sea. Lobstering took most of his time. It weathered his face and toughened his hands; even more, it hardened something deep inside him. He forgot how to be with people. He'd drink and fight, or he'd flash a smile that let some girl know how lonely he was. That he needed her to hang on to.

One of those girls was Dianne. Knowing that Dianne was interested in Alan made Tim go after her full blast. He had pulled out all the stops. Tim wanted someone to save him, and he chose a woman with a special talent for giving. Some of his behavior was an act, he thought, as he played the part of a lonesome, drunken lobsterman just to get her attention. But it worked, because it was real. So he
thought he was playing a role, but he really wasn't. And Alan had watched it happen, Dianne falling in love with his brother.

Alan gave up without a big fight for only one reason: If he couldn't have Dianne, maybe she could at least straighten his brother out. At least that was what he told himself. Dianne was strong and solid, and Tim had been heading downhill since the day Neil had died. Maybe marriage and children would fill the void, make him stop hurting. But they hadn't.

“I hear you saw my girls yesterday,” Mrs. Robbins said, startling Alan as she wheeled in a cartload of periodicals to be shelved.

“I did,” Alan said.

“How is Julia?”

“She's a champ,” Alan said.

Mrs. Robbins had been the Hawthorne librarian for forty years. Alan had heard kids in his office claim she had read every book on the shelves, and he could almost believe it was true. Her blue eyes were clear with intelligence and compassion. Curiosity kept women like Mrs. Robbins young.

“But how
is
she?” Mrs. Robbins asked evenly.

“You know,” Alan said. “She's holding her own.”

Mrs. Robbins bit her lip. She shuffled through a pile of
National Geographics
as if to make sure the issues were in order. But Alan knew she was just pulling herself together.

“Well, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “We count on you.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“I'm worried for Dianne,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, alert.

“She wears herself out,” Mrs. Robbins said, starting to whisper. The words came out fast, and her brow was creased with worry. Alan leaned forward
to hear her. “Julia's light as a feather. She's no weight at all. But the effort … even when she's just sleeping, resting in the corner of Dianne's workshop. It takes every bit of energy Dianne has just to let her be. Not knowing the future.”

“That's the challenge …” Alan said, pulling something out of his generic repertoire. Doctors were supposed to be wise. Inside, he was a mess, hearing about Dianne's pain.

Thinking of Neil, Alan understood what Mrs. Robbins meant. Seeing a person you love suffer is the hardest thing there is. Taking action-bandaging the wound, setting a fracture, cleansing a burn-was always easier than sitting back, accepting there was nothing you could do.

“Dianne's brave,” Alan said.

“Most of the time.”

“She could ask me for more help than she does.”

“Oh, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “Don't you know how hard it is for her to be around you-as kind as you are-you will always be a reminder of Tim.”

“Yeah,” Alan said, hurt to know the truth from Lucinda.

“Heard from him lately?”

Alan shook his head. Two months earlier, Tim had called from Camden, needing to borrow a thousand dollars. Before that Alan would get collect calls or postcards from ports from Lubec to Halifax. Tim had become a seafaring drifter. Sometimes he visited Malachy. He had no home, no address. That was the price he'd paid for what he'd done: leaving his wife and child.

“The poor wretch,” Lucinda said. “It's almost impossible to loathe him when he's so tormented. But not quite.”

“I know what you mean,” Alan said, feeling
Lucinda's gaze. He wondered whether she had figured it out. She was too loyal to Dianne, too discreet to ask, but he believed she knew.

Alan was in love with Dianne.

The feeling had never gone away. Even when she'd chosen Tim, with Alan tricking himself into thinking Dianne was stopping Tim's decline, saving his life, he loved her anyway. He'd do anything to help her, then or now.

He told himself he was a doctor, his compassion was natural. Dianne's eyes showed everything. Her hair was the color of Cape Cod marshes in autumn, golden in the October sun. She smelled like paint, lumber, and the sea. Frustration often creased her brow, but when she looked at Julia, the lines would disappear into such deep love that Alan sometimes felt pressure in his throat.

Psychiatrists-and Malachy Condon-would say he loved his sister-in-law because she was totally inaccessible.
Fear of commitment? No problem-pick someone your brother has left, a woman who hates your family with a passion.
Alan was screwed up in the area of relationships-he knew it well. He dated good women. They were all better than he deserved. He had a lousy habit of forgetting to call after the third or fourth time. He had never been married, and as much as he loved children, he had none of his own. And it would probably stay that way.

“Dianne's hoping for a good summer,” Mrs. Rob-bins said.

“I know,” Alan said.

“I'll be home to help her out more.”

“Do you think Dianne would consider a babysitter?” he asked. “I'm thinking of someone, kind of like a mother's helper.”

“She might,” Mrs. Robbins said. “You could try.”

“Coming from me, I'm not sure.”

“You're very good to her, Alan,” she said. “She might not show it, but I know she appreciates it.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said.

The librarian's eyes connected with his. “It matters a lot,” Mrs. Robbins said. She took his damp towel and hung it on the metal handle of her cart. Alan knew she would wash it and bring it back for him next week. He understood that Lucinda wished that he had been the one to win. That Dianne had stayed with Alan, never married Tim at all.

Things that Alan wished himself.

Amy came home from school early. Her mother was in bed, and her mother's boyfriend, Buddy, was rehearsing with his band. They were in someone's garage down the street, and Amy could hear the ugly metal sound.
Who wanted to make music that sounded like train wrecks?
But the good news was, he was busy and she would hear if he stopped playing.

The shades were pulled down, but spring sunshine outlined the window frames like square halos. Emptied beer bottles gave off their usual fragrance. Amy walked through the dark room with a can of pine-scented air freshener, spraying full blast. She thought of brooks and forests, hoot owls and whippoorwills. Peeking into her mother's room, she saw her mother lying under the blankets.

“Mama?” Amy whispered.

Her mother didn't move. Thick curtains were pulled over venetian blinds, so the air was dark and heavy as brown corduroy. It was stiflingly hot, and Amy resisted the impulse to throw open the window. She knew her mother needed her rest. Wanting company, she went back to the living room.

“Hi, puppy,” she said, falling on her knees before the dog cage.

The young dog bared his teeth, growling and cowering in the back of the cage. Buddy, training him to be a guard dog, had named him Slash, but there was no way on earth Amy would ever call him that.

“I'm your friend,” she said.

“Grrrr.”

“You don't believe me?” Amy ran to the kitchen and came back with two slices of American cheese-even Buddy wouldn't miss two little slices. Breaking them up into small pieces, she placed one near the front of the cage.

“Grrr,” the dog growled. Amy thought back to an early time in Dr. McIntosh's office. Amy had been scared-she had had a sore throat, burning like fire, and a fever of one hundred and four. She had been so afraid to open her mouth. Dr. McIntosh hadn't rushed her at all, just won her over slowly with a lollipop, a story about dolphins, and his gentle voice.

“I'm your friend, puppy,” Amy said, trying to imitate Dr. McIntosh's voice. And it was working, because soon the small black dog began creeping forward. Both eyes on Amy, he inched ahead.

It took ten whole minutes, but the little dog finally took the cheese. Then another piece, and another. Very carefully Amy unlatched the metal door. The hinges squeaked, and the dog scurried back. But Amy just kept putting out cheese, and the little guy came up to eat it all. Soon he was eating out of her hand. His coat was bristly and warm, and he had that baby-animal smell that made Amy wish she were a dog.

“The music!” Amy said, realizing one second too late that it had stopped.

“What's going on here?” Buddy asked, standing in the door.

Amy tried to shield the dog from his sight. The room was so dark, even with the window halos, he might not be able to see. The little dog could crawl back into his lair, and everyone would be safe. Amy lay full-length in front of the cage, praying for the dog to retreat.

“Nothing,” Amy said. “How was band practice?”

“Lousy. I broke a string, and our bassist had to get to work. What—”

“You sounded great,” Amy said, her heart pounding. Reaching behind her, she tried to shove the puppy back.

“You heard us?”

“Yes. Even with a broken string, you play the best. Who's that famous guy, the one Mom listens to-not James Taylor, the other one …”

“Eric Clapton?”

“Yes! You play better than him.”

“Huh,” Buddy said. No one could get more out of the word “huh” than Buddy. Coming from his string-thin lips, he could make the word sound like a ton of cement falling from the Empire State Building. But just then he made it sound like an expression of wonderment. When Ponce de León had emerged from the hot jungle to find the Fountain of Youth his “huh” had sounded just like Buddy's.

“Much better,” Amy said warmly, her chest cracking with anxiety. The puppy had discovered her cheese-flavored fingers again and was licking them madly.

“You think? I think I'm more Hendrix myself. When my string snapped, I damn near … what's that?”

“That noise?” Amy asked, thinking fast. The puppy was slurping away.

“Did that dog get out?” Buddy asked.

“No,” Amy said immediately, pushing the puppy inside his cage, blocking the door with her outstretched arms. “I let him out, it's my fault, I just wanted—”

With one motion Buddy lifted Amy away from the cage and tossed her onto the sofa. Reaching in, he grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck. Amy's eyes were open wide. She watched the terrified puppy dangle from Buddy's hand like a ham on a hook.

“What did I tell you?” Buddy asked, and Amy didn't know whether he was talking to her or to the dog.

“It's my fault,” Amy said again. Her voice sounded funny, like the sandpaper she sometimes used in art class.

“I don't care about fault,” Buddy said softly. “What I care about is obedience.”

“Don't hurt him,” Amy said.

“What good is a guard dog that won't obey? You teach them young, or you have to shoot them later.”

“Don't hurt him though,” Amy said.

Without another word Buddy kicked the dog with his pointy cowboy boot. The dog yelped in pain, and Buddy kicked him again. “For your own good,” Buddy said, holding him down. “For your own stupid good.”

Amy started to sob. The little dog couldn't get away. He struggled and squirmed, yelping loudly. Buddy kicked him over and over, and when he was done, he hurled the dog into his cage. Picking up a rolled-up newspaper, he smacked the palm of his open hand.

“Got it now?” he asked. He never hit Amy, but
she had the definite feeling he was threatening her then. “Are we clear who's master around here?”

In the bedroom, blankets rustled. Amy's stomach ached. She didn't know what she wanted more, for her mother to rescue the dog or for her to stay out of the way.

“C'mere,” Buddy said.

Amy refused to look, afraid he was talking to her.

“Come here,” Buddy said, and the cage door rattled. He was reaching in, pulling the dog out again. He was petting the dog, whispering to him, scratching him behind the ears. The dog whimpered, trying to get away.

“I'll break you, boy,” Buddy said. “If that's what it'll take, that's what I'll do.”

“Don't break him,” Amy whispered.

“What?” he asked.

Amy shut her mouth. She didn't want Buddy to hear her. She knew from experience it made him mad when people intervened-like Amy would do with her mother.

The puppy pulled to get away, crying almost like a human child. Amy's body ached, straining to get over there and help him, but she was glad the dog had fight left in him. It would be worse if he licked Buddy's hand the way he wanted the puppy to. Amy knew she had to be very quiet so Buddy would leave the room. If she made herself invisible, this would stop sooner.