“I get my Social Security check this week,” the old woman said meekly. “Can you wait till then for the shopping?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” Angel said primly. They wanted her to be in charge, both of them. That was who she was doomed to be, the responsible one. Deep down that was who she wanted to be, wasn’t it? Not that baby up there on the bed, crying and sucking her thumb.
She sighed silently. The rest of her life was going to be just like all the days since that thrilling one when the newborn Bernie had been put into her arms. “Take care of your baby brother now,
Angel,” Verna had said. Angel hadn’t known then what that meant. Now she did. The thrill was long gone, but the duty had become like the sun in the solar system, the center around which all the other parts of her life revolved. Without it, she would likely fly to pieces.
She looked at the two faces turned toward her, waiting for her to tell them that everything was going to be all right. Now she had two troubled, troublesome children to look out for. She straightened up. “I guess I’ll get me some breakfast now,” she said.
“Hmmph,” said Grandma. “Better call it lunch.”
Sometime while she had slept, the rain that had been coming down all week stopped. The sky was an almost magazine-picture blue. The first thing she was going to do was hang the wet laundry outside. Grandma had an old washing machine in her bathroom but no dryer, and yesterday she’d had to hang her and Bernie’s wet clothes all over the house. She got the big woven basket from the bathroom and gathered underwear and T-shirts from around the edge of the bathtub and off the backs of kitchen chairs.
“C’mon, Bernie,” she said, “we’re going outside.”
“I don’t want to go outside,” Bernie said. “There’s nothing to do outside.”
“I got to hang up the laundry. Besides, growing children need fresh air.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be a growing children,” he said.
“Too bad. We’re going out anyway.” She propped the basket under one arm, grabbed his hand, and dragged him out the door.
“Want to help me hang these clothes up?”
“No.”
She took clothespins out of the bag at the end of the clothesline and began to pin up the damp washing.
“That car is gone again,” Bernie said.
She glanced over at the trailer. Could it be that the mysterious star man lived over there? That it was his car that appeared and disappeared as though he went to work every day like a regular person? She put the last pin on a pair of Bernie’s underpants. Then, without a word, she started across the yard toward the broken-down trailer. Looking at it from Grandma’s house, it didn’t seem as if anyone could live in such a place, but if the star man was real and not just a dream, there was a chance that he might live in the trailer, wasn’t there?
She felt daring crossing the weedy field, climbing over the broken-down fence, sneaking to the trailer. It was propped up on cinder blocks and looked unsteady, as if a slight breeze might just blow it off. There were rickety wooden steps leading to the door.
“Where you going, Angel?” Bernie was running to catch up with her.
“Shh. I just want to look—see if anybody lives in here.”
“You better not! It might be the man with the gun. He’ll shoot you dead if he catches you peeping in his house.”
She ignored him, although her stomach gave a little flip at the thought of someone catching her in the act. Everyone knew it was against the law to be a Peeping Tom.
The little window set in the door was dirty. She wiped it hurriedly with her sleeve and put her face against the glass. The inside of the trailer was dark, and in the shadows she could see a dark couch, a tiny oil stove, a sink, and books. Lots of books. No one was in sight, but it must be the star man’s house. Who else would have lots of books? Yes, there by the far wall was the long telescope, on its three legs. Barely breathing, she backed down the stairs. Bernie was standing several feet away, ready to run.
“You can relax, Bernie. Nobody’s home.”
“I wasn’t scared,” he said.
“I know you weren’t. I was just saying that.” And adding more to herself than to Bernie, “It wasn’t a dream.”
“What’s not a dream?”
“Nothing.” She didn’t want to tell Bernie about the star man. She didn’t want to talk about him, much less ask Grandma about him. He was her wonderful secret. Just hers.
***
That night she lay awake, staring out of the tiny window in the eaves. When it was pitch dark and the house silent except for Bernie’s wheezy breaths, she slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans, and, with her sneakers in her hand, snuck down the stairs and out of the house. She sat down on the back stoop, pulled on her sneakers, and made her way toward a place where she now knew the fence rail was in ruins.