And is fearing that any worse than believing the alternative: that Caleb drew the pattern, that he did it as a message to me?
He knew what the constellation meant as well as I did. He was raised by the same father, who grew even more obsessed with the idea of justice as he aged. Always a severe judge, he’d gotten stricter as he perceived the world growing more chaotic around him. Kids doing drugs, parents not caring—someone has to show these kids that actions have consequences. The sentences he passed became harsher. Kids brought in for shoplifting, fighting in school, or smoking a joint were sent to JD. When I was fourteen and got caught making out with Frank Barnes in the back of his father’s car, I got sent too. What would it look like if I didn’t treat my own daughter the way I treated everyone else? he’d asked, refusing to recuse himself from the case. Frank, sixteen, was also accused of stealing his father’s car and was sent to a boot camp.
When Caleb started acting up the summer he was ten I heard my father telling him the story of the constellation too and reminding him—as he’d often reminded me—that we can never escape justice. At night I saw Caleb lying in his bed staring up at the constellation on his ceiling. But why would he call for justice now? And more important: What kind of justice can I give him after all these years?
I get up from the desk abruptly. The gun clanks heavily against my leg, the metal cold through my thin cardigan.
The only real justice, I once heard my mother say, is seeing the ones responsible dead in the ground. It was the summer before they all died. She and my father had been arguing—they were always fighting that summer. She’d already started losing her mind and it made her snappish and paranoid, especially with my father.
That’s not justice, Celeste, my father had replied with weary patience, that’s vengeance.
Is that what Caleb would want? Vengeance?
I take the gun out of my cardigan pocket, check again that the safety’s on, and put it in the snugger pocket of my pants, where I can feel it pressing cold against my hipbone. I can’t keep it on me, but I can keep it somewhere closer than this locked room.
I look down at the pattern in the dust once more. Now that I’ve identified the constellation it’s impossible not to see it, but as Doreen is wont to say, to a hammer everything looks like a nail. Maybe to a judge’s daughter everything looks like a question of justice.
Or to my mother’s daughter, a question of vengeance.
I LISTEN FOR Oren and Alice as I go up the stairs. They’re still in the kitchen, talking softly, peeling potatoes. I need to put the gun away before I join them. I have the feeling that Oren’s sure to notice that I have it on me if I go in there with it, and I don’t like the idea of the gun being anywhere near him.
When I enter my room I pause on the threshold to see if I can feel that Alice has been in there—and then dismiss that idea as ridiculous. As ridiculous as thinking Oren would know I have the gun on me. As ridiculous as the idea that Caleb is leaving me messages written in the dust. You can’t feel that a person’s been in a room. When I look at my night table, though, I’m pretty sure that the framed photograph of Caleb has been moved. I sit down on the edge of my bed and look into his face, the face of a ten-year-old boy who would never see eleven. He hated that school picture. His hair is recently cut and he’s wearing a collared shirt, striped tie, and a jacket that’s too big for him, all purchased at the Delphi Department Store by my mother, who insisted he dress up for picture day even though by the eighties no one did that anymore. He would have felt stupid and embarrassed in clothes that clearly marked him as the late-in-life child of too-old parents. A change-of-life baby, I once heard one of the women in town call him. A mistake, she might as well have said.
Still, Caleb is smiling. An infectious grin that defies the stupid clothes and the missing front tooth (from a fall two weeks before) and the whispers that he must have heard all his life. This is not the face of a boy who would want vengeance for his death.
But then, maybe by the time he died, two months after this picture was taken, he wasn’t the same boy.
I put the picture down and a pill bottle falls to the floor with a rattle. Crap. Of course. I pick it up and look at the label. Valium, prescribed for back spasms. I take it only when the pain is so bad it keeps me up, and I always count them so I don’t forget and take too many. And so I know how many I’ve got in case . . .
In case of what? Doreen would ask. We both know that suicide risks (People with suicidal thoughts, Doreen would correct me, we don’t name the person for their disease) count their pills. They like to know they’ve got an exit plan.
Last night I counted fourteen. There are thirteen now.
Alice.
I check the other pills on the night table and the ones in the drawer. There are two OxyContin missing from the bottle in the drawer. So I was right to suspect drug use. The only thing that surprises me is the modesty of her drug raid; most addicts wouldn’t have been able to resist pocketing the whole supply.
I sigh. This is the woman I was going to let Oren go off with. I should call Frank right now . . . only my cell phone is in my coat pocket downstairs, dead. I pull out the charger from the wall and stuff it in my cardigan pocket—and feel the gun in my jeans pocket. Right. That’s why I’m here. I take out the gun and place it in the night table drawer . . . right where Alice found the pills and is likely to come back looking for more. Nope. That’s not the right place for it. But what is? I look around my room—at the dusty piles of books on top of the dressers, at the threadbare flannel nightgown hanging from the bedpost, at the half-rumpled bed—and see it as Alice must have: the abode of an aging spinster. So where would an aging spinster hide a gun?
In her bed, of course, where no one but her goes. I slide the revolver between mattress and box spring (checking one more time that the safety is on) and smooth down the blankets and quilt over the edge of the bed. If someone comes in the night I’ll be able to reach it quickly. It makes sense to have it up here, I tell myself. Why didn’t I think of that before?
You know why. My mother’s voice.
Ignoring it, I get up and leave my room, closing the door behind me. I wish I had a key to lock it, but my father refused to put locks on any doors but his study, and since the house became mine I have lived here alone and so never saw a need.
I stop in Caleb’s room before going downstairs. I don’t pause. I don’t stand on the threshold, gazing at my dead brother’s room, which is what Alice probably thinks I do. I don’t keep his room the way it was as some kind of memorial for me to sit and wallow in. I keep it this way because I can’t bear to throw out his things. On the morning I wake up and can, I will.
What I can do now is give away his collection of Star Wars action figures. Oren has given me that much. I take down the metal Star Wars lunch box from the bookshelf and sit on the bed. I pass my hand over its rusty surface, but only because it’s dusty, not because I’m remembering taking Caleb to the Target in Kingston and buying it for him. My mother had bought him a horrid plaid satchel that looked like something a thirty-five-year-old accountant would use.