"Star light, star bright . . . first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonigh—"
It was gone.
Alone in her bedroom, eight-year-old KelliAnne Jennet leaned forward until the freckles on her nose were squashed flat against the window. Almost instantly her breath fogged the glass and she backed away, using one sleeve of her Barbie in Barbados nightgown to wipe it clear. Having been Home-Schooled since the age of three—because her parents wanted her to succeed in life—she knew as much about condensation and disposable income as she did about light refraction and astronomy. So she knew, of course, that stars, even her very own Wishing Star, were actually various types of hot, gaseous, self-luminous celestial bodies whose energy is derived from nuclear-fusion reactions.
But most of all she knew they couldn’t just disappear.
Especially not her star . . . the one she’d had ever since she was old enough to recite the words by herself. Her star—the tiny orange pinprick that twinkled just above Betelgeuse in the constellation of Orion, the Hunter. The night her father had begun her astronomy lessons, tucked into sleeping bags beneath a winter bright sky, KelliAnne had almost picked "Beetle juice" as her wishing star.
But being the burgeoning statistician her father bragged to the neighbors about, KelliAnne surmised that probably a million-trillion kids around the world already used Betelgeuse to wish on . . . and she didn’t want her wishes to get lost among so many others.
That’s why she had chosen the smaller, orange neighboring star. It was close enough to the invisible highway of starlit wishes aimed at Betelgeuse to take advantage of the Cosmic Express Lane without having to worry about getting caught in the nightly rush hour.
And it worked perfectly.
Up until tonight, when the wishing star vanished.
"Where’d you go?" KelliAnne whispered as she opened the window. The wind off the Atlantic was strong enough to rattle sabers in the branches of the sugar maples in the yard below and mold the front of the nightgown to her chest, so maybe it was strong enough to cause a momentary disruption in the atmospheric variants that only made the star appear to wink out.
Nodding at the possible explanation, KelliAnne leaned out of the screen-less window and squinted through the blustering gusts at the constellation. There was nothing between her and the sky now, no scientific sanctuary she could hide behind.
Betelgeuse twinkled in solitary ruby-red dominance, its tiny fraternal twin missing without leave.
KelliAnne squeezed her eyes shut and ignored the gritty burning sensation as she counted quickly to 64 in Base Eight. Her Wishing Star had to be there. It’d been there last night when she wished the new sibling she would be getting in eight months would spontaneously be reabsorbed back into the lining of her mother’s womb. It was there!
KelliAnne opened her eyes to a universe minus one.
"DADDY!"
Even though he was only just down the hall in his study, her father’s voice sounded further than a million-trillion miles away when he finally answered.
"You’re supposed to be asleep. Sweetheart."
"But, Daddy, it’s important. Really."
"So is the required eight hours of sleep a growing body needs. Angel."
KelliAnne felt her bottom lip slide out into a pout and immediately sucked it back in. Pouting, as she was told countless times, is the last resort of the uneducated mind and Beauty Show contestants.
"It’s a matter of astronomical importance, Father."
"That’s ‘astronomical import,’" he corrected as he opened the door to her room. "What is it? Pumpkin?"
KelliAnne stepped back from the window and assumed the posture of Student—shoulders back, head held high, arms at her side. After so many years, it was the most natural position to take in front of her parents.
"I’ve just observed a startling astronomical occurrence," she said and paused for the space of two heart beats to emphasis the import of the statement. "My Wishing Star has disappeared."
Backlit by the hall light, her father’s silhouette sagged against the door jamb. "It’s much too late for this sort of nonsense. Honey. Stars do not disappear and I believe we already covered variable stars and the fact that their brightness may, on occasion, vary in intensity."
"Either periodically, semi-regularly, or completely irregularly," KelliAnne added, showing off . . . but only a little. "I know, Daddy."
Her father’s silhouette straightened and began edging backwards. "Very good. Now go back to bed. Dearest."
"But this wasn’t a variation in brightness, Daddy. My star’s gone."
His silhouette stopped. "Sweetheart."
"I’m serious, Daddy. Come look. Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaazzzzzzeeee?"
Whining wasn’t playing fair and KelliAnne knew that. But she also knew that it worked remarkably well. The silhouette sighed and coalesced into her father before it got half way across her room.
"Okay," he said, bending in half to look out the window, "now where was this star supposed to be?"
KelliAnne squeezed past her father and pointed to the tiny speck of nothing. "It was right there . . . on the left side Betelgeuse, a little ways above it and it’s orange. Was orange . . . and as you can see, it’s not there."
"Remind me to work with you on celestial nomenclature and orientation. So I don’t suppose you have points ascension and declination."
"Um, no Daddy."
"How about its visual or absolute magnitudes of component ratios?"
KelliAnne shook her head and felt her stomach tighten when she saw the familiar glint in her father’s night shadowed eyes. Her lack of forethought would undoubtedly lead to another month—at least—of field study.
"Hmm. But you claim there was a star and that it did, at least as far as you could ascertain from unaided observation, disappear. Is that correct? Sweetheart?"
She hated when he split his nouns and verb modifiers simply to make a point.
"Yes. Daddy."
"And this alleged ‘disappearing star’ couldn’t have been, say, a passing plane?"
KelliAnne was momentarily—but only momentarily—stunned into silence.
"No, Daddy. It was a star! It’s my Wishing Star and I wish on it every night Orion is visible, just like tonight. I was just starting to make a wish and then . . . it disappeared."
"You know of course that wishing on a star is a childish fantasy, don’t you?" Her father asked, then shrugged as though he suddenly remembered she was, in fact, a child."Oh well, never mind. Now, let’s take another look, shall we?"
He leaned back out the window to study the sky. "You don’t think you mistook Mars for Beetle juice, do you? They are both red."
"I would never do that! Mars is a planet and Betelgeuse is a star and . . . "
Her father turned his head to look at her through the glass. The wind made his hair look like a Halloween fright wig.
"And stars don’t disappear. Of course, neither do planets, if you catch my drift."
She caught it all right. "But this one did."
"But that’s not possible. Honey."
"But it did. Daddy."
He stood up, towering above her, and crossed his arms over his chest. "You’re arguing a futile hypothesis. Darling. And that’s not like you. However, let’s not take my word for it, let’s see what the ol’ computer has to say on the subject."
His calling in the undisputable cybernetic cavalry meant the battle was over and she’d lost. Again. KelliAnne scuffed her bare feet against the carpet, as her father hurried to her computer desk. A few key strokes and the soothing undersea screen saver was instantly replaced with cosmologyreview.com’s home page.
"Ah, here we go," her father said, his wide smile glistened in the reflected light from the monitor. "Do you know—Darling—that besides the three major classes of variable stars, which are, of course, eclipsing, pulsating, and explosive, there are also several miscellaneous variables. My goodness, isn’t that interesting. Sweetie-pie? Let’s see, there are R Coronae Borealis stars, T Tauri stars, flare stars, pulsars . . . or neutron, spectrum and magnetic variables, X-ray . . . ."
While her father continued his impromptu lecture, KelliAnne looked at the spot where her Wishing Star had been and made a wish anyway.
. . . Wish I may and I wish I might, have the wish I wish . . .
#
. . . tonight.
"What the fuck are you staring at now, woman?"
Even after all these years his voice still had the ability to hunch the muscles on her back and shoulders. Cowering, is what he called it. And he hated when she did it, showing her time and time (and time) again just how much he hated it.
You’d think her muscles would have learned by now. But they never did.
That meant he must be right, that no matter what else, some part of her knew she deserved it. Every bit of it. Or else she would have tried harder not to upset him.
Wouldn’t she?
"I asked you a question. Whazza matter? You suddenly go deaf as well as dumb?" He chuckled and the muscles cowering between her shoulders trembled. Not good . . . he’d notice that for sure. "Yeah, I bet that’s it. You finally went deaf to go with the dumb and ugly. Well, shit, sure took you long enough."
Rosemary Gallotti, 47, one-time Home Coming Queen and Valedictorian, tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and touched the tip of her tongue to the jagged split in the center of her bottom lip. Not too bad this time. Might even be healed up before Sunday Mass.
"N-no. I was just—"
Chair legs scraped the wooden floor behind her and she jumped. Shouldn’t have done that . . . shouldn’t have. He hates that, too.
"What you jumpin’ for, huh? Think something’s gonna get you? Shit."
A couch pillow, one his mother gave them a year ago Christmas, glanced off her right arm and fell. Rosemary looked at it, all wrinkled and sweat-stained, but didn’t move to pick it up. Not until he said it was okay.
" Christ, even deers move when you hit ‘em." The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. "Well, maybe I just better come over there and see if I can put a little life in—"
"Stars!" She said quickly, probably too quickly, and cringed at the fear in her voice. He didn’t like that. "I mean . . . I was looking at the stars, Frank and one of them—."
Frank grunted and she stopped talking, listened while he fumbled the fourth can of beer from the six-pack’s molded plastic ring. She’d married him right out of high school because, then, it seemed less frightening than pursuing college and a career. Much easier than having to think about what she wanted to be when she grew up.
The beer hissed like an angry snake when Frank popped the tab, but Rosemary was expecting the sound and didn’t jump.
"Stars. Shit, what a waste of time. Pick up that pillow. Jesus, is it so hard for you to keep this place nice?"
Rosemary snatched the pillow off the floor and hugged it to her chest. He was on a rant and nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do or say or not do was going to stop him now. All she could do was be very quiet and hope for the best. Find a star that wouldn’t disappear and make another wish.
"Stars. The place is a pig’s sty and you’re lookin’ at stars." He paused and swallowed. She could almost hear the beer sliding down his throat. "My mother worked two jobs to keep me and my brothers warm and happy and our house was so neat you could eat off the floor. You’re home all day with nothing to do but watch your stinking soap operas and I can’t walk two feet without tripping over shit."
His dinner plate suddenly hit the wall next to the window and shattered. The knife and fork, covered with coagulated brown gravy, left snail tracks on the water stained paint.
"There. Clean that up while you’re at it. You know, you’re really getting on my nerves, Rosemary."
"I’m sorry." She said the words automatically, without thinking as she bent to pick up the cheap flatware.
"Stars. What’s so freakin’ interesting about stars? And you better tell me the truth, woman . . . because I’ll know if you’re lying."
Lie? To Frank? That would have been suicide.
"I was making a wish," she said, "but the star disappeared."
His chair toppled over backwards. Rosemary’s fingers tightened around the knife and fork as she stood up. She could see him, his reflection in the window, getting larger and more detailed as he lurched across the room toward her.
"What did I just tell you? You think just because I’m a construction worker I don’t know anything? I went to the same freakin’ high school you did, bitch, so don’t come off sounding like you know something better’n me. God damned lying slut. Stars can’t disappear . . . they’re forever. My mother told me that. Now tell me what you’re lookin’ at and tell me the truth!"
He was too close. Rosemary could feel the knife and fork in her hand but couldn’t feel the hand itself. Too close and getting closer.
"I swear, Frank, I was looking right at it when it . . . just blinked out like." The muscles in her shoulders were so tight they already hurt. Rosemary stopped looking at Frank’s reflection, stopped feeling anything and just looked up at the sky where the star had been. Maybe if she’d finished the wish . . . "Really, Frank. I wouldn’t lie to you. I just like looking at stars."
"Really? Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a whole new set of stars to look at. How’s that?"
Even without looking she could see his reflection. He was right behind her.
"God puts the stars up in Heaven and if He took one away it’d be a . . . a miracle. Yeah, there’d be some divine miracle and you can bet He’d have more of a reason for doing it than to show off for some cowering bitch who can’t even keep her house clean. You wanna see stars disappear? I’ll make ‘em all disappear for you, you lying—"
It was a miracle. Rosemary looked down at the knife and fork, still in her hand. And maybe God let her witness it for a reason. A divine reason, like Frank said. Maybe after all this time it was God’s . . .
#
". . . sign of The Great Desolate One having bestowed His favor upon you, child. Be humbled and tremble at His Power . . . for He has chosen you. Who else but he who has been marked by the Dark and Dread Lord could have seen one of the Pretender’s lights extinguished? None, I tell you, but the Chosen One."
Jeremy Landau clasped his hands tighter over his shrunken privates and hoped he looked humble. The trembling bit was no problem. He’d been doing that since Bridget led him into the clearing and started undressing him, whispering promises of what they’d do once he’d been fully initiated into The Coven of The Eternally Tormented Vessels of the Black Pit. When she got to the part about the mass orgy, Jeremy’s body was doing the shimmy in double time.
He’d been trying to get a date with Bridget since seeing her across the "Man and Mythos" lecture hall. But, as she told him each time he asked her, she never dated outside her faith.
And, being the college sophomore that he was, it only vaguely bothered him that her faith required monthly attempts at invoking the living spirit of Satan and staged sacrifices. Hell, he was a philosophy major, he understood these things.
The night wind circled around the huge fire he was kneeling next to and goosed him. Shit. The other members of the coven must have seen him jump, because they suddenly ceased their naked cavorting and "Ooooed" loudly.
Jeremy shivered and they "Ahhhhed."
Damn.
Of course, after the initiation, once he’d finsihed off the plastic skull-full of warm tomato juice that represented goat’s blood and pledged undying loyalty and his immortal soul to the devil, Bridget was going to be the one "oooing" and "ahhhing." Yes sir, just as soon as the Witch Mother stopped flapping her lips and declared him a spiritual Persona non Deus he’d grab hold of Bridget’s twin 38s and . . .
He sneezed, phlegm sparkling like stars in the firelight.
And the coven went wild.
"There!" The Mother Witch shrieked. "Do you hear? The Chosen One is even now effluenting the last of the pretender’s stolen iridescence."
Jeremy was impressed. He didn’t think effluenting was a real word, but he still thought it was pretty impressive for a woman whose day job was slicing pie and pouring coffee at a truck stop.
Another series of tremors raced up Jeremy’s spine, turned south at his shoulders, and dropped straight into his groin. He couldn’t help it. He groaned.
"Ah, you see, my beloved brethren, how the Chosen One accepts the glory of the Darkness!"
Jeremy lifted one hand to wipe the moisture off his nose and then quickly put it back to cover himself. And a dozen voices whispered through that same darkness at him. He had no trouble picking out Bridget’s lilting sigh. The little bitch!
If she hadn’t asked him why he was staring up at the sky while the Witch Mother read off a parchment list of people she thought deserved to have curses placed on them, none of this whole "Chosen One" nonsense would be happening now. Of course, he could have just told her the truth . . . that he was just trying to keep from falling asleep. Instead, he told her about seeing the star disappear.
And all Hell, middle-classed as it was, broke out.
Although he had to admit it was nice being the center of attention like that.
Jeremy cleared his throat and smiled—with great humility—at the answering moans of the godless.
"Are you ready, Chosen One, to conjoin with the living embodiment of Desolate One and consummate the gift given to you?"
Jeremy felt the faint stirring beneath his hands and smiled, the thought of Bridget, flat on her back, legs spread wide to accept the gift he was about to offer filling his mind—and groin—as he looked up.
Straight into the wildest patch of graying pubic hair he’d ever seen. That would have been bad enough, but the moment the Witch Mother reached down and manually opened herself to him, Jeremy knew he’d be having nightmares about bottomless pits for the rest of his life.
"Come, Chosen One . . . the darkening of the star was a sign of the darkness of your soul. Enter here and fulfill your destiny."
"Oh, my . . .
"God damned weather satellite!"
This time he really thought he had something. Finally, after all these years—an actual discovery that would have etched his name indelibly in the annals of mankind.
That’s all he wanted. That’s all he’d ever wanted. Just something to keep the name George Brandt alive through the ensuing generations. Forever and ever, ahem.
And what better way of doing that than to, literally, hitch his name to a star?
As the late Carl Sagan liked to say, there were billions and billions of stars out there, so the chances of someone discovering a new one, or a hereto unknown planet, or comet (damn Hale and Bopp!) should have been pretty good.
That’s all he wanted . . . discover something and get his name on it before anyone else.
Immortality. At last.
And at fifty-seven this was about his last hope of ever achieving it.
Leaning back in his lawn chair, away from the telescope, George took a sip of his martini and sighed. If he had better equipment, his celestial namesake would probably already be up there, but the 8" Schmidt-Cassegrain with the 2032 mm focal length was the best he could afford at the moment. The securities trading game had taken a slump in the last few years thanks to E-trades companies.
George reached out and brushed a non-existent speck of dust from the 25mm SMA eyepiece. Hell, Galileo didn’t have more than a magnifying tube and look at all the things he discovered.
"But then he didn’t have the Star Registry to contend with," George grumbled and saluted the night sky with his glass. "Isn’t that right, Bob."
Bob was the name his neighbor, Robert B. Robertson, M.D., gave to the star his wife bought him for his last birthday. Instant immortality suitable for framing. Gold leaf frame, extra.
George finished the salute and drink in one fluid motion. Damn Bob . . . and his star, unimpressive thing that it is. Small, dull orange, dwarfed in both mass and magnitude by the real star Betelgeuse, that, optically appeared only a hair’s breath away. That’s what he’d been doing, staring in envy at Bob, when the weather satellite suddenly appeared in the lower left quadrant of his visual field and he pounced on it like a cat going after a mouse; manually swinging the scope around when the electronic motor didn’t move fast enough. He’d cringed a little at the sound of grinding gears, and, of course, he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known it was a damned weather satellite . . . but he hadn’t known until the finder-scope centered on the moving speck.
And even in those first few seconds, his only thoughts were Yes, oh my God, YES! I’ve done it! I’ve discovered something. Up yours Dr. Bob!
Until he focused.
George set the empty glass down on a small table that held an equally empty martini pitcher and cell phone, and yawned as he watched a westbound plane—no mistaking that—flirt with the stars. So many things up there.
"Well," he said, leaning back toward the eyepiece while the abused little DC motor repositioned the scope to the Bob presets, "might as well say good-night to . . . Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God."
Bob was gone.
George’s hands were shaking so much he had to cradle the cell phone down in his lap in order to punch 1 on the speed dial. A masculine voice answered on the seventh ring with an ill concealed yawn.
"Flower and Cook Observatory, how may I help—"
"Myname’sgeorgebrantrightascensionfivehoursfity-twopointtwominutesdeclinationseven degreestwenty-fourminutes."
"What?"
George took a deep breath and pressed the cell phone tighter against his ear. "Sorry, I’m just so. My name’s George Brandt. Brandt. B. R. A. N. D. T, George . . . and I’ve found something! Please check and verify: Right Ascension 5 hours 52.2 minutes. Declination +7 degrees, 24 minutes."
Another yawn echoed through the phone lines.
"Yes, sir . . . +7, 24—Ah, sir, that’s Betelgeuse."
"I know, I know!" George had to pull the phone away until the giggles subsided. He’d done it! He’d finally done it! "Now . . . " Giggle. ". . . could you take a visual sighting and compare that with the observatory’s latest chart of the area?"
A slight note of condescension slipped into the man’s voice the next time he spoke. George covered the cell phone’s mouthpiece when the giggles became a full blown guffaw.
"Sir, I really don’t have to check the chart. And I don’t know what you think you’ve found, sir. Betelgeuse was first observed in 1790 . . . or 1800, depending on which records you look at. In fact, if you’d like to see an actual time photo from the Hubble, the university’s web site does have some splendid photos—"
"Humor me," George almost shouted, then took a deep breath and smiled magnanimously; forgiving the man his unwitting trespass. For the moment. "Please. Just check that area against the chart." Giggle. Snort. "I’ll wait."
The voice grunted something to itself before muttering, "All right, sir. One moment" into the George’s ear. In the background he could hear the male voice talking to a female voice and laughing. A moment later there was nothing but the gentle hiss of static on the line.
George couldn’t take it.
Standing, he began to pace back and forth across the narrow patio. His heart was pumping so much blood through his inner ear he could barely hear when the electronic static changed to excited shouts. What George did hear, and hear clearly, was "It’s gone . . . oh my God, Cynthia, confirm this for me, will you? Shit. SHIT! It really is. Okay, you call the news service and I’ll get Dr. Mohan . . . he’ll want this out on the eleven o’clock news!
"Sir? Are you still there, sir?"
George filled his lungs with the cold night air until the zipper on his jacket creaked against the strain. "Yes, son. I’m still here."
"Oh my God, you’re right. Did you happen to record the time of the event, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .?"
"Brandt. George Brandt."
Looking up, George took a deep breath and smiled.
He’d done it! He had finally discovered nothing!
#
By 11:30 PM, that night, EST, the world heard the first reports that Bob was gone.
#
"Finish the accounts?" his wife asked, looking up from the New York Times Bestseller she’d begun reading that afternoon. Sitting on top of the small bookcase opposite the bed, the portable TV flickered blue light into the room. He glanced at the screen as he stripped out of his lounging pants and noticed that both the woman anchor and male co-anchor were laughing over something the station’s gray haired weather man had just said.
His wife yawned and turned a page.
It bothered him somewhat that she always pretended to be able to do two things at once—like read and watch the news—when it was obvious that she couldn’t.
"Yup," he said as he pulled back the covers and slipped into bed next to her. She’d given up sleeping naked when KelliAnne was six months old. And that bothered him, too.
"Good." The edge of the page whispered against the flannel top sheet as she turned it. "I heard KelliAnne call you. What did she need?"
Beating the pillow into submission, he tucked it between the headboard and the back of his neck, before turning his attention to the latest crisis in the Middle East.
"Nothing, just some nonsense about seeing a star disappear and then arguing with me about it when I tried to reason with her." He yawned through the televised ground-to-air missile attack. "You know, she’s really becoming obstinate. I hate to admit it, but we may have retarded her social skills by keeping her home, she doesn’t know how to compromise in the least. I think it might be time to consider enrolling in public school. I mean, we can still supplement her studies, of course."
"Hmm? Sure, that’ll be fine." The book tipped forward as his wife looked up. "Did you say KelliAnne saw a star disappear?"
He grunted and rubbed his eyes. "Yes. I just said that’s what KelliAnne was arguing about. Why?"
"Well, apparently one did." His wife jerked her chin toward the set and went back to her reading. "They’re just talking about it now."
He sat up and frowned. On screen, the Miss American Beauty anchor was trying hard not to laugh while she read off the off-screen telepromter, her dark eyes shining with the effort.
". . . in the constellation of Orion, the events of which are now being analyzed. And although an actual distance can only be estimated at this time, reliable sources at the University of Pennsylvania’s Flower and Cook Observatory, assured us that whatever cataclysmic event turned ‘Bob’ dark—be it a super nova or the cosmic electric company shutting off service—there is less than 1% chance that it will reach the Earth." She smiled and nearly blinded her at-home audience. "Apparently, if nothing’s happened to us yet, we don’t have to worry that whatever happened to ‘Bob’ will happen to us."
"Bob?" He asked.
His wife turned a page.
"Uh-huh. The observatory said that was the registered name of the star." There was a rustle of pages as she settled down behind the book. "I guess you owe KelliAnne an apology."
Digging the remote out from beneath the quilted crevasse it had fallen into, he aimed it at the set and switched to the Weather Channel.
He picked up the remote from the quilt and turned off the set.
"Well, I don’t feel it’s wise for a child her age to see their parents as anything but infallible . . . but I’ll talk to her about it in the morning. Before I register her at school."
#
The two uniformed officers entered the apartment slowly. Both of them with their hands raised up in front of them, as if they were naughty little boys who’d done something wrong.
Rosemary thought that was a funny thing to think about, but didn’t laugh. It wouldn’t have been right, given the circumstances.
"Your neighbors called," the taller of the two explained without waiting for her to ask why they’d walked into her apartment without knocking, "when they heard the sounds. But you don’t have to worry, really it’s okay, because they also told us about the other times . . . when they didn’t call. When your husband—"
The officer had to stop and clear his throat. There was sweat running off his face even though the apartment was cold. Funny, Rosemary thought, but this time she didn’t feel like laughing.
"You know, so I think you have a pretty good case going for you. Now, why don’t you put down the knife so we can talk."
Rosemary looked down at the blood that covered the serrated steak knife in her hand. The dinner knife hadn’t been sharp enough to finish the job. And Frank always said you have to use the right tool for whatever job you did.
She thought Frank would have been proud of her.
"Ma’am?"
Rosemary blinked and dropped the knife, tried to wipe as much of the clotted blood off her hand as she could before extending it toward the stained couch.
"Oh, I’m sorry. Won’t you sit down? May I get you and your partner some coffee?"
The officer looked at his partner and shook his head.
"No, ma’am. That’s all right, but thanks for the offer. Rosemary. Your name’s Rosemary, isn’t it?"
"Yes."
"It’s a very pretty name. Rosemary." He was close enough to touch her, but kept his hands to himself. "Now, do you think you could tell me why you did this . . . to your husband?"
Rosemary felt the muscles in her shoulders finally relax. "I was supposed to."
#
A sudden rain had started about the same time the soles of Jeremy’s running shoes hit the highway, but even the steady patter of rain on asphalt hadn’t been enough to drown out the curses that rang in his ears. Bridget’s among them. And for what? For being a little selective about what he stuck his dick into? Shit.
Freaks and losers . . . that’s all they were.
Not at all like his new friends.
They’d seen him from the brightly lit windows of their Church as he stumbled past—cold and wet and miserable—and invited him in. Offered him sympathetic ears and righteous shoulders to unburden himself against. They were nice. They were normal and fully dressed. Good God fearing people who instantly cared about him and the ordeal he’d just been through.
And it sure didn’t hurt that most of the women made Bridget look like an undernourished boy.
"Here," a girl about his own age said as she handed him a cup of hot cocoa. "You really saw it? The star winking out?"
Jeremy puffed his chest a little and nodded. When he told them about it, the congregation had become almost as excited as the nut-cases he’d just left.
"Sure did. It was . . . " Pause for effect. "... a little frightening."
The girl reached out and gently touched his cheek with her hand. She smelled like vanilla cookies and had the biggest, darkest eyes he’d ever seen.
"Oh, you should never be frightened by God’s designs. HE knows what’s best for us and all we need do is accept that. Do you, Jeremy?"
"I do now," he mumbled. "Believe me."
"Oh, I do, Jeremy, I really do." The girl smiled and Jeremy felt a warm tingle replace the chill. "And I’m so glad HE led you here to be with us tonight. Drink now. God shouldn’t be kept waiting."
Jeremy shrugged and lifted the mug to his lips. Okay, so he’d have to listen to a sermon. Big deal . . . all things considered.
Wrapping his hands around the porcelain mug he took a long swallow. And almost gagged. Ugh. Either the night’s exertion or his near-coitus experience had left a bad taste in his mouth.
The hot chocolate tasted bitter, but it didn’t stop him from polishing it down to the dregs. As his lovely new companion said, God shouldn’t be kept waiting.
#
Bob Robertson heard the shots when he was letting the dogs out to do their "business" and, having worked the E. R. in a county run hospital, immediately knew what they were. With dread in his heart and his wife by his side, he hurried across the connecting back yards to discover George slumped over the shattered remains of what appeared to be a very expensive telescope.
Being careful not to disturb any more of the crime scene then was necessary, he quickly ascertained his neighbor condition. Such a waste, was the only judgement Dr. Robertson allowed himself as he stepped over the small caliber (small, but adequate) handgun to retrieve the cell phone from where it had fallen. A battery operated television, its screen shattered by what he deduced must have been Shot Number One, smoldered on the table next to the body.
George had become "the body" in Dr. Robertson’s mind the moment he was certain his neighbor of ten years was, in fact, dead.
"Poor George," Mrs. Robertson tsked while her husband punched in the three-digit emergency number. "Why would he do such a thing? Oh, look Bob, he left a note."
Dr. Robertson looked up while the connection struggled to get through. On the table next to the broken TV, a spiral bound notebook rustled in the wind. An empty martini glass sat on top of it, keeping it open..
"What’s it say?"
"‘The world deserved Bob.’" She looked up, tears glistening in the reflected star light. "Oh, Bob . . . What a wonderful thing to say about you. I never knew how much he cared."
Dr. Robertson was taken aback. Neither did he.
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For three weeks, give or take, the world held its breath and waited to see if the scientists had guessed wrong and that the end really was coming. Of course, many groups took matters into their own hands and the star’s sudden disappearance from the heavens resulted in terrestrial mass suicides and shooting rampages. A month later, the story was relegated to supermarket tabloids ("Killer Comet That Destroyed Bob on a Collision Course with EARTH!") and late night televangelists in search of higher ratings and bigger donations to the All Mighty.
And1700 light-years in the past a small planet continues to circle the frozen husk of a once warm, gaseous orange supergiant that simply burned itself out. Who the inhabitants of the planet were or what name they called themselves or their sun doesn’t matter. What civilizations they left behind are buried beneath a layer of permafrost fifty meters deep. No one can remember if their world ended with a bang or a whimper.
Life goes on, but not here.
