The Stars Between Us

By Shiloh Pennings

The Stars Between Us

December 23, 1970

When I screeched out of the driveway that evening, I wasn’t thinking about the heavy, relentless snow pounding on the windshield, or the engine temperature gauge on the dashboard. And even if I had been, I’d have ignored it, because there was nothing else I was planning to do except drive away and snow and the engine temperature wasn’t gonna stop me.

If I’m angry I drive pretty crazy. Actually I drive pretty crazy all the time, but when I’m angry I don’t notice, or don’t care to look at the speedometer anyway. I was angry then, and I guess burning fuel burned off fury too.

I couldn’t see much on account of the snow, whipped by the wind and accumulating on my windshield, but I didn’t think it mattered. Nobody would be driving at this time, in this weather. I jammed the radio off and burned a little rubber on a curve as I looked at the time. Nine thirty at night.

The only reason I could see anything was because my headlights sort of reflected the blizzard. I stomped on the gas, and my tires rasped against fresh snow and the iced-over stuff that had been on the road earlier. There was a red haze of anger all around my vision, and it made my driving erratic, but I didn’t care. If anything, it made me feel good. Every time I thought back to a few minutes ago, I wanted to pound on the dashboard, which I did, a couple times, until the heating quit and I decided being mad wasn’t a reason to go and wreck my car.

It was a junkyard car and I knew it; faded, sunburnt red, rusted out underneath and all along the fenders and bumpers, loose from drag racing, no air conditioning, just a couple hundred dollars at the lot. It got me where I needed to go, though. I guess it didn’t occur to me it might not sometime.

When I skidded a little more and got to a two-lane road, the back wheels slid out from beneath, and I yanked the wheel as the car fishtailed. I couldn’t see a thing now. The storm was too thick, and the stupid road didn’t have any streetlights. I tried to pull the car back, get it to listen to me, but the roads were slick and the car was hardly higher than the snowdrifts on them. A funny clunk came from somewhere in the hood. I glanced behind me, then in front. The vehicle did something like a violent skitter, and a twisted dread that partly overtook my fury settled low in my stomach. I wasn’t real good with mechanics. I had too many friends who were to be bothered with learning.

I floored the gas pedal, but along the uncleared road it only caught the ground for a moment before skidding again. I was flung to the side, the seat belt cutting into my ribs though my leather jacket. The flurry of snow was going so hard I thought for a dumb moment it might bury the car right up. I spun the wheel to keep the car from swerving into a ditch and tried to slow down, which was hard with no tire traction.

Glancing through the front window, I saw a smokey haze mingling with the snowflakes that slapped the window as I sped along the slick road. It was only when the dark billow got a little bigger that I realized what it was, and said a couple words. The acrid reek of something burning seeped into the car. I banged the headrest with the back of my head and tried to keep from panicking. Plumes of smoke wafted out from under the hood. I glanced at the dashboard, which I guess I should have done before, but was too furious to. But I should have, because then I’d have known real quick that the engine temperature wasn’t anything near where it should be. The needle was wavering between the end of the red zone and the very far right of the gauge, pointing with dangerous certainty to the overheated mark.

I hit the brakes.

The car slid, tires squealing and grinding against the snow underneath them. I spun the wheel to stay anywhere on the road, but the vehicle had swerved out of control. I swiped a hand wildly in front of my face like maybe it would clear up the storm and the smoke seeping from the engine. Thick snow grinded underneath the tires, mostly succeeding at pulling the car out of its spinning slide as I wavered to the side of the road. Beneath the rest of the sounds, there was a slight rattle from somewhere under the hood. Without my consent, the car suddenly quivered to a thumping halt, halfway on the shoulder of the road.

I sat frozen except for my deep, harsh breathing for a few tense seconds, silent even though the engine was humming like I knew it shouldn’t and a blizzard of snow and sleet was cascading everywhere around me. I had the looming sense that something was going to explode. Then my senses jolted back to me, and I threw off my seatbelt to slam out the door. The instant I popped the handle the wind snatched the door and flung it open against its hinges. Icy torrents of frozen wind blasted into me, stinging my face, going through my jacket and down my sleeves.

I stumbled a few steps against the wind and scoured the dark whiteness for anything, I didn’t know what. I swiped my face with my jacket sleeve. It felt like a million spears of ice were raking my skin. I rushed to the front of my car and popped the hood. Billows of smoke poured out, the fumes sending me back a few staggering steps before I checked again. The engine was hot, too hot to touch. I was still freezing though, with the bitter winter at my back. My heart was slamming against my ribs. I wanted to do something, but didn’t know what. That car was the only thing getting me anywhere tonight. It was no use hitchhiking. Even if anybody was driving in this kind of weather, they probably wouldn’t see me anyway.

I went back to the driver’s side, took out the keys, and stuffed them in my jeans pocket, slamming the door shut. It wasn’t just the engine that was hot. The heat ran all the way up the hood.

I’d never had anything happen to my car and I was almost freaking out. I looked around again. I couldn’t go back home. It was too far away to walk, and after the way I’d left I wasn’t planning on goin’ back anytime soon.

As I scoured the area, suddenly, the lone sign caught my eye. Maybe the snow let up for a second. Maybe it was a miracle, from God or something. I didn’t know. But for a moment, with perfect clarity, I saw about five yards deep into a yard the chiseled wood and stone sign, half-smothered in snow.

Saint Andrews First Presbyterian Church.

Through the storm, I could make out a winding road filled with snow that curved up a wide yard dotted with snow-laden evergreens. It circled around the stone building to the back parking lot. I took a few steps forward.

The church was a tall, imposing building, shrouded by snow and vague clouds of fog. Miniature snowdrifts gathered in swept waves along the sills and shallow front steps. They piled along the evergreen boughs bowing in the wind against the stone and blew up against the wide wooden doors. A faint yellow glow radiated from the frosted-over windowpanes, the only semblance of light. My vision blurred, what with all the snow flinging around, and the cold hit me all at once. I took a forlorn glance at my wrecked car, and another at the church. It looked better than just about any place right then, even though I’d never set foot in a church in pretty much my entire life.

A bit of snow clawed along the back of my neck, where my dark, overgrown hair didn’t quite reach. I flipped the collar of my jacket up, hunkered down as best I could. If I’d known I’d be out here I’d have brought something warmer. The leather had been worn pale and thin at the elbows and all along the bottom edge.

I debated ducking back into the car but figured it was safer not to. If there was one thing I could stand to learn more about, it was cars, and after this I just might. I couldn’t tell if the thing was going to burst into flames right there.

I shuddered from the cold gales and took a cigarette out of my pocket, because I was freezing. I took too long to open the stupid pack because my numb hands were shaking. Shoot, where was my lighter? I always brought my lighter. All I had in my pocket was my keys and a handkerchief and a few pennies. No way was I gonna use the cigarette lighter in the car. Opening flames inside an overheated car didn’t exactly seem like the safest option to me.

I threw the cigarette on the ground and shoved my hands in my pockets. It sure was cold out here. Not a pleasantly fresh cold either, but a sharp brittle one that rubbed my face raw and pierced through all my clothing and made me so numb I wondered how long I’d be able to stand it. I stepped back to hover over the smoking engine, which was warmer, but saw fluid, maybe coolant or oil or something, leaking all over the ground, so I backed out of there pretty quick.

I looked patronizingly at the church, frosted and stone and dark but dim yellow warming it up from the inside, and told myself, shoot, it’s Friday. Nobody was gonna be in there. I might as well check to see if it was open, at least until it stopped storming.

I left my car and trudged through the unmarred white blanket on the ground, huddling against the wind and sleet that gusted into me. As I reached the front steps to the church, I stopped for a minute, I guess to take everything in. The wind howled in my ears, but aside from that, everything was silent. I couldn’t see any cars, but then again, I couldn’t even see the parking lot.

For some reason, my heart was hitting my ribcage real hard now, and I couldn’t calm it down. I grasped the frozen metal of the doorknob, waited dumbly for a few seconds hoping it wasn’t locked, and shoved.

With an ancient, heavy grind, the great wooden door opened.

I didn’t waste any time ducking in and pushing the door shut, but some snow got in anyways, and a gust of cold air. Still, the relief from the storm was instant and muffledly quiet. I kicked snow off my tennis shoes and shook it off my jacket and jeans and hair.

The church was high-ceilinged and paneled with shiny wood. Pine garlands were strung along the windows and strings of yellow lights hung above more wood doors on the left that probably led to the part of the church with pews. Everything was old, but polished too, and almost regal.

The contrast of the winter weather outside to the warmth in the church made me cold all over again, and I tried to stop shuddering. I stepped around the room a little. There were a few doors and a hallway off it, and warm lights had been put on everywhere, and the heating was on high. I couldn’t help but think that it seemed like somebody had been expecting me. In the far left corner of the room stood a tall, wide evergreen tree rife with unlit candles and burlap garlands and little ornaments. I wondered if there was food anywhere, but knew I wouldn’t take anything anyway. I can’t say why. It wasn’t like I hadn’t stolen anything before, and usually I was proud of it too. But doing it here, in a church that seemed to invite me in, seemed wrong for some reason, wrong in a different way than breaking laws.

I found matches by the tree, probably for the candles, and quickly lit up a cigarette for myself. The chill from outside had seeped into me so that I still wasn’t warmed up. Smoking didn’t really seem wrong to me because it was just so customary. As I smoked the cigarette, I went over to the doors to the sanctuary. I thought I heard something, more than one something, but ignored it.

I shouldered open the door, and when it wouldn’t move good, I shoved it harder than probably necessary. A distinct and very loud thump came from the other side as the door rammed into something. I stepped inside about the time I realized it had slammed open on a kid, and about the time the kid collapsed. I hardly had any time to be shocked, because instantly he dropped to the ground and started wailing like all get-out.

I quickly crouched to silence him, and looked around cautiously. There were others in the room, all up at the front of the church, children scrambling around and a woman. We were in the aisle, and mostly hidden by benches so nobody saw us straight away, but I didn’t need anybody knowing I was here. Oh, man. This was great. Of course the church wouldn’t have been open if there weren’t people, and I’d just sauntered into the place.

I hissed, “Hey kid, kid, calm down, okay?” But he was still bawling. He was about five. I didn’t know; I didn’t like kids that much. I think it was because they were so foreign to me.

The kid scrambled up and sat. He was crying good, and I knew it would carry to the front, which it did. The adult kind of stopped doing whatever she was doing with her strand of lights and glanced around. The children around her were being pretty loud too, so I hoped maybe she’d ignore us, but she started down the steps. I looked at the kid all panicked. I didn’t really want to touch him in case he screamed more but didn’t think I should just leave either. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my handkerchief, which could have been cleaner but I didn’t figure he would care.

“Hush up, shut it!” I was hissing, trying to scrub his face clean and calm him down and glancing around furtively because I heard the quick clack of soles hitting the aisle.

“Who are you?” The lady’s question was shocked and abrupt. The heels were quicker now. I looked up, and she was rushing down the aisle to crouch down next to the two of us, and I still didn’t know really what to do with the handkerchief except shove it in the boy’s face, which didn’t seem to be helping.

The little kid started screeching between sobs, “He hit me! I’m hit, Mrs. O’Brien!” He said it with so much conviction that the Mrs. O’Brien woman looked like she wanted to hit me.

I shook my head. “He’s telling it wrong,” I said, real quiet, and then raised my voice. “I was just-” Man, the cigarette was practically falling out of my mouth. I’d forgot I’d been smoking it. There was smoke everywhere around us. I hurriedly, almost embarrassedly, snatched the cigarette out of my mouth. There was no place to stamp it out so I just held it, and smoke drifted between all three of us. “I was just comin’ in. I didn’t see him, I swear.” I pushed the boy’s hair back, maybe too rough because he hollered, and showed her the welt from the door. “See? The door hit him.”

Mrs. O’Brien peered at the kid, all sniveling, and sighed. “Stay here,” she told me, then called to the kids at the front, “I’ll just be a minute!” She looked at me all wary-like, like I was going to pummel somebody or set the church on fire the moment she stepped away.

She picked up the kid and went out, and I was left with my handkerchief, which was even worse for wear than before. I stood and stuck the cigarette back in my mouth, but I wasn’t smoking it. I peered up the aisle to see what was going on. It was clear they were setting up for some sort of pageant or concert or something. There was a half-set-up nativity set, with the star hung from the ceiling and the manger on the ground, and kids dressed like nomads were scattered everywhere. There were three rows of white-robed choir children on bleachers, but they weren’t singing. They were staring at me. I guess it wasn’t too common to see somebody like me standing in the aisle. None of us moved. I was watching them watch me.

The whole scene was a bit of a mess. I mean, I didn’t know the whole Christmas story, but I knew it sort of. They must’ve been setting up. I guess that was why they were here.

In a minute Mrs. O’Brien came walking back near me, and she sent the boy, who had a Band-Aid on his forehead and a candy, over to the other kids. She called something to everybody about getting into position for rehearsal. I wasn’t really listening.

While kids ran around to organize, Mrs. O’Brien turned to me. “What are you doing here?”

Well, I figured there was no point in lying, so I told her about my car, but only a little bit. Only enough so that all she knew was it broke down. My voice was all mumbly and low. I probably couldn’t have sounded more like a hood if I tried.

She looked out the window, and it was a furious white. “My,” she said. “My, my. What in the world were you driving for?”

That, I wasn’t telling her. I shrugged.

“Well,” she debated, “you can’t go back out there.” You could tell she was pretty upset about telling me I should stay. I guess I didn’t look too great, in my old leather jacked with the collar flipped, and jeans and too-long hair, smoking like crazy. I didn’t know where to stub it out.

“Well,” she said again. “You’ve got to stay in here until the storm lets up. Even with a car you shouldn’t go through that. I’ll get my husband to take a look at it for you when it stops snowing.”

I said okay. There wasn’t much else to do. I asked her when the storm would let up, but she didn’t even know it was supposed to start, and she said now some of the kids were scared, and they all had to get home or else their parents, who she called saying she’d drive them home as soon as possible, were going to worry, and it was getting later and later and later, and now she didn’t know what to do. It was pretty plain she was all stressed out. So stressed she even forgot that she was talking to somebody like me, or else I thought she never would have done it, but maybe I was wrong about that too.

She started clipping down the aisle again, and the kids that had been watching us silently now scrambled into position. She clapped her hands and told them a few things and then looked at me again – I was still at the other end of the aisle with my handkerchief and cigarette – and told me, “There might be some hot water left. Make yourself a coffee, I guess. And would you put out that cigarette!”

There was a garbage bin by the table with the hot water, so I finally snuffed the cigarette out, and made myself some coffee. As I stirred in the cream, I watched the children up in front of me. Suddenly a chord of longing so unexpected and deep that I couldn’t puzzle it out struck me, the longing that came with watching them go about what they were doing perfectly content. I thought of the house, and the yelling, and the door slamming, and me skidding away in my car, and wondered: What was I thinking?

The instant I thought that, the painful part of the regret melted mostly away. I slouched down on a pew and watched the class silently. The wind and snow still howled outside and shook the windows. I wondered how long it would be until the storm let up, or if Mrs. O’Brien would brave it and drive the kids home first.

The same boy I ran into hopped down and ran over to me. He had a little fake-gold box and a glittery robe on. “We’re practicing our Christmas play.”

“I can see that.” I could also see Mrs. O’Brien fumbling with a hay bale because she was staring at the boy like she thought I might hurt him.

“I’m a wiseman,” he said proudly. He paused, a bit wary maybe. I don’t know. “You wanna help?”

“I’ve never been in a Christmas play before.”

The boy looked dumbstruck, but after the whole door thing I figure he was just a dramatic kid. “Never?” He glanced up at Mrs. O’Brien, who wasn’t coming over but close. “Is that a sin?”

She met eyes with me and replied, “No, Billy, it isn’t. Come on over here, I need your help.”

Well, Billy was no help with the hay bales, probably because they were twice his size, but I knew that’s not really why she wanted him back up there.

The hay bales needed to be moved from the shepherd part to the stable part of the set. Mrs. O’Brien herself struggled to shove them, so I went over and hopped up to help her. I can’t exactly say why. Maybe it was me proving to her I wasn’t exactly who she thought I was, even though really before that I had been. Or maybe it was just me being decent. I went over and took one, and took the next one, and she didn’t notice until I dropped them in the stable and when she did she stared. Wiped her hands, shook clean her hair, cleared her throat, and said, “Thank you.”

“When’s your play?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

I looked around, at the star lights falling from where they were strung up and the hay bales still stacked up and the manger empty and the choir without music and the kids in costume but still not ready.

Mrs. O’Brien said, “We’re a little behind.”

The strand of lights fell completely to the ground. She sighed.

“You should put signs up or something,” I said. “Let people know when it starts and all.”

She looked a little miffed about me acting like I knew what to do, but I was miffed too for her thinking I didn’t. She pointed to the table I’d gotten my coffee from. I picked up the sheets of white paper. They read, Saint Andrews First Presbyterian Church presents our Fifteenth Annual Christmas Program.

“There were more that Billy was going to paste up, but he scrunched them when he fell.”

So without saying anything I grabbed the tape and started pasting them about the church, on the doors to the sanctuary, and on the bulletin boards, and by the coat racks, and by the entrance. I could tell Mrs. O’Brien wondered if I could be trusted, and the funny thing was that I could. I won’t lie. Lots of times I couldn’t be. Lots of times I seemed okay and then walked out of a store with something, or lots of times I was just plain mean. But here I wasn’t. I couldn’t even understand it myself. Everything was so different here, so unusual, so I suppose I was just different too.

When I was pinning a sheet in a hall, somebody I figured was Mr. O’Brien and another man came down the hallway for some more coffee. When I came back into the sanctuary, they were sitting in one of the back pews. Mrs. O’Brien had gotten the props somewhat under control, and the choir was singing while the shepherds and wisemen and Jesus’s parents sat watching.

I’d heard hymns before and didn’t think they had anything on the stuff I listened to. But here’s the thing: when you’re just in from a broken car in the middle of a storm and a church door is open and it’s lit up with frost on the outside and bright warmth on the inside and it’s chaotic because of the kids but peaceful too because they’re all content, when’s it’s all like that, hymns start to sound pretty nice. I was holding my cold coffee standing up in front of the pews and probably should have been thinking “what a jerk I am, listening to this stuff” but instead was thinking “listen to this stuff!”

They kept going when Mrs. O’Brien stepped down to me. “They could use some practice,” she said. “And I’ll have to come tomorrow to work on the set.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t know at all what to say.

She hesitated. “Why were you driving in this storm?”

“But they sound pretty good.”

She sighed. And then suddenly, without warning, the gales simultaneously sighed outside, and stopped howling. They whispered low and quiet. The snow flung itself one last time at the windows before the wind drew it back, and then it blew with softer reserve, lighter, and soon the squall had quieted to a soft falling of tremorous flakes. The white sky was now dark and stars glittered down from above.

The silence was beautiful. And then it wasn’t silent, and that was beautiful too. Mrs. O’Brien called for Mr. O’Brien and ran up the aisle in her clipping shoes towards him, and she said something about a phone, I guess to call parents, and by then the children who weren’t asleep or getting there were running around and yelling and pulling themselves up to peer out the windows.

At the front doors, once the kids had all their things from the coatroom sorted, Mr. O’Brien, the older man with him, and Mrs. O’Brien herded the kids out into the parking lot. I felt the frozen winter as they filed out the open door. Everything was clear and crisp and blanketed in a perfect white sheet, and the moon and the lights from inside the church made the surface shine and glimmer. It was all so lovely I barely noticed the chill.

When the adults came back from dropping off the kids, which took a while because the roads were filled with unplowed snow, and they all said it was a miracle none of them had gotten stuck, and the old man had driven away, Mr. O’Brien turned and told me he’d have a look at my car. His wife must have told him.

We trudged down the white yard and over the curb of the bank. Snow covered the vehicle so there was only a glimpse of red peeking through. And because I’d forgotten to close the hood, snow had filled every crevice. It wasn’t smoking anymore. Mr. O’Brien asked for the keys, but the car wouldn’t even try to start. He rummaged around the engine and did a few things. Then he stood back and said, “This doesn’t need me, this needs a mechanic. Even if I could start it, it would just overheat trying to get through the snow.”

I said, glumly, shuddering from the cold, that I guess I could get it towed later, tomorrow probably, and he must have realized I didn’t have a ride, because he said, “I’ll drive you home.”

I agreed before I remembered I wasn’t going home.

Mr. O’Brien told his wife the plan. She was in the other vehicle they’d driven, on account of the number of kids. Mr. O’Brien shut off the lights in the church and locked the doors while the two of us shivered waiting for him.

When Mrs. O’Brien drove one way in her van and we turned the other, her husband asked me where to go.

“Down Stafford,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to. It was snowing a little, but it was really the snowy roads that made Mr. O’Brien drive slowly, probably because he didn’t want to drive into a ditch and he didn’t know where he was going.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

The thing was, I wasn’t going home. I knew my father was expecting me to and now that I wasn’t distracted, anger, out of principle, rose back into me. I mumbled, “Just drop me off wherever.”

Mr. O’Brien spared me a glance. “Well, where’s your house?”

“I ain’t goin’ home.”

Mr. O’Brien slowed even more. “What do you mean? You can’t stay out there.”

“I said, I ain’t goin’ home,” I snapped. My voice was mean. I glared out the window at the dumb trees lit up in everybody’s windows. And anything good I’d felt at the church started evaporating away. I couldn’t help it, or if I could I didn’t even try. The miserable anger rose back up as we drove. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window and stared out achingly, and for some reason I felt like I was about to start crying. I knew I wouldn’t, but I felt like it.

Mr. O’Brien finally got me to tell him where to drop me off. The house was my neighbour’s, but he didn’t know that. I wasn’t letting my dad see me come trudging back in case he was still awake. I started walking down my front yard. My whole neighbourhood was kind of poor. Without much money it was hard to keep our house decent. Covered in snow it looked alright though.

Mr. O’Brien slowly pulled away from the curb, and I knew he was watching as I snuck through to the side of the house and knocked on a window. I waved him away.

I got in through my sister’s window. Janet was my sister. She was fourteen, and she wasn’t a jerk yet like a lot of people I knew. For some reason I couldn’t stand the thought of her becoming a jerk, even though I knew I could be one.

But I hadn’t felt like such a jerk at the church, and it turned out it was a good feeling.

That night I only slept a few hours, and got up and left the house before my parents were awake. Janet stared at me as I left. Her gaze told me to stay. I almost wanted to, just for her. There’s silence like the beautiful silence after a snowstorm, and there’s silence like the silence that goes on when a feud is thick and one person is out of the house and the other is too mad to speak. It was the second silence going on in my house.

I killed time doing nothing, the worst nothing ever. Mostly I just lazed around, swaggering along streets. I hated being gone and I hated staying home and I hated the fury between me and my father but I thought I hated him too much to be the one to fix it. I was miserable.

I went over to the church, which looked a bit different in the afternoon but just as nice, to see if I could call a tow truck for my car. However, when I got there, around five in the evening, it was gone, and I saw Mr. O’Brien’s pickup head up the driveway to the church. I flagged him down.

“I got it towed this morning,” he said. “Didn’t know if you’d come back.”

I hadn’t meant to come back, to the church I mean, but somehow I found myself there anyway. Mr. O’Brien nodded up at the stone building. “Come on in. You look freezing.”

Which I was, because I’d walked there.

When I entered with Mr. O’Brien, I noticed the advertisements up on the doors and tamped down a corner fanning up in the breeze, and it struck me that I put those up. Mrs. O’Brien and the old man from last night were in the kitchen off the main room with another lady, who regarded me like Mrs. O’Brien used to but didn’t anymore. I ignored them, stepped into the sanctuary, and walked silently down the aisle, stopping when I got to the front.

The manger was underneath the stable roof, filled with hay, the bales all around like they were supposed to be, and the stand where the one angel went was covered with a white curtain so you couldn’t see it was a stepstool, and the rocks were set up in the shepherds’ half, which the wisemen’s gifts and the staffs leaned against, and above it all was the big star over the stable, with the strand of smaller stars strung neatly along the roof, and they were lit, and for some reason I couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.

There was the sound of heels on the ground. “We got it set up,” said Mrs. O’Brien, and I only nodded.

“When is it?”

“Six-thirty. The kids’ll be here soon.”

So maybe I am just dumb. But as I looked around at the setup and looked at Mrs. O’Brien, who’s eyes didn’t tell me I was an outsider, not anymore, I did something I never thought I would do, ever. I told her about yesterday. I told her about how I came home smoking, and my supper was cold on the counter, and my mother was worried sick because she told me to be home for dinner, and my father started getting mad. I told her how then I got mad too, and it turned into yelling, and pretty soon my mother and my sister were quiet because the whole house was filled with fury. And then my dad asked me why couldn’t I just listen and now - I can’t remember why - I was madder than I’d ever been, and I told him who cared, and he told me to put that cigarette out, so I burned it on the wall and stormed out, and that was how I ended up at the church.

I told Mrs. O’Brien that.

She only paused, and then nodded a little. “I thought it might be something like that,” she said, real soft.

“And the stupid part,” I said, because I might as well keep at it, “is he wasn’t really wrong. And I don’t even know if I thought he was wrong then. There’s just this thing between us that makes me hate everything. I guess that’s where bein’ mean gets you. Anyway I can hate people and I don’t have a reason. I know exactly why he was saying what he did, and maybe I deserved it, but I couldn’t figure it out up until now and now I can’t go back.”

Mrs. O’Brien turned to face me full-on, and she only said one thing, but it was all I needed. Sometimes silence speaks for itself. “I’m not sure anything’s ever too late if there’s meaning in it.”

And then parents began to show up with kids, so I made myself some coffee and got back to normal.

There’s another type of quiet. It was the quiet I had just then, listening to the squealing kids and the parents and feeling a whole lot like something had been lifted off, which isn’t something I thought was possible because I was only talking. I was feeling a kind of comfort you get when everything’s fallen into a place where you know what to do with it.

I stayed when the program started, filed in and sat down with everyone, halfway from the front, squished between two families. I didn’t mind. I don’t think they did either, even though maybe I wasn’t wearing what I should have been wearing. I paid close attention, not so much to Reverend Hansen when he talked, but more the kids, and some of this stuff I’d never heard before. The songs I’d usually listened to had nothing on the hymns they sang. The lights were down, candles were lit, and the stage was aglow in yellow. Billy waved when he slipped in and bowed to baby Jesus with his gold box, so I grinned at him and waved back.

When the program was finished, Billy the wiseman jumped down to his parents, and the choir stopped standing erect with their hands folded and hopped down to get refreshments. People started getting up to get their kids, or talk, or eat, or all three. I waited until I could get to the front of the church. Mrs. O’Brien was herding children and making sure they didn’t knock over candles. A few parents were lingering at the front and more still were in the pews, so it was loud with the general din of talking. But somehow I still heard the voice.

“What are you doing up here? There’s refreshments.”

That voice was my sister’s. I turned on my heel and stared, shocked at the surprise of her being somewhere it never occurred to me she could be. They were by the other side of the stage. Janet met my eyes, and I don’t know if something in mine was healed from last time, but she grinned, and took the hand of my mother, who was there too. The two of them walked out with everybody else and left me staring at the one person they had left behind. He looked around like he wondered how we had ended up here, which was a good question, but maybe it didn’t really matter. In his posture I could tell he was over being upset. Maybe Janet had done something, or maybe even Mr. O’Brien. Maybe Saint Andrews First Presbyterian Church had done something to me.

My father looked up at me. “Robin,” he said.

I nodded at him. “Hey.”

And then he smiled, and I smiled too, and standing at the front of the church, I knew there was nothing between us but the stars.