About a Boy and his Stars

Copyright © Reilly Irvine, 2012. All Rights Reserved

I was a man of perseverance.

Here I stood, freshly ironed outfit worn proud, in the thick of New York's business industry – not as a tourist, but as a true businessman. My wife at home would surely have congratulated me, but here, not one noticed my accomplishments. That was fine though, because the one thing I had kept over my thirty years of life was my independence.

Perhaps it was ironic that as this thought came to me, I realized I was terribly dependant on a taxi to get me home to Queens. I stepped down from the entryway to Gold Crown Publishing, and, as a gentle breeze caressed me, I began my routine hunt for a cab.

That never happens, I thought to myself. Here, on one of the busiest streets in the city, an available cab sits in the lane closest to the sidewalk. I walk briskly over to the vehicle, and after having to brush my dark hair out of my eyes a couple times, opened the back door. As I slid my suitcase over and seated myself, I couldn't help but wonder how the driver had managed to find the Beatles still playing on the radio. Such were the things I worried myself with.

“Where to?” He repeated the words he had only spoken a thousand times in his life.

“Seventy-fifth avenue, Queens, please,” I responded with a rather idiotic-sounding attempt at kindness. It didn't matter too much that I told him my desired destination at that point; no one could hope to break free from the congested sea of cars anytime soon. Through the quiet music, I couldn't help but get a feeling of silence in there – no so much a sound as a feeling. I've lived through too much of it, I confirmed in my mind. If I was a novelist of such high profession, surely I could engage this man in conversation. “How goes the job?” I asked.

His eyes found mine in the rear-view mirror. He was Hispanic, too thin for my liking, and seemed to be my age. “It goes.” I scrambled to find a continuation, until I realized that perhaps it was better off left at that. My eyes left the mirror through which I saw his, and gazed idly downwards until I noticed the picture. It was shrivelled and warped from the heat, and seemed to be dangling on a shoestring tied around the rear-view mirror. All I could make out was a couple, beaming in happiness, holding a tiny newborn.

“Who's that in the picture?” I offered, only a slightly more earnest attempt to converse. It worked, and I suppose it broke the casualness of the moment. This was marked by the sigh he released before answering. I pondered if I had just tread territory few dared to.

“My parents,” he said at long last. Now here was something I could work with.

“Do they live here in New York?”

“No.” There was another pause. Perhaps it would end as soon as it had started.

“Where are they from? Or, where are you from? Yeah, I suppose that's the question I'm asking.”

“Last place they lived was a farm about fifteen miles outside Harlingen, Texas.” I felt something drop in my stomach. “They died a long time ago. Let's leave it at that, okay?” I was reminded of my childhood; not directly, but as one face of a coin gives a man an idea of its flip-side. Now I needed to find something out.

Our vehicle began to move. “I'm truly sorry to hear that. My mother died when I was very young as well – maybe I can relate! Would you mind telling me how this came to be?” I began to see real pain in his eyes, and decided I had done harm. “I'm sorry,” I spoke quietly, averting my gaze.

“Might as well.” I was genuinely surprised he had taken this leap in the talk. “Well, I was five. Oh, where to begin...”

* * *

I was vividly taken back to a hot summer night of 1975. A young Salo of five years lay in his field, gazing up at the stars. They smile down at him, reminding him with soothing words of the hope in his future. The leaves of trees in the wind sing beautiful songs, beckoning him into a sleep of pleasant dreams. It's a picture perfect moment, one any person in the city would covet – and it's the last one he'll experience in his life.

“Tiempo para cama!” his mother calls from the house. Time for bed. It's a good thing she says this, or he'd have fallen asleep outside. He takes one last look at his fiery friends in the sky and turns to head inside.

Something catches his gaze, but does not frighten him. A boy about his height, head nearly bumping into the door handle, opens the back door to the estate and slips inside. It strikes sleepy Salo as odd because he has no siblings. He's still about a hundred yards away from his house, and does not quicken his pace as he approaches.

Then he becomes frightened. The sound of a bullwhip, only ten times as devastating, echoes from inside. He remembers his father's words from a year ago, “If you ever hear a crack so loud that your ears hurt, come inside to Papa.” Now his steps hasten. It's a good while before he reaches the door,and when he does, he hears another crack. This one actually hurts his ears, scaring him terribly. He opens the door, and in the worst way, grows up.

His mother lies on the ground, in a pool of red that reminds him of the ground long after a cow had been slaughtered and he was once again allowed outside to play. Where her head was, he sees a mess that forces his eyes shut. It's no good; he vomits from the bottom of his stomach. He runs blindly towards the stairs leading to his father's study, actually smacking into the wall and setting him on his bottom. He's crying convulsively, not even noticing the boy slip past him. The terrified Salo now goes up to the study, only to find his father sharing in the same fate.

He's screaming. He runs downstairs and comes face to face with the killer. The other boy is wearing a red mardi gras mask – tears stream out from underneath. His lips tremble in sobs of his own, and his body shakes from carrying something heavy. It's Salo's family safe, until recently under his father's desk. It's about the size of their toaster oven, absurdly making Salo wonder how he can carry such a heavy thing. The boy's gun itself is the size of his forearm – how could he know how to work such a thing? The young murderer runs out the open back door. When Salo follows, the boy is nowhere to be found.

* * *

I was producing tears of my own when I noticed Salo looking at me in the rear-view mirror. He let out another sigh. “I went back out to the field behind my house... I was so confused. I looked up at the same stars that had recently been comforting me – but were they really the same stars? My father used to tell me about them, stories his father had told him. Said when the nights get lonesome, you need only gaze up at the stars for company. Even said you could tell them a wish, if you so desired. They yearned to hear the plights of children.

“I wished – screamed, actually. I told them I wanted that boy to share the fate of my parents. But most of all...” He was hardly managing to keep the story going. So great was his sobbing that I felt myself patting him on the back. “But most of all, I told them I wanted my parents back. I want my parents back.”

I had almost forgotten we were driving when we pulled up to my house. How boorish I had been to open up such a conversation as that, thinking it would only be small talk! He gave me the amount due. I pulled out my notepad, gave him a number, and handed it to him along with the sum, plus ten dollars.

“You seem like a man who needs a friend. Please call me up sometime so we can chat.” He smiles and nods. I opened the door, rose, took my suitcase from the backseat, and closed the door just as fast.

I wondered if poor Salo ever looked at the stars anymore. Maybe he still wished to them that he'd see that boy again. It would seem the stars are more powerful than they look.

I was perhaps in a worse mood than I'd ever been in twenty-five years. The slip I gave him bore a false phone number. How could I ever see his face again and not fear he'd see through that red mask, recognizing me as his parents' killer?

I was afraid he'd forever be wishing upon a star.