The Constellations

Already Roy was

alrEady roy Was a half hour late getting home. The instinct to work off the growing tension seemed to catch. On the way downstairs Eric glanced at Fergus writing in a spiral notebook in the study. Outside, Mr. Johnson hobbled off after the rabbits, scattering mothers and kittens in all directions. Deb banged through the kitchen porch to hang linen on the clothesline . The sheets billowed like sails, and Eric wished he could head out to sea with Magellan. He went to the garden but again gave up on using the hoe. It was too big, even when he choked up. Instead he pulled weeds by hand, though indifferently, only bothering with the biggest. The first radishes and carrots were well underway. Buds nestled under the leaves on the pepper plants. The first bright-green leaves of the watermelon canopy had opened on the vines. The kite string they had used to plan the rows was long gone, blown into the shrubbery like ruined spiderwebs. But he admired the rows’ straight lines. They had done as good a job as the farmers who used machinery, and almost as good as Aunt Phyl. Deb waved him over.“What’s that rash?” she asked. He submitted to scrutiny of the reddened skin on his left calf and knee, the back of his neck up under his ear, and a thumbsized patch that had appeared that morning beside his right eye. Past skin problems had trained Eric to rub the skin rather than use his nails, and he had thus far avoided the usual long scabby scratches. Deb claimed there were red blotches under his chin and on his right arm. During the subsequent bath they found further inflammation on the insides of both legs. “When did this happen?” she exclaimed. “It started a couple days ago,” Eric said. “Where did you get it?” 94 The Constellations Eric shrugged but under questioning he conceded he knew the rash was unusual. He explained he kept it secret because he refused to wear the clown makeup again. The clown makeup, Deb gathered through the subsequent tears, was the medicine used to treat his case of impetigo a couple of years before. Everyone made fun of him when he wore it, he said. The idea of going to baseball practice with purple paint on his face horrified him. He wouldn’t do it. After the bath Deb dabbed calamine lotion on his legs. Eric screamed when she even mentioned putting some on his face, so she returned the bottle to the cabinet. That done, she concentrated on his hair, brushed it flat against his head. Too hard, as usual, to Eric’s mind. He told her that her hair, and Emma’s, was thick and dark. It could take a brush whereas his finer hair easily surrendered and let the teeth rake his scalp. The explanation got him nowhere. By the time she freed him the sun was down. The clear skies offered an excellent chance to use the telescope.On his way to get Fergus he heard music coming. Halfway up the stairs he recognized “Smackwater Jack,” by Carole King. Eric whipped around the corner into the study. “Hey,” he exclaimed.“That’s Carole King!” Fergus gave a yelp. For a moment he fumbled with, and then dropped, his notebook. “Jesus,” he said, a hand against his chest. “That jack-in-the-box routine is going to kill me.” “Sorry. That’s Carole King. Do you like her?” Fergus twisted around, propped his feet up on the bed.“She’s more Aunt Deb’s thing,” he said. “We’re on our second copy of that record.” “Do you like the picture?” Eric said. “What picture?” “On the cover.” “Sure,” Fergus said as he studied the photo. “Don’t tell me you’re into Carole King.” “I wrote her a letter,” Eric said. “She’s a bit old for you.” Kevin Cunningham 95 “You’re a writer, right?” “I labor under that pretension,” Fergus said. “Why don’t you talk like a normal person? So if you’re a writer, you know how to write letters, too.” “Sure. Show me what you wrote first, though.” A moment later Eric returned with a spiral notebook. He flipped past the lists of star names and constellation drawings and settled on a note written in his most careful cursive lettering. Fergus received it with the solemnity required...