The Constellations

Every spring, Aunt Phyl piled

EvEry spring, aunT pHyl pilEd late Christmas presents and a pair of suitcases into the station wagon and drove to Missouri to see their older sister, who lived on a farm halfway between New Madrid and the Arkansas state line. Parts of the family land remained buckled from the 1811 earthquake that had rerouted the Mississippi River. Roy had forgotten about her trip until Thursday evening when Phyl, cutting up chicken for dinner, reminded him. He held in a groan. “Your sister-in-law’s willing to pitch in,” Phyl said, still sawing at the bird. She avoided using Deborah’s name, as if the woman might appear in a flash of fire and brimstone. “How do you know?” Roy said. “I called her.”A thigh snapped off.“Cammy gave me the number.” That must’ve been a surprise at the other end, Roy thought. “She’s fixing to start her maternity leave,” Phyl continued. “Looking after your kids will keep her strong. It’s not like she’s been ordered to stay in bed.” “Hey, if she’s willing, great.” Phyl began to stack the pieces of chicken. “Going to storm,” she said. “I hope that baseball coach doesn’t get those little guys struck by lightning. He’d play through a tornado.” The April tornadoes in Xenia, Ohio, had had a tremendous effect on Phyl. For several days she broke her own injunction against the news and watched as much of it as she could get, even drove out of her way to pick up the pertinent issues of Time and Newsweek. To her, the threat of severe weather was as good as a promise.She had survived two close calls with tornadoes as a girl, one with toddler Roy in her arms. Both incidents remained vivid in her mind—they were two of the few childhood memories she ever mentioned. Roy remembered that Jean once offered another Kevin Cunningham 77 theory,that Phyl,without children to keep her young,had already progressed into the weather obsession found in many old ladies. “I’m going to freeze the heart and kidneys for myself,” Phyl said.“What do you want?” Roy hated chicken. He had eaten nothing but growing up and secretly considered it white trash food. “I’ll make myself a sandwich,” he replied. “You need something hot,” Phyl said. “Soup, then. Don’t start it, though. I’m going to lie down.” Flour blasted out of the bag as Phyl closed it.“I went out to the cemetery the other day to clean up Jean’s grave. I found a bunch of pea plants.” “Peas?” “I know peas when I see them,” Phyl said with a nod. “A half dozen little sprouts. I pulled them up. The cemetery people don’t let you to plant flowers, so I reckon vegetables aren’t allowed.” “Maybe they blew over from a garden,” Roy said. “They wouldn’t have all landed in the same place. I bet I can guess who planted them. I don’t care, one way or the other, but I don’t want him to expect them to be there when he visits.” Roy went up to Eric’s room. They had not spoken much since the night with the coins. Or, rather, Eric had not answered questions with more than two or three words. Roy had begun to wonder about it. Like many parents he counted on the quick passing of those kinds of storms without grudges, though—again like many parents—he wrongly thought it involved forgiveness rather than the peculiar resilience of childhood that allowed a person to store such memories until he could recall them in adulthood and then hold a grudge. Eric had piled his school clothes next to the door and changed into a pair of shorts and a striped shirt.He sat near the open window with his little thirty-dollar telescope pointed at the sky over the trees behind the well house. “How was school?” Roy asked. Eric did not turn around.“Okay.” “What about practice?” 78 The Constellations “I hit fouls, like always,” Eric said. “Did the coach say anything about it?” “No.” Roy fought back impatience, then spoke in the kindest voice he could manage.“Did you plant peas on your mother’s grave?” “Yes,” Eric said. “Why’d you do that, son?” “Peas have nice flowers.At first, I mean. The little white...