The Great Unknowable End Page 11

  “I’m off my shift,” I say, throwing up my hands in a gesture that screams, Seriously?

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just, uh, there’s a girl in here. Asking about some guy named Craig? Then she says wait, he goes by Phoenix now. Then she says she’s his sister. And then she says she’s not going away until she sees him.”

  Like that, my skin is on fire.

  Stella Kay Mercer.

  Here, at Red Sun.

  Her weird, weird face stares into my mind’s eye, painted in cold shades of blue.

  Holy shit.

  I blink forcefully—a tic.

  Janis Joplin, give me strength.

  Outwardly, I am unmoved. I keep my shoulders raised in the why the hell is that any of my business? stance.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know, man. I thought you could talk her down. You know, since you and Phoenix are close.”

  Ladies and gentlemen, the joke of the century. Applause. Laughter. Ha, ha, ha.

  I consider my options. I can tell Mac:

  a) Fuck off. I don’t owe him anything, especially after that attitude back in the kitchen.

  b) Yeah, sure, I’ll see what I can do.

  I’m tempted by option A. If Stella Kay Mercer is on a manhunt for her brother, then that’s technically Phoenix’s problem, and his alone. Visitors aren’t supposed to come calling at Red Sun for long-lost relatives. If word of this gets around, Phoenix will probably get brought in to the Council to explain himself. So the obvious choice is A.

  But then there’s the small matter of my conscience.

  Even if this is technically Phoenix’s problem, it is entirely my fault. Because I’m the one who’s been writing the letters. I’m the one who knows Stella Kay Mercer, even if she doesn’t think she knows me. I’m the reason she’s here, because two months ago she asked to meet with Phoenix in person, and I freaked the hell out. It’s on me to explain.

  And it’s something more than that too.

  I want to see Stella Kay Mercer, unpainted, in the daylight. I want to talk to her face-to-face as me, Galliard. And I want to ask if her brother has always been a colossal prick.

  So option B is the clear winner.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I say it in a small-breathed way to remind Mac I don’t owe him anything. My eyes squeeze shut, then open as I follow him back in.

  We cross through the kitchen and out the swinging door that leads to the dining area. Here the walls are rough-hewn wood and brick, decorated in soothing photographs of the commune. The happy buzz of diners fills the room. We’re at about three-fifths capacity, teetering on the edge of the dinner rush. There are a few spots left at the bar, and one of them is taken by none other than Stella Kay Mercer.

  She looks different than she did at the drive-in—defined, more made of flesh. Her eyes hook on me from across the room and don’t let go as I approach. Anger rolls off her body like waves, crashing over me. But I feel something else, too, in the undercurrent: She’s scared. I see it in the tense way she’s perched her feet on the bar-stool railing, in the uncertainty that clouds her face right before I reach her, in the way she says, “You’re not Craig.”

  I blink a few times. Then I say, “Yeah, I’m aware.”

  “I came here to speak to Craig. Or . . . Phoenix, if that’s what he’s calling himself. I know he’s here, so don’t try telling me you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

  “I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  I’m sounding way more arrogant than I mean to, and Stella is not amused. A fresh wave of her anger breaks against me. Her hands clench into fists.

  “I’m not leaving until I see him.”

  “Then you’ll be waiting forever. Phoenix doesn’t work here, so there’s no chance you’ll bump into him. And in case you weren’t aware, outsiders aren’t allowed to barge in and demand to see members.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “And?”

  “He’s my family. I should be able to see him.”

  “Why? You haven’t asked to see him for two years.”

  I grimace, blinking hard. What the hell am I doing? I’m defending Phoenix. I’m accusing Stella, when I should be apologizing to her. I should be telling her the whole truth.

  Of course now, of all times, my mouth tic decides to pay a visit. I stretch my lips wide for a yawn that will never come.

  “What are you . . . ?”

  Stella doesn’t finish the question, and I can see it play out in her too-wide eyes. There’s confusion first. Then annoyance. Then understanding. Her face goes soft with something I absolutely do not want to see: sympathy. Then she stops looking at me and looks over me, scanning the room.

  “Maybe I should talk to someone else.”

  I hate how nice she suddenly sounds. I step to the side, blocking her search, forcing her focus back on me.

  “If you’re going to talk to anyone, it’s me. I’m Phoenix’s friend.”

  The joke of the century isn’t as funny told a second time around. Something inside me snaps, then aches.

  Stella doesn’t look surprised by my claim, only thoughtful. “That’s how you knew who I was, right? Did he tell you about me? Does he have paintings of us?”

  The sympathy’s gone. The way she’s talking now makes me way too uncomfortable, like I’ve walked in on her changing. The questions she’s asking are tender. Vulnerable. I don’t have the right to answer them.

  For reasons unknown, I decide to blurt out the worst answer possible.

  “He doesn’t care about any of you anymore. He disowned you. He said you’re dead to him.”

  I watch in some sort of sick, fascinated horror as her light skin pales even more and tears gather in her eyes. A sharp sound bursts from her throat—something close to my most common tic. She grips the counter and steps down from the bar stool.

  “Fine,” she whispers. “Fine.”

  She heads for the door, this quivering blur of red sundress and frizzy brown hair.

  And I’ve never felt so wholly worthless in my entire life.

  It was instinct that pushed out the spiteful words, and it’s my better instinct that now launches me after Stella. I catch the heavy glass door as it’s slamming shut and hurl myself down the porch stairs, pumping my legs to catch up with her, realizing simultaneously that Stella is really fast and that this is only the second time I’ve been past Red Sun borders.

  “Stella Kay!” I catch up with her in the parking lot. She’s stopped and thrown a hand over her face, but I can see the tears streaming down her cheeks, dripping off her chin.

  Rod’s voice is in my head: Weak actions—wrong actions . . . those result in negative consequences.

  Damn if the law of consequences isn’t real.

  “I’m sorry,” I pant. “Christ, I’m an asshole. I’m sorry.”

  She drags her hands down her cheeks, catching tears. “Nobody even calls me that.”

  “What?”

  “Nobody calls me Stella Kay. It’s just Stella.”

  “Oh.” Then my mouth opens—the yawn tic.

  “And why are you sorry? If it’s true, why are you sorry? I wanted to know. You told me. No need to apologize.”

  She makes another clumsy swipe at her cheek. There are streaks of black mascara and blue eye shadow across her face.

  I need to tell her a whole lot. I do need to apologize, and I haven’t told her the truth. I haven’t told her the half of it.

  “I only wanted to see him,” she says. “But clearly he doesn’t want to see me.”

  “That’s not true. I mean . . . I don’t know if it’s true or not. From everything he’s told me—”

  “What’s he told you? What’s he said about us?”

  Shit. I can’t say a single damn thing right. My lips spread apart, but this time it’s a tic, and no words come out.

  Stella’s not waiting for an answer, though. She’s squints past me, toward the café and asks
, “Are you even allowed out here?”

  “It’s Crossing.”

  “Oh right. Of course.”

  Her tears are drying. She heaves in a long sniff and clutches at her elbows like she’s cold, even though it’s plenty hot. Out of nowhere, I get this scary urge to hug her. Instead I jerk my head to the side.

  Not the time! I shout to my body. But my nerves and muscles, coconspirators, jerk my head again. Since when has my body ever cared about good timing?

  Stella’s staring at me. “Forget about it. I don’t know why I came here. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

  She’s already turned to leave when I say, “It’s not contagious.”

  Stella spins back around. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not a disease you can catch. If that’s why you’re leaving.”

  Her weird face gets weirder, contorting. “I know it’s not contagious. I know what Tourette’s is.”

  “Okay.” My jaw jerks. “Fine.”

  “No.” Stella steps forward, closing the distance between us. “Not fine. Just because I don’t belong to your hippie town doesn’t mean I’m a callous xenophobe. Is that what they teach you in there?”

  I’ve never heard the word “xenophobe” before. I’ve got a pretty good guess as to what it means, though.

  I say, “I don’t think that.”

  “Maybe I want to leave because it was stupid of me to come in the first place. Because I’ve made a fool of myself in front of—” She waves toward the café, but she also seems to be waving at me.

  “Look,” I say. “He can’t see you right now. I mean, can’t. He’s . . . he’s doing a silent workshop.”

  Stella frowns. “What?”

  Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn. I’m lying, and I can’t stop. The words slide off my tongue like oil.

  “It’s where a member goes into self-imposed isolation—prays and eats and lives alone. It’s supposed to be a period of renewal that brings us closer to the Life Force. Everyone does it at some point. Phoenix is doing one now, and it’s important not to interrupt him. He can’t be disturbed until the silence is over.”

  Her frown intensifies. “And how long is that?”

  “In a week.”

  My jaw twitches to the right. I’m flushed from the lying, and I wonder if she can tell. Silent workshops are a real thing. That much is true. But it’s the only thing I’ve said that’s true. I don’t know why I keep speaking before I think. I was supposed to tell Stella the truth, and now all I’ve done is slather more lies on top.

  All I can think is that I need more time. Somehow I’ve got to buy more time.

  This is Stella, my correspondence partner of two years. This is a girl who’s lived her whole life on the Outside, like Phoenix did, but come to a different conclusion. Rather than follow Phoenix to Red Sun, she’s stayed on the Outside, and there’s a part of me—a big part—that wants to know what Stella knows. I want to pick her brain in a way I couldn’t through our letters. I want to see with her what not even Archer can show me, what no one can show me, save someone who’s grown up in Slater, Kansas. If I tell her the whole truth now, I won’t get that chance.

  Stella folds her arms. She toes the parking-lot gravel, coating her sneaker in a dull gray powder. At some point, this head jerking will stop. When I’m not thinking about it. When she isn’t looking.

  “You can come back then,” I say. “In a week, when it’s over. I don’t know if he’ll want to see you, but at least we can ask. Maybe he will.”

  Stella looks up. “Is that an actual maybe, or not? Because I’m not going to work myself up if he’s just going to ignore me again.”

  Again. I should tell her I’m the one to blame for that. I’m the one to blame for all of this.

  My jaw jerks as I say, “It’s an actual maybe.”

  I can’t say that Phoenix trashed the first letter she sent him, two summers ago. Or that I found it and read it and called him out. I can’t tell her that after Phoenix disowned Stella, told me he had no family, I kept the letter. That I couldn’t stand to think she’d never get an answer. That I wrote to her only meaning to write once, to make her feel better. That since then it’s spiraled into something out of my control. Something that makes me feel all wrong, like I’m a criminal.

  Wrong actions have negative consequences.

  I don’t want to face them yet. Surely the Life Force—Holly and Hendrix and Joplin, in their infinite mercy—can understand. I feel sure now that they were the ones who sent that Dreamlight flyer my way, and they were the ones to push me out of Red Sun’s gate. If my gods wanted to tell me something, they’d use the weather, wouldn’t they? That makes sense. And I can’t shake the feeling that they haven’t finished talking.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” says Stella. “Maybe . . . maybe I’ll come back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if I do, you’ll be here? You can find Phoenix for me?”

  Another thing I can’t say: I’m not currently acknowledging Phoenix’s existence. I’m miserable as my jaw jerks for the umpteenth time.

  “My shift here is different every day,” I say. “If you ask for me, though—ask for Galliard—someone can probably track me down. Or, I don’t know, maybe I’ll be at the drive-in again. If that’s someplace you go a lot.”

  Stella raises one of her thick brows. It now looks less like her makeup has run and more like her face was on the receiving end of a small explosion. I smile a little and say, “I’ll be there without the weed.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She smiles a little back. “Well, thanks for that. I guess . . . I’ll see you around. Maybe.”

  “Is that an actual maybe?” I call after her.

  She doesn’t answer. She’s slipping into a chrome jungle of parked cars, and I’m left wondering if I’ve made a promise I can’t keep.

  12

  Stella

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 6

  The numbers have not left my closet door.

  The countdown continues, and on Saturday morning, when I get out of the shower, it reads 12:17:15.

  Twelve days until some unknown end.

  The same countdown remains on Slater’s town hall. I see it, along with a perpetually milling crowd, on my daily bike rides to and from the salon. The people of Slater are very stirred up about it. Town officials have exhausted all means of investigation, including sending men up with ladders to ascertain the physical nature of the countdown clock. Their only determination is that it is simply light. A projection from nowhere.

  Throughout the week, I’ve waited for reports of other townspeople who have found the same strange numbers in their homes. Only there have been none. No accounts in our newspaper, no word in the salon or at the Dreamlight, where all anyone can talk about is town hall. And I think it highly unlikely that every single resident of Slater is as secretive as I am.

  I’ve attempted to gauge my father, same as I did Jill. Unlike her, I’m not sure he would tell me first thing if he discovered flashing numbers in his closet; I get my secretive side from Dad. However, what I thought was a sly way of bringing up the topic last night, before he left for work, resulted in nothing more than a confused remark from my father about mothballs.

  Since then I have made a decision. I won’t tell anyone about my situation until I know what the numbers mean. Daily, I think through explanations, each one as untenable as the next, though I do not let myself think long of the one ringing loudest in my mind:

  It could be aliens.

  I do not believe in the supernatural. I believe in reason. And in the face of something as unreasonable as the numbers on my closet door, perhaps extraterrestrial intelligence is a reasonable explanation. I think Carl Sagan would agree with me. Only it might be that I’ve been reading too much Carl Sagan. Because there are other scientific explanations. Medical ones. I might have a brain tumor. I might be hallucinating. I like to consider those explanations even less than I do the possibility of aliens; if these are hallucinatio
ns, and they are this vivid and consistent, it must mean I’m not long for the world.

  Anyway, I have other things to worry about. My father doesn’t know about my visit to Red Sun. There is no need for him to find out. It was such a brash thing to do. Brash, like Jill in sleuth mode. Each morning, after I wake and before I move from bed, I wrestle with indecision, punching and accepting blows. I can never settle on which is worse: to return to the commune, hoping a stranger will keep his word, or to forgo what might be my only chance to make contact with Craig. I decide on one course of action, but then uncertainty creeps in again, and between work at the salon and the drive-in and ensuring Jill eats dinner every night, I do not have time to clear the haze for good.

  Now Saturday has arrived, and though I’ve taken off work at both the salon and the Dreamlight, I am occupied with the task of helping my father prepare the house for his . . . girlfriend. Dad was right before: That title doesn’t fit. I cannot invent any good substitutes, though. “Could-be stepmother” or “Dad’s serious paramour” simply won’t do. It is an awkward title for an awkward situation, and I suppose it can’t be helped. Even so, I am looking forward to meeting my father’s mystery date, Gayle Nelson, who he says has requested that we call her “Gayle,” not “Miss Nelson.” I am eager to see how she looks and how she behaves around my father. It is more than that, though: I am curious about what kind of woman was hired to help run a nuclear power plant.

  I set the table with the black stoneware we reserve only for birthdays and holidays. Tonight’s dinner is a special occasion, even though the meal itself is takeout lasagna from Salvatore’s on Vine. As I place the silverware—knife and spoon on right, fork on left—I coach myself on how to subtly bring up the subject at the table. Nothing to make Gayle feel uncomfortable—How did you afford a college education? Why nuclear physics? Who on earth encouraged you to do that?—but nothing so vague that Gayle could misconstrue it, such as a general inquiry as to what she does at the plant. Though I am curious about those details too.

  I’ve never had warm feelings toward Slater Creek Nuclear Operating Corporation. Despite my father’s numerous reassurances and my own awareness that he isn’t being exposed to unhealthy levels of radiation, I cannot shake an instinctual fear that the plant is doing him some kind of harm. I much preferred it when he just worked his shifts at town buildings. But then Craig left, and that was the summer the plant began operations. More families moved to Slater. New, finely dressed students appeared in my classes. I heard of some antinuclear protests in Kansas City, and it was well known that the members of Red Sun were not happy with the development, especially as the plant was constructed less than a mile from commune limits. Overall, though, Slater welcomed the development. We were reassured that nuclear energy was perfectly safe, and no one could deny the sorely needed boon of new business brought to our town.