In Sight of Stars(66)

“This is the same question they ask of two white-haired old men who sit in a meadow where the house of Ch’en-Chao used to stand. The old men reply, ‘Liu Ch’en and Yuan Chao were our ancestors. We are their descendants in the seventh generation.’”

He stops, and I say, “Dad … there’s more. I know that’s not the end of the story.” My lip quivers, something about the story always unsettles me. Dad says, “No, don’t worry.” He holds a finger to his lips and continues.

“The cousins, too, are terribly confused about how they—barely young men—can have descendants in the seventh generation. It means, of course, that they would have to be very old.

“‘Perhaps,’ Liu Ch’en says to Yuan Chao sadly, ‘the white rabbit at the grotto represented the changing seasons, and each time it jumped, another year had passed by. It jumped hundreds of times, which would mean our day at the cave lasted four hundred years.’

“Fearful, they cry out to the old men, ‘But we are Liu Ch’en and Yuan Chao!’” My father cups his hand to his mouth and calls out across the water, as if he, too, is calling to the old men. “The old men shake their heads, their long beards swishing at their chins. They summon the other people of the village, who come and beat Yuan Chao and Liu Ch’en. ‘Young rascals,’ the villagers cry, ‘How dare you come bother old men!’”

“But why were the villagers mean?” I ask. “Why didn’t they care about the cousins?”

My father picks up a pebble and rolls it between his fingers. “They didn’t recognize them.”

“That’s sad,” I say, and he agrees.

“The boys flee back to the cave, reeds in hand—remember the reeds the cave fairies gave them?—but the entrance is closed up tight. And when they open their hands, the reeds are gone, and they can’t remember where they’ve left them. They knock and knock at the cave door, but there’s no answer. In their grief, they bang their heads against the stone until they die.

“But the ruler of heaven takes pity on their sad fate and grants them favor, appointing Liu Ch’en the God of Good Luck and Yuan Chao the God of Bad Luck.” Dad tosses the pebble into the river and it quickly disappears. “The end,” he says, standing and grabbing his fishing rod. He nods for me to get mine, too.

“That’s it?” I ask, disappointed yet again. “I still don’t get it.” But I don’t push because my father has tears in his eyes.

“You will one day, Klee,” he says, clearing his throat, “I don’t feel like fishing anymore, okay?” Then he takes my hand and leads me back in the direction we came, toward my mother.

Day 13 into 14—Overnight into Morning

It’s daybreak, but dark out, pouring rain. I’m walking down West Broadway toward Spring Street.

Thunder booms in the distance and lightning flashes in jagged streaks between the tall buildings, momentarily lighting up the entire sky.

Dad engulfs my small hand with his so I feel safe, looks down and smiles at me.

“Tell me what it all means,” I say, but all he says is, “Nothing to be afraid of now, Klee.”

Another clap of thunder and he’s gone. The sky undulates and darkens and the cold rain streams down, drenching me.

I run and I run, but I’m not little anymore. I’m me now, eighteen.

As I run, and the rain pelts down, people move out of my way, rush off the streets, under awnings, huddle in doorways, umbrellas snapping in the wind, newspapers held over their heads. I try to wedge myself between bodies in an open doorway to stay dry, but no one seems willing to let me in.

Then Martin is waving from a doorway. “Come on in, Alden. Mi casa es su casa,” he says. I move past him into the building. A doorbell chimes. “Are you coming?” I call back, but he shakes his head and says, “It’s not my thing, you go in.”

The door clicks shut behind me.

The room I find myself in is dimly lit, musty, quiet. “We’ve been waiting for you, Klee,” a voice says.

A girl with wild fuchsia hair and multiple piercings looks down on me from behind a tall counter where she sits in a white lifeguard chair. The counter is covered with art books and brochures. Van Gogh’s Van Goghs stands open, on display.

I look up at her, and she asks, “Are you going in for a swim?” She nods toward the end of the room.

At first I don’t know what she’s talking about. This is an art gallery. There’s no pool here. Then I see it. A huge painting of a lake. Suddenly, the gallery seems familiar, and I realize it’s the one where I went with my dad, where he bought Icarus’s Flight Plan.

My father will be here, then! I search and search but don’t see him anywhere.

The girl with the wild hair coughs. “Look closer,” she calls down. “You’re not paying attention.” She motions me toward the painting of the lake.

I walk toward it and squint, the lake coming alive before my eyes, with fish jumping and people splashing and swimming and diving in.

“Remarkable, right?” she asks. And some of it is, but some of it isn’t. Some of it is master quality, and some just seems juvenile, painted like the fish in the mural at the Ape Can.

“Who painted those?” I ask. “Those fish are bad. They don’t belong in a gallery.”