A Harvest of Stars

Prologue

Locklyn

"God damn it, Lyn, I know you’re down here. You know better than to try to hide from me."

Locklyn knew that there had been a time when she was afraid of spiders. Afraid of whatever it was that she felt creeping up or down her arm in the haze of the sunlight that came through the grubby, cracked basement window as best it could.  Whatever that fear had been was replaced by the knowledge that what her stepfather would do to her if he got close enough to get his hands on her was much worse than the gentle tickling of crawling legs. 

She thought he was drunk again,, but not drunk enough to be unconscious on the sofa or even the bathtub, like he had the Saturday before.  Locklyn knew her mother had cleaned up that mess, after Bobby slapped her a few times for good measure.  Keeping us in line, that’s what he called it.  Her mother had long skinny arms that twitched most of the time.

Locklyn thought that if those arms were let loose, they’d smack her stepfather right back, and then some.

Disrespectful, that’s what it is, not to come when you’re called.  You forget your place, girl. I’ll remember it to you, though. Don’t think I won’t.

Her mother was fading away, fading like the velvet painting of the singer Bobby loved so much that hung in the living room.  Just like a picture, her mother had been, bright and shining, her face pink and flushed, her hair a melting yellow like daffodils.  Her mother liked it when Locklyn compared her hair to daffodils, and would pet Locklyn’s own dark waves, dark like her real daddy who went away before she was born and never came back.

Something stopped him, I don’t know what. If he knew you were coming he wouldn’t have stayed away from us for the world.

Bobby thought that was some joke.

Come back for the pair of you? You know I’m the only man who’d put up with either of you, never mind the both. Reality check, girls. I’m your reality.

The basement stairs were sturdier than they looked, although they were just slats with open backs that could be tricky if you were in a hurry and lost your footing.  Locklyn wished Bobby would take that one wrong step, the one that would land his head into the cement brick wall. She knew that hope didn’t pay the bills and wishing didn’t make something true, but she was still her mother’s daughter and at five years old, enough of a child yet to let that wish go with a soft breath, a breath no one could possibly hear.

No one except her stepfather.

She heard his voice, the absolute triumph in his growl, before she felt the pull of her hair from her scalp.

Gotcha!

Her back was pressed against the stairs as she stood oh so still behind them, facing the pitted and mildewed blocks of the cement wall, her head tucked just at the opening between two steps.  He probably wouldn’t have seen her if it hadn’t been for the wish.

Locklyn closed her eyes and focused on the white spray of dandelion fluff behind her eyes, floating free and light in the breeze.  Bobby was yanking her head back and forth against the stair, his fist full of hair, and the back of her neck had to be hurting as it slammed again and again into the wood, but Locklyn was in a field of wishes, counting dandelion fluff in a field where he couldn’t reach her.

Nobody could.

Chapter One

Locklyn and Isaiah

Teachers never did approve of Lock’s sunglasses, but most just gave over after she made a fuss.  When she was in kindergarten, that fuss consisted of peeing her pants and rolling around on the floor screaming.  When she went to first grade, she held her breath until her face began to turn blue and Isaiah became worried.  The teacher, Mrs. Gallon, just like milk or shine, explained that she would have no such drama in her class, but something must have made her relent after taking a long look into the gray-blue eyes hiding behind Lock’s Ray-Bans. 

They weren’t real Ray-Bans, of course. Lock didn’t know anyone in town who had them for real, but close enough to call them so.  Isaiah knew why Lock needed them but he never said so out loud, not to Lock, not to anyone. 

Once there had been a nurse from the county health department who stopped by each classroom in the school and talked about all manner of things, none of which garnered his attention until she got to something she called domestic abuse.

That is a situation where someone who is close to you, someone in your family or who lives with you, hurts you or someone else.  They might hit, they might yell, they might keep you from getting what you need, like food when you’re hungry.

Yelling? There wasn’t a one of the kids in that building who wasn’t used to getting hollered at, so that didn’t make much sense to him. But the hitting. . .  and what was that about food?  He knew Lock didn’t have much, or sometimes any food, although she didn’t say that much about it.  She got a free lunch but that might have been all she ate if he didn’t bring her a baggie of cookies now and again.

If you or someone you know is being hurt by someone at their house, or by anyone else, you can call this number or talk to a teacher about it.  There are people who can help.

Isaiah didn’t dare turn his head towards his friend but slid his gaze to her in what he hoped was a more secretive way.  Lock was watching the woman, her eyes unblinking, her expression blank.  Did she hear what the nurse was saying? Isaiah couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she was daydreaming, again.  He could see her eyes behind the lenses, which were too big for her face, and it seemed as if the nurse’s words had no bearing on her at all. 

Lock lived in her own little world, though, and Isaiah felt lucky that she often included him.  Often wasn’t always, though, and sometimes he lost her to wherever her wishes carried her at any given time.

He’d be waiting for her, though, when she returned. He always would.

ISAIAH AND LOCKLYN met on the first day of kindergarten, a day hot and dusty and for him, full of expectations.  His family lived near the railroad tracks by the old Carnation Milk factory, far enough from other houses that it had always been difficult for him to make an acquaintance with another child who would be able to play with him.  No one seemed to be within walking distance, and since both his parents had jobs at the glassworks on opposing shifts, their time at home was spent sleeping, and neither could be bothered too much with entertaining their young son. 

Isaiah always had something to eat and a warm bed in the winter, electricity to power the old circular steel fan to cool the rooms in the house in the summer.  He wanted for nothing, really, except attention.  Love, he knew that, he knew the affectionate hand that ruffled his hair, the freshly washed pajamas pulled over his damp head after a bath, kind words from yawning mouths as he was encouraged to eat more, to keep the doors locked, to be careful. 

And then, he was alone. 

He could hear his father’s soft snores, or his mother’s humming breaths coming from their bedroom, depending on the time of day or night.  There wasn’t much to visit in town besides the ice cream stand, the grocery, the movie theatre, and maybe some of the small stores, unless you owned a farm. 

Isaiah thought he had heard tell that once all the field that crept up to the back of his house had been a farm, with all manner of animals and a garden that went on for acres.  Sometimes he stood at the back door, staring out into the distance, imagining rows upon rows of corn, horses stretching their necks over a fence to gnaw at grass, chickens tapping at the ground with their hard little beaks. 

There was an old barn back there somewhere, far enough back that he couldn’t see it and had never been allowed to hunt it down, and furthermore, a house with pillars, one he sometimes saw when his mother drove into town with him for a doctor’s appointment.  Before he was allowed to go to kindergarten, she had taken him to visit the nurse at the doctor’s office, holding a paper in her hand that needed signing.  Isaiah imagined it was a ticket, a ticket to school, but after his arm had been stabbed with a needle and the sweat on his skin refused the stick of the Band-Aid the nurse pressed on him, he knew it was something hurtful, something that carried words that resulted in pain. 

His mother was gentle but he couldn’t forget how she had lured him into the nurse’s hands, never explaining what was to come.  Words could hurt, and words could be held back to the same effect.  It was something to think about, but as the actual first day of school approached, Isaiah let his distrust and anger simmer down into a corner of his mind to allow room for a pleasant expectation. 

He would have other children to play with, at least during school hours, and a bus to ride from his home that would offer a tour of the town and a path to the homes of these other children, so he might find some who were accessible by foot.  His parents would not be fond of him walking out alone, but if the other child met him part way, or the parents looked out for his arrival, it just might be negotiated.  There were possibilities, definitely.  Of the learning, he had no fear.  His time alone had been spent with books, and he could read well enough to impress the teacher during his readiness test.  School would be about others, he knew, about meeting them, befriending them, finding his likeness so he would no longer be alone in the world. 

When Isaiah stepped up onto the school bus on that very first morning, he saw that one child had been picked up before him.  She sat all the way in the back, her back straight, her dark head turned towards the window, facing the rising sun.  Her huge sunglasses reflected the light from the same, and a star-shaped glare kicked off the lenses and nearly blinded Isaiah as he walked confidently to take the seat across from her.  She paid him no mind, even as he stared at her in a way that could only be felt.

Hi, he offered, gesturing a greeting with his open hand with the hope that it might catch her attention.  Her hair was dark like his mother’s, with streaks like the color of walnut shells adding a shine to it.  He could almost see behind those giant lenses but not quite, so he squinted and leaned closer.

What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?

Her voice startled him into an upright position and he found himself staring straight into those dark ovals, close enough to actually see her eyes behind them. 

Why’re you wearing those sunglasses? You got something wrong with your eyes?

He watched those eyes blink, blink again, as if she hadn’t been expecting such a direct response.  She turned her head slightly towards the front of the bus, then back to face him, and pushed the glasses up onto the top of her head.  Isaiah couldn’t help but suck in a breath at what he saw. 

The blue-gray of her eyes was overwhelmed by the yellow and purple bruises that seeped into the hollows underneath them.  They stared at each other, and Isaiah felt his mouth fell open.  It was rude, his mother would say, to leave his mouth open, staring like someone simple, but there it was. 

There she was.  She might be beat up but this girl was someone tough.

What did you do to get that?

He swallowed after he asked and rubbed his lips together.  There was no telling when another child would be collected and he had a certain feeling that once they had company she would stop talking.  He was right.  The girl dropped the glasses back onto her nose and turned her head to face the front of the bus.

"Never mind that. There’s a reason why it’s called my business."

The bus had slowed gradually but Isaiah hadn’t noticed.  It was hard to notice much with the girl right there, but she grew quiet and stopped paying him any mind as a group of three girls clomped loudly up the bus steps, laughing and squealing over God only knew what at this time of day.  Excited about school, he imagined, but that wasn’t any reason to act like a bunch of old chickens.

The girl made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.

Chickens got better sense.

Isaiah cringed, his shoulders squeezing up towards his ears.  He must have said that bit about chickens out loud, and wouldn’t his mother be ashamed of his lack of manners?  When he looked up, she was staring at him, a smile small and still at one corner of her lips.

Locklyn. Locklyn Gaines. You can call me Lock if you want, but not Lyn. Never Lyn.

Isaiah vaguely heard a giggle or two from the front of the bus as it started to