How to Align the Stars

Chapter Five

Bea

Once again, Ben was waiting in the back of the auditorium when Bea finished teaching. This time she was expecting him.

“Do you want to go off campus?” he asked. “It’s the day half the drama department works in the cafe and I’m not sure I can bear another performance from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in the sandwich line.”

“Should we walk to Mostarda? It’s all fancy now but the turkey sandwich is still exactly the same as always.” Like much of Millet, the cafe Bea suggested had gotten a facelift as the wine industry grew and the town became a popular tourist destination.

“Perfect.”

Their walk across campus felt almost to Bea like it would have with any old college friend, taking turns remarking on changes to campus, laughing about Halloween their sophomore year when one of the bigger trees lining the quad was festooned so thoroughly with toilet paper that bits fluttered onto the walkway until graduation.

As they passed the student union and turned onto Main Street, the college buildings gave way to tasting rooms, boutiques and bistros. Ben said as they passed the second chain coffee shop, “Remember when we got the one Taco Bell on the edge of town, and it was a big deal?”

Bea laughed. “Yeah, I got roped into being the sober drive-thru chauffeur pretty often.”

They passed a wine bar advertising “sangria slushies” and came to the wrought iron fence cordoning off Mostarda’s sidewalk seating. The maroon and cream awning was new, but it harkened back to the old red and white one, when this place had been called The Mustard Jar. Back then, it was a quaint but no-frills deli. Now, the lighting was dim and inviting, the path to the register was lined with bottles of wine and carefully curated pantry staples, and the eagle-topped copper dome of an espresso machine loomed over the counter.

The balcony hadn’t changed, though. While the dining area had been spruced up and extended onto the sidewalk, there was still a staircase in the back of the shop, if you knew to look for it, leading up to a second level where a hodgepodge of wobbly tables were occupied by students hunched over laptops, and professors graded papers in the careworn armchairs, sipping cappuccinos. It was open to the space below in a way that allowed the restaurant noise to carry upward, the clatter and conversation blending into a pleasant clamor. As a student, Bea had often found it easier to study here than in the oppressive quiet of the library.

Walking ahead of Ben, she found a table in the corner, where there would be enough room for them to spread out their notes. She shrugged out of her jacket.

Ben settled into the chair opposite. “So,” he said, “interdisciplinary education.”

“Right.” She drew the memo from President Phillips out of her folder. “We’ll be on the panel for a roundtable discussion on current measures, and should come back from the symposium with a plan for expanded ‘cross-disciplinary curriculum development to enhance student learning outcomes’ to implement next fall. She says she plans to involve more faculty in the spring.”

Ben took a legal pad out of his bag and scrawled “Libraries” and “Science” at the top, then drew a line down the middle. “So, my entire job is cross disciplinary. The special collection is weighted toward humanities, but every department has books coded to their subject matter. But in the sciences, isn’t what you teach pretty cut and dried? Gravity, orbits, and so on?”

“Not at all. The first assignment my entry-level students do is choose a constellation that interests them and write a paper on it; including the properties of the stars, but also the history of the figure. Who named the constellation, and why? What did it mean to them? I get a lot of students in that class who aren’t science majors. I want them to understand how ancient peoples organized the stars into symbols to help the make sense of the universe and their place in it.”

While she spoke, Ben wrote “history” and “research” under the science heading. “That’s excellent. I’ve been thinking about something like that, too, for my Book Arts class next round—have the students start out researching some aspect of bookmaking: the medieval monastery environment, how the switch from vellum to paper changed the dissemination of information…” As he went on, Ben’s ideas about contextualizing the course content were on point, but she found herself distracted as she watched his face, illuminated by passion for his work. She had thought librarianship was a career he’d settled for, but maybe he had only needed another try to find his calling.

Maybe she had misjudged him. Could what Charlie said on Sunday about Ben’s regrets be true? Bea still wasn’t sure, but she didn’t want to become so set in her opinions that she couldn’t see the person sitting in front of her for who they were. From now on, she would keep an open mind and do her best to be fair to Ben. If only he would lose the stupid ball cap that made it harder to see into his eyes.

Their work was interrupted by the cook yelling their order number.

“I’ll go grab that.” Ben was already pushing his chair back.

Bea started to protest that she could certainly fetch her own damn sandwich, but caught herself and smiled instead. It felt strange, smiling at Ben. “Thanks.”

While he was gone, she sketched out a bubble diagram of cross-disciplinary assignment ideas, which they worked on together until Bea noticed she was late for her office hours.

“Shit. I have to run.”

Ben joined her on a mad, merry dash back to campus. She didn’t notice they’d passed the library and he’d continued on to the science building with her until they were at her office.

Fortunately, there weren’t any students waiting outside her door. She opened her laptop to check her messages, hoping she hadn’t missed anyone. While she did that, Ben leaned a shoulder against the door jamb.

“That was great,” he said.

“It was. I think we have some solid ideas.”

“Right. For the symposium.” His demeanor downshifted.

She looked at him quizzically. Surely he had been talking about the work.

“Yes. Well, talk again soon.”

“Sure.” He looked at her for a second before he turned to go, like he wanted to say something more, but instead he left, throwing a “see ya” over his shoulder after he started down the hall.

Through the window, Bea saw him emerge from the building and head down the path back to the library. She studied his departing figure for clues about what he was thinking, but it offered none.

Heron

The return of more middle-class women to the workplace in the early 1960s was marked by streamlined silhouettes. Homemakers adopted the styles too, but in brighter prints and more delicate fabrics.

Heron stopped typing, pulled out the pencil she’d stuck in her hair, and made a tick mark on her notes. After a month of research, her thesis was starting to come together well enough to begin drafting, and she was on a roll. She thought she could have a rough draft of this section done today. Charlie was sprawled on her bed studying for a statistics test. The occasional mutter or rustle of pages was making it easier for her to focus; a tiny reassurance she wasn’t in this alone, that was all she needed. After double-checking a reference in her folder of articles, Heron’s fingers and mind were off again, words flying across the page.

Charlie sat up. “Babe,” he said, “I’m getting hungry. Do you think you could possibly make me a turkey burger?”

“There are snacks in the kitchen.” She was a little hungry too. “Can you bring me a string cheese when you come back?”

“I’m not snack hungry, I’m meal hungry.”

She looked at her screen. She had a few paragraphs left to go. “Just let me finish this section. You can get some chips while you wait—I have the barbecue kind you like.”

“But it’s almost six. And I have a chapter meeting at seven. I really should eat before.”

“Can you eat at the frat house? I want to finish this.”

Charlie screwed up his face. “It’s fish stick night.”

“Fine.” She saved her file and closed her laptop, rising to go into the kitchen, assuming he’d follow her.

“I’ll be out as soon as I finish this chapter. Thanks, babe. You’re the best.” He blew her a kiss.

Oh well. She could work while he was at his meeting. This was what partnership was, wasn’t it? Setting your own work aside sometimes to take care of your person. And it was sweet how much he liked her cooking.

She pulled ground turkey out of the fridge, preheated the oven and countertop grill, and was shaking half a bag of frozen sweet potato fries onto a cookie sheet when Maggie clattered through the door, followed by Bryant “Bork” Hardy. He was another SOD brother, although he wasn’t in Charlie’s inner circle, and Heron usually only saw him at big functions.

Bork and Maggie had classes in the same building on Thursday afternoons, and usually walked back together afterward.

“Hey.” Heron, knowing the answer to the question she was about to ask, was already dumping the rest of the fries into the pan. “You guys want turkey burgers?”

“Awesome,” said Bork.

“Yes, please. Thanks, Mom,” Maggie sing-songed.

Heron threw a fry at her.

Maggie said, “I’m gonna change. Be right back.”

Bork hovered in the kitchen doorway. “Can I help?”

“Um…sure. Do you want to get toppings ready? There’s lettuce and tomato in the fridge.”

Heron’s bedroom door opened, and Charlie appeared in the hallway with the sleepy, squinty look of a person adjusting to the real world after hours of staring at fine print. “This is cozy,” he said.

Heron caught an edge to his voice but decided to pretend she hadn’t. He was only tired and hungry. She stepped forward and kissed him, careful to hold her messy hands away from his sweater. “Isn’t it? Bork is helping and Maggie will be out soon.”

Becoming more himself, Charlie thumped Bork on the back and said, “Want a beer?” He leaned into the fridge.

Heron was about to tell him they didn’t have any, but Bork said, “Nah, man, I have a test tomorrow.”

Charlie emerged with one of Maggie’s pear hard ciders, opened it to take a swig, and grimaced but kept drinking. Heron made a mental note to buy her roommate a replacement. She washed her hands and poured glasses of water for herself and Bork.

Maggie cleared her books from the table and set it while Heron finished cooking and Charlie and Bork had a loud conversation about…quarterbacks or something.

When they all sat down, it felt like the flimsy card table was levitating between the four of them, held aloft by Charlie and Bork’s long legs. Bork told a story about his high school baseball team that made Maggie laugh so hard ginger ale came out her nose, and Charlie’s hand rested on Heron’s knee almost the whole time. It was one of those simple moments you want to capture and also a glimpse of the future; this was what it was going to be like next year, hosting friends in the home she shared with Charlie. By the time the guys left, they were already three minutes late for their fraternity meeting, but that was fine since the SODs couldn’t start without Charlie.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Maggie said.

Heron waved her off. “I’ve got it. I made the mess.”

“Oh, stop it. You don’t have to take care of everything, you know.”

“I don’t take care of everything.” Heron scowled.

Maggie sighed. “Cooking dinner for Charlie while he studies? Come on, Heron. That’s a little Susie Homemaker even for you.”

“It’s only turkey burgers. And what do you mean, ‘even for me?’” Heron set the stack of plates she was holding down a little harder than she’d intended to and winced at the noise they made clattering on the counter.

Maggie put the grill plates in the sink to soak before she answered. “It’s just…sometimes it’s like you’re treating being with Charlie like a job interview. Like some sort of messed up wife audition. And I don’t think you should feel like you have to do that.”

“Maggie. It’s just a quick dinner. We all needed to eat anyway. God.”

Maggie put her hands up. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just want you to know you can tell Charlie to order a damn pizza. Okay?”

“Of course.” Heron made a concerted effort to make her smile reach her eyes.

After the kitchen was clean, they retreated to their own rooms to study, but Heron couldn’t get her flow back. She was writing about the intersection of social change and fashion in the latter half of the twentieth century, but every time she started to think about the gender roles and clothes of the sixties, Maggie’s comment popped into her head. A wife audition. Maggie knew how much she loved Charlie, and how much he loved her, but she was mistaking the little sacrifices that came along with love for something negative. It wasn’t Maggie’s fault—she simply didn’t understand the give-and-take, compromise and selflessness that came with sustaining a years-long relationship. She’d never seen the consequences of taking people for granted the way Heron had.

Heron hadn’t checked her horoscope yet today; that must be why she felt slightly off-kilter. Hers immediately made her feel better:

TAURUS: It will be tempting to lose sight of your end goal today. Don’t let distractions steer you off course.

Obviously, Maggie’s remarks were trying to distract from her happily married future. As always, she checked Charlie’s:

GEMINI: Appreciating your loved ones today brings a deeper sense of security. You will soon have an opportunity to repay their kindness.

See? Charlie obviously appreciated the things she did for him, and he did nice things for her, too. For good measure, Heron checked Bea’s sign:

SCORPIO: If you’re in a rut, it might seem more comfortable to stay there, but an open mind will allow you to see all the opportunities in front of you.

Heron let out a little hum of satisfaction. Perfect. She’d set the wheels in motion to help Bea see Ben as an opportunity.

Bea

Bea took a sip of her old-fashioned, savoring the sweet, smoky bite. She liked wine—living where she did and being related to Len, she kind of had to—but nothing could beat a beautifully crafted cocktail. The aesthetics were better, too, the squat little glass, the curl of orange peel in its amber pool. Perfect. Sarah’s glass of cabernet looked pedestrian by comparison.

Bea and Sarah became friends right here at the Venerable Grape’s live music night, on a particularly crowded evening when a Portland-based performer she loved was doing an acoustic set. Bea had just moved back to Millet after grad school and didn’t know anyone else in town who might like the show. She went by herself and was lucky to snag a small table. A woman in a violet coat with a wild mass of black curls came in, eyes casting around for a spot. Although she didn’t mind being there alone, Bea felt guilty taking up a whole table for herself, so she waved the woman over and offered her the empty chair. She’d only been trying to be kind, but as they chatted between sets, they hit it off. Sarah was a couple of years older than Bea, had recently broken up with her girlfriend, and didn’t have many friends in town either. They’d been close ever since, occasionally road-tripping to Seattle to see a show, singing along in the car to Jagged Little Pill and Exile in Guyville until their throats were raw.

The Grape perched like a terrarium in the tall-windowed second floor of one of downtown’s old office buildings, exposed brick lined with tapestries and potted plants, scattered vintage lamps, mismatched rugs, and cafe tables. A postage-stamp sized stage was tucked into one corner and a counter along the back wall served a variety of complicated coffees and cocktails. Now Main Street was full of wine bars and cafes, but the Venerable Grape was the first. It had been around since Bea was a student, when it was the only alternative to the dive bars north of campus.

Tonight’s act was a Messiman student, an earnest young man with an earnest guitar. He was decent, Bea supposed, if not quite her thing, but tonight’s crowd wasn’t listening with the rapt attention they usually gave to the bigger out-of-town acts. The room hummed with chatter broken occasionally by a particularly sincere wail from the performer. Over their cocktails and cheese board, Bea was filling Sarah in on Heron’s engagement.

“It sounds like something out of a movie,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, it was nice. Heron’s thrilled.”

“You sound…less thrilled.”

Bea shook her head. “I’m happy she’s so happy, but come on, who gets married at twenty-two anymore?”

“Not us!” Sarah laughed.

“Definitely not us. I just don’t want her to dive into marriage too early. Especially after what happened with her mom.”

Sarah’s eyebrows drew together. “Do you mean, because Felicia regretted getting married young, or because Felicia leaving made Heron more likely to seek family security?”

Bea considered this for a moment before answering. “Both, I guess. I think Heron has a more sensible head on her shoulders than Felicia, but how can she not see the connection? I’ve always thought she was in a rush to grow up too fast. She likes for things to be settled and I’m afraid that will lead to mistakes.”

“I think you could give her a little more credit. She’s a smart young woman. It’s okay for her to know what she wants. On the very small chance that it turns out to be a mistake, she knows better than most she can undo it, and she has a good support system.”

Bea appreciated Sarah’s honesty, even when it was galling to have her errors in judgement pointed out. She sliced a hard sliver of Manchego cheese and waited until she could detect the “notes of caramel” promised by the menu card before saying, “I suppose you’re right. And even if you aren’t, I shouldn’t be the one to rain on her parade.”

“Atta girl.”

“I am taking her to a wedding show weekend after next, heaven help me. Toni is far more into this wedding planning stuff, but she can’t leave the tasting room on a Saturday.”

Sarah laughed. “I would pay good money to see Beatrice Hayes at a wedding show.”

“You’re more than welcome to tag along. I won’t even charge you.”

Sarah sipped her wine. “Sadly, I’m working.”

Bea was about to respond when a raucous burst of masculine laughter from behind them caught her ear. It was between sets now and the crowd noise had increased, but the sound still carried across the room and several people shot dirty looks toward the back of the bar. She turned and saw Ben at one of the high-top tables in a group of five or six guys who all appeared to be several beers deep. She caught his eye, and for a moment their gazes locked, a taut line connecting them past the other people in the room, over all the chatter. The rush of unspoken connection zipped down Bea’s spine, taking her so by surprise she stifled a cough as the last sip of her drink caught in her throat.

This was not the sort of situation Bea was accustomed to finding herself in. Should she wave? Go over there to say hello? Before she could decide, one of Ben’s friends shot off a one-liner and the entire table erupted in laughter again. Their eye contact was broken when Ben tipped his head back in a guffaw. Bea looked down at her empty glass, the orange peel beginning to dry out and turn brown around the edges. Well, if Ben wanted to talk to her, he could certainly walk over to say hello. His merry band of brothers over there probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. And it would be rude of her to leave Sarah sitting here all by herself, wouldn’t it? Whatever.

She returned her attention to her friend. “Sorry, I missed what you just said.”

“Samples. If the booths at the show are giving out samples, bring me back as many as you can. We can always use stuff like paper, ribbon, and tulle for the craft closet, and the residents love those soft mints. Most of their teeth can’t handle Jordan almonds, but I freaking love those things so bring them all to me.” Sarah, a social worker at a nursing home, was always doing small, extra things for her clients.

Bea chuckled. “You got it.” Come to think of it, a non-matrimonial mission would make the entire outing far more fun for her, and she suspected Sarah knew that.

When the musician packed up his guitar and the sound system switched over to trip hop, Bea said, “I’m not quite ready to go home yet, are you?”

They switched from drinks to herbal tea for Sarah, a decaf cappuccino for Bea, and had an animated discussion about the latest antics of Sarah’s clients and Bea’s students. Bea’s ears pricked up when, behind her, she heard Ben’s table scrape their stools back and start a round of loud goodbyes. She guessed he would probably come over to say hello after his friends left, but when she turned to look, the back of the room was empty.

Bea gulped the last of her coffee. She had to pull it together. One pleasant working lunch and a couple of rumors had her behaving like a moony teenager. Pathetic.

Heron

Heron walked home from the library alone on Saturday evening. All around her classmates bustled across the quad, many heading back to their dorms or apartments to get ready for an evening out, or to the dining hall for dinner, some bundled in jackets and scarves. Some unfortunate souls were on their way into the library with a night of studying ahead of them.

Heron’s head had been buzzing and her stomach queasy since yesterday. After suspecting she had bombed a bluebook test in her Criminal Justice class and a disappointing meeting with her thesis adviser, who expressed concern about her focus on mid-century gender roles not covering enough new ground, she was feeling academically precarious. By the time she met Charlie on the quad after their Friday afternoon classes, she’d been riding the edge of panic, shaky and scattered.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” he’d said. “You haven’t gotten anything lower than a B+ on a test since I’ve known you. And you have plenty of time to figure out your thesis—most people haven’t even started yet.”

She planned to use the weekend to regroup. She’d been in the library all day, searching the databases and reading articles. She was starting to see a way forward. By shifting her emphasis slightly to focus more on differences between trends in the domestic sphere and professional spaces, she could say something interesting about how women use clothes to code switch when they move between roles. It would be less about how women differentiated themselves from men, and more about how they differentiated between different versions of themselves. Heron was happy with the change. Deciding on a research topic that could apply to both her sociology and art majors had been a challenge, and the new focus on self-expression would help keep her research balanced between both fields of study.

She was also starving. This was one drawback of living off campus; if she still lived in the dorms, she could walk into the dining hall and be sitting down at a table with a tray of food within minutes. But her cozy little apartment was better. She’d much rather go home, put on her snuggliest pajamas, and order a pizza without the risk of having to sit on the awkward fringes of a random cluster of classmates. She and Charlie had started dating early freshman year and she’d spent so much time with him she hadn’t made many close friends. The Lambdas, Maggie’s sorority, had invited her to join twice, but she just didn’t see the need when she was at so many SOD events. On days like today, she wondered if she was missing out on something.

She’d have the apartment to herself tonight. The SODs had a function with the Lambdas and Maggie and Charlie would both be there. Since it was an official Lambda/Sig-O-Delt event, only members of those groups were allowed to attend. She didn’t mind; what she really needed was a quiet evening in. She was just disappointed it would be alone. Heron gazed upward at the crystalline sky, marred only by a few wispy clouds quickly turning from white to apricot. As she walked, she soaked up the last cold rays of October sun.

When she opened the door of her building, the scent of savory spices: coriander, garlic, cumin, chilis, filled her nose and Heron was hit with a wave of nostalgia for her mother. Felicia had stopped cooking long before she’d left and these smells retained an association with simpler times, from before she’d known how fragile happiness could be. One of her neighbors must be making dinner. Heron briefly considered fixing something for herself before discarding the idea; she was much too tired. It had taken her hours to fall asleep last night, only to be yanked awake in the early morning hours by a pounding heart and swimming head.

As she entered her apartment, the mouth-watering smell hit her full force along with the warmth that filled the apartment when the oven was on. Odd. Maybe Maggie wasn’t at the party yet. As soon as she clicked the door shut, she heard the blender turn on with a whiz. Maggie, not a fan of cheap keg beer, must be making herself a pre-party daiquiri.

“Mags?” she called.

“Nope.” Charlie emerged from the kitchen holding two glasses filled with thick, saffron-colored liquid. “It’s me.”

She dropped her bag and rushed forward to kiss him. His lips were sweet and cold, and he gingerly half-closed his arms around her, careful not to spill the drinks.

“Mm,” she said, licking her lips. “Mango?”

“Mango margaritas for madame,” he said with a bow, emphasizing the alliteration. He handed her a glass.

“What on earth did you rim these with?” The coating around the edge of her glass was sticky and red, and made the tip of her tongue tingle when she tasted it.

He laughed. “Crushed up Pop Rocks. Do you like it? My sister told me about it.”

“Hmm, yeah, I do.” She usually preferred her margaritas on the rocks, with salt, but this was sweet and fun, like Charlie. “But aren’t you supposed to be at the Lambda function?”

“They won’t miss me. You were pretty down yesterday, and I thought my girl needed me more than my brothers tonight.”

“Aw.” She leaned in to kiss him again. “Thanks, babe.”

He grinned. “It’s what I’m here for. Now go put your pajamas on because I know you’d be in them by now if I weren’t here. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, but there’s guacamole now.”

The margaritas had been enough of a surprise. “You actually cooked? I thought you’d gone to the taco truck or something.”

“Not exactly. I talked Pollo D’Oro into selling me a pan of enchiladas to bake here. The guacamole is from there, too. But I made the margaritas myself.” Charlie looked so proud. Behind him, Heron could see a can of frozen concentrate mixer on the counter.

Half an hour later, Heron was in her coziest flannel pajamas (Charlie had laid them out on the bed for her, pleated into a heart shape), snuggled against Charlie under her softest blanket, watching The Little Mermaid with a warm plate of enchiladas balanced on her lap. It was all of her favorite, most comfortable things, all here on this couch. How did she get so lucky? The heaviness of the food and her second margarita spread through her limbs, and she felt herself nodding off, head nestled against Charlie’s chest, right in her favorite spot where she could hear his heartbeat. She was asleep before Ariel even got her legs.

The trumpet fanfare of the finale roused her. “Hey.” She blinked up at Charlie.

“Hey.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Go to your party.”

“Nah. I’m here with you.”

“Go on. Really, I’m just going to go to bed.” She stood and stretched.

“Okay, how about this. Twenty minutes. A quick appearance, so no one can say I didn’t show, and then I’ll come right back here.”

She handed him her keys. “Deal. But let yourself in. I might be in bed by the time you get here.”

“Counting on it.” He winked. Pretty cute—maybe she could try to stay awake until he got back.

Heron washed her face and brushed her teeth, crawled between the sheets—clean sheets; Charlie had also done a load of her laundry—and was drifting off when he slipped into bed behind her, wrapping an arm loosely around her waist and fitting his knees into the crook of her legs.

“’Night,” she mumbled, already half asleep. She wanted to say, “I love you,” but all she had the energy for was “love,” which slid out like a sigh.