Shake Down the Stars by Renee Swindle Page B

two. No more breaking and entering for the either of yas.”
    â€œThank you, Officer,” Selwyn says.
    When we have the courage to turn around, we see our cop watching us closely, rocking on his heels, arms crossed.
    â€œWhat a weirdo!” I mutter.
    â€œLaurel without Hardy.”
    â€œAbbott without Costello.”
    â€œStop being a wise guy,” Selwyn mimics.
    I laugh. “‘No more breaking and entering for the either of yas.’”
    â€œWhere do you think he was from?”
    â€œI don’t know. Some lost
X-Files
episode maybe.” And this time I wink.
    Selwyn smiles and opens the car door for me. After we fasten our seat belts, Selwyn turns. “Where to?”
    I know it’s time to head back to the party, but I can’t say I want to. I don’t want to face Mom, or any of them for that matter. And Selwyn’s right, in a way. It does feel like we have a connection, even if it’s entirely imagined. “You really don’t mind playing chauffeur?”
    â€œNot at all.” He pauses as he thinks over what he wants to say. “This has been good for me.” He grins and rolls his head in my direction. “Since I’m playing your driver, might be nice to wake up in Mendocino tomorrow morning. Calistoga. I have all night and all day. Don’t mind at all. We can make a trip out of it.” He puts the key in the ignition, grinning happily at the thought of a little B and B and a day of sightseeing.
    â€œActually, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking me to Martin Luther King and Fifty-fifth.”
    â€œMartin Luther King Boulevard? In Oakland?’
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThat’s where you wanna go?”
    â€œYep.”
    His entire body deflates as he lets go of any and all romantic notions of soaking tonight in a hot tub in Calistoga. He shakes his head wearily and turns the ignition. “Martin Luther King and Fifty-fifth it is.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T wenty minutes later we’re standing in front of LaDonna Smith’s altar. Candles are lit and burn quietly in the night. Nailed to the telephone pole is a laminated picture of Donna Hawks, LaDonna’s mother, holding LaDonna in her lap. LaDonna was six years old when she died, two years older than Hailey. Above the picture someone has nailed poster board with the words WE LOVE YOU
and WE’LL MISS YOU
in bright pink glitter. Surrounding the candles are weighted balloons and teddy bears. I asked Selwyn to stop at the liquor store before we ended up here, and now I add a bag of gummy bears to the bowl filled with candy.
    â€œDid you know her?” Selwyn asks.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you know what happened?”
    â€œDrive-by. They were going for someone else, and she got caught in the cross fire. She was in a coma for two days but didn’t make it.”
    â€œTragic. Just tragic.” He stands and reaches for my hand, but I pull away.
    There’s another altar for Markus Money Burnett just at the end of the block. And on Fifty-sixth there’s another for Anthony Tucker. Anthony, who was only fifteen, was shot by the police. He was a straight-A student, and just before his death, he had received a full scholarship to West Academy.
    What Selwyn doesn’t know is that I live only a couple of blocks away from where we stand. When I have insomnia, which is always, I sometimes leave the house at four or five in the morning and walk from one altar to another; there are at least four altars in a one-mile radius. Sometimes I leave gifts—flowers for Anthony, candy for Shawn on Sixtieth. I started a letter for LaDonna’s mother once
. Our daughters would’ve liked each other,
the letter began,
but I was crying too much after only a few sentences and never finished it.
    Selwyn kneels down and relights a candle that’s gone out.
    He stands, and we look at LaDonna’s picture in silence. This time