Free The Night of the Comet by George Bishop Page B

“They’re our neighbors, after all. Junior and Gabriella are in the same grade. You’re her teacher. Why wouldn’t they want to come over? People are people.”
    My father could set up his telescope—or rather, my telescope—in the backyard. They’d call the Martellos over, have cocktails, sit for some snacks and chitchat, and then we’d all go out and look at the comet. It could be fun. Just a small, informal affair with the two families, a chance to get to know one another. A stargazing party.
    “Sure. Sounds fun,” my father said, and bent back to his work.
    She looked to me. “What do you think? Should I invite them?”
    “Why not?” I said—although privately, I doubted the Martellos would want to have anything to do with us.
    I was only fourteen, but even I understood that people who lived in Beau Rivage Estates didn’t socialize with people who lived in our neighborhood. They joined the country club in Thibodaux, and played golf and tennis, or went fishing at their weekend homes on Grand Isle. The waterway between our houses marked a boundary as clear as the one between white and black, rich and poor. It was just like at the school yard, only with adults: the Martellos had their circle, my parents had theirs, and the two were never meant to overlap.
    But regardless, over the next few days, my mother began making plans. There was some back and forth on the date. My father insisted that the viewing conditions had to be good. My mother said that it had to be on a weekend. He said you couldn’t negotiate with a comet; it was guided by its own immutable laws, laws that human beings might never completely understand but about which we could at least make informed guesses. He checked with the LSU Astronomy Department, did some calculations, and proposed a Saturday in October when the comet should be visible as it crossed into the constellation Libra.

CHAPTER NINE
    “I’M going,” my mother announced that weekend, a note of defiance in her voice.
    She spent the morning making cupcakes, and in the afternoon she asked Megan to go with her to deliver an invitation to the Martellos. Megan didn’t want to. “Do this for your mother, Meg,” pleaded our father. “Just this once, okay?”
    As soon as they’d driven off in the car, I went upstairs to my room and uncapped the Celestron. In a minute they arrived at the Martellos’ house. My mother pulled up on the wrong side of the road and parked the Rambler at the curb near their driveway. She got out, straightened her clothes, and then led the way along the sidewalk carrying the cupcakes while Megan slumped behind her in a white peasant blouse, the two of them looking like villagers bearing gifts for a king.
    I swiveled the telescope and found Frank Martello sitting in his chair in their patio room. He was drinking a beer and watching a football game on TV, enjoying the kind of casually masculine Saturday afternoonleisure activity that my father never did. After a moment he raised his head, stood, and disappeared. Soon several pairs of legs appeared in the room, their bodies cut off from my view by the tops of the window frames. I recognized my mother’s and Megan’s legs. Barbara Martello was wearing a gold and paisley muumuu; her legs had a tanned, healthy, country club look. A blue-jeaned Gabriella joined them, and then she and my sister left, bringing the cupcakes to the kitchen, I assumed.
    Eventually the glass door slid open and the adults came outside onto the patio. Frank led my mother around the swimming pool, through the tall iron gates, and down the boardwalk to their boat dock, talking and pointing. Barbara followed them. As they spoke and gestured, I could almost read the words on their lips:
    I love your flowers
.
    I want to put some up there, too, hang them from the lamp posts. We’ll bring the boat right up here
.
    He thinks he’s going to keep a yacht here. He thinks we live on the Riviera
.
    Sure. This goes straight out to the