Star of Night by Sal Difalco
On December 21st, 2049, when the red star Betelgeuse—10th brightest in the sky—unexpectedly exploded in a blazing supernova, scientists told us we had nothing to fear, that our planet was too far away for the explosion to harm, much less destroy, life on earth, and to enjoy the show. The solstice had never been so spectacular.
Problem was, the supernova had lit up the night sky—a dull yellow glow that obscured the stars but didn’t quite duplicate daylight. Indeed, the night sky was expected to be lit up for at least several months. And while scientists said no physical harm would come of it, no one could honestly predict its psychological ramifications.
“So much for the Christmas lights this year,” my partner Felicia lamented as we stood on our snow-covered lawn and stared at the sky.
“They still look nice,” I offered.
Felicia shrugged. “It’s just weird. Makes me feel weird, and small.”
The supernova had dwarfed us all, turned our little worlds upside down. Perhaps the lack of a black sky dotted with stars toyed with our psychic equilibrium.
My next door neighbor Peter waved to us from his window. His vintage Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater made us smile. Not that we found it charming, but we knew that Peter expected us to find it charming. He’d lost something after his wife Izzy left him the year before—with a million other Earthlings—to seed the Martian colonies. He believed the supernova was all a fraud, a great hoax perpetrated by oligarchs overseeing the Martian operations. He believed that Betelgeuse was still intact and that giant Martian spotlights lit up the night sky.
Felicia and I went inside. We kicked off our boots and fleeces. Glittering in the corner of the living room, the holographic Christmas tree gave me pause. It never failed to move me. This year, it left me cold.
“What is it?” Felicia asked as she wrapped herself in a blanket on the sofa and engaged the Empathic Multimedia Cube, or EMC, which offered classic Christmas music: Vince Guaraldi. Perfect.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Things feel off.”
Felicia chuckled. “No kidding!”
“Wonder how Santa Claus will manage tonight,” I said.
“Geez,” Felicia said, “you figure it would be easy-peasy with the sky all lit up like that. Unless he needs stars to navigate.”
“Hm, never thought of that.”
I wandered into the kitchen and uttered the command to the brewing unit for a hot chocolate. In seconds a frothy mug awaited me. I threw on a few miniature marshmallows. Felicia hated chocolate. I blew on my mug and glanced out the kitchen window. Almost ten pm. Didn’t look like daylight out there, but it didn’t look like night. Christmas lights glowed faintly in the neighborhood; someone tried to get their laser-drone show going; but the velvet loveliness of night was missing, stars, moonlit snow, magic. I sipped the hot chocolate.
Just then I saw Peter in his silly sweater hopping around the side of his house, kicking up snow and laughing. He had on furry white boots and thick, tinted goggles that made him look more lunatic than he was.
Felicia came up behind me, put her arms under my armpits, and squeezed.
“Don’t ever leave me for the Martian colonies.”
We both laughed. I sipped my hot chocolate.
“How about something stronger,” Felicia said. “It is the festive season.”
She opened the liquor cupboard and selected a rare bottle of Canada Club.
“The hard stuff,” I said.
“Reminds me of Christmas with my grandpa and his brothers.”
The EMC changed tracks. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen came on.
I glanced out the window again. Peter was gone. Felicia took out two shot glasses and filled them with the amber whisky.
“Here’s to Betelgeuse,” she said, as we clinked glasses.
"Here's to Betelgeuse," I said quietly, wondering if we were toasting our own demise.
Sal Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada.He is a retired counselor for high risk incarcerated youth.
