“I mean Little League travel team championships begin now, at the end of the Little League season. We live in Bridgefield, remember?”
“Yes, well, that aside, I have an excellent story in the making,” I said.
“And that means...?”
“Well, I haven’t written it but it’s ruminating, up here.” I pointed to my head.
“And it’s about...?”
“Those lights and the happenings at Sweet’s Corners. I interviewed this family and they have some interesting things to say.”
“They are not going to appear to be crackpots in this story, are they? We have enough of those in our local political reporting.”
That’s why Boss was the editor and I the writer. She asked all the tough questions, I just wrote the facts.
“No crackpots,” I promised.
“All right, then get started. How’s Rudy?”
“Fine, kicking away. She was particularly interested in the cornfield.” I told about the tingling. Boss looked skeptical, a look I didn’t like. I was sorry I told her. It did not bode well for my story.
“All right,” Boss said again. “But let’s have none of that Rosemary’s Baby stuff, okay?”
“Yep.”
I started my piece with, “They felt privileged to have seen it...” and held my breath, thinking that Bill would make me do a rewrite. But when he read it, he loved the article just the way I wrote it. This reinforced my theory that word selection is the only difference between imagination and fact anyway. In his moment of euphoria, he even assigned me to attend the town meeting the following evening where the big brouhaha was expected to be property tax increases for the next year. What a coup.
After I completed the rough draft, I called Derek, but he was not at his office. I wanted to go back that evening, but something was telling me not to go alone. I had that, “Take a risk, take a chance” thing going again, and I really wanted to clarify something in my head, but I wasn’t sure what. I left a message on his answering machine and went home to find some dark clothes and bug spray.
He called me right away. I filled him in on the Smythe family, their doorbell incident with the baseball kid, and the tingling. He said, “Well, we’ve got to go back there.”
“I was thinking about tonight,” I said. “Got a black turtleneck and some bug spray?”
“Is the Queen English? I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” The excitement in his voice was restrained. But I knew he was delighted. Something about men and adventure.
I was thinking I was glad I had someone to bring with me who possibly would still think I was sane afterward, when he arrived in the Land Rover. He inched up the street, cut the engine and the headlights and rolled into the parking place in front of my building.
“Practice, as they say, makes perfect,” he said, opening the door and gently boosting me up into the car.
“You are way too into this,” I said.
We both had black everything on and he even had a black knit cap. It was about 70 degrees, I need to add. In another half hour it would be dark. Right now, the sun was low in the western sky and had that brightness that makes you squint.
“You don’t often get a chance to really be scurrilous in life. I’m just taking full advantage,” he said.
“Right.”
We didn’t talk much on the way. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I was doing my Rita thing, or maybe it’s a woman thing, and that is thinking about so many things, so fast, that nothing stayed in my mind for longer than an instant. I was thinking about my story, the family, Will especially, aliens in general, and what I would do if I saw one. I thought about Fergie’s call and his success in the Galapagos and how it would be a cold day before I ever would call that 800 number. I thought about Derek and that morning with the sunrise; then I thought about Rudy and what a story this would be for her to have. Even if nothing more happened, this would be a good story. I thought about my sister and her mystical bent. And then, out of nowhere, I thought about the first kiss I got from Fergie and how it really was a precipitating incident, how it had led to so much more, how my life was so much richer because of it. And then my fiction writer self kicked in with a thought of how my life on earth could end tonight, as the lives of so many innocent people in sci-fi films end, in a cylindrical object being stared at by small thin white people with big eyes. Then I thought about Derek, again.
“You are uncharacteristically quiet,” Derek said.
“Just thinking about stuff.”
“Sounds existential.”
“Really.”
“Whenever someone is thinking about ‘stuff,’ it means they can’t articulate what they really are thinking about, which means it’s all very deep,” he said. “You know, sometimes a lot of things go through your mind, quickly, like a fast-forwarding video, and you really don’t focus on any one thing particularly. That’s what I mean by stuff.”
“Really.”
It was still a little early for our cornfield visit and I was craving ice cream, so we stopped at an ice cream stand. I snatched Derek’s cap off, so he wouldn’t look like Kevin Spacey in one of those gangster movies, before he got out of the car. We drove to a clearing by a canal that separated our county from the next and licked our cones.
“I find it odd that I am sitting here so content eating this ice cream before I, a lawyer, go trespassing on someone’s property to try to see an unidentified flying object and whoever or whatever is in it,” Derek said. “And beyond that, I find it odd that I’m doing this at all, period.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“You should. You should be saying, ‘Now, Derek, you’re the best friend I have because no other person would come along on an asinine adventure like this’.” He looked at me expectantly as though I would actually parrot that back to him.
I laughed. “Excuse me, but you love this. You’re the one who got us started on the whole UFO thing, you with your questions and keeping track of the Sweet’s Corners events and then dragging me out to meet Jameson. Tonight is just a logical extension of all that.”
“Not much of what you do is logical,” he said and turned to look at me. “But I quite like that about you.”
“Well, thank you.” I finished up the last of my cone. “And your logical side appeals to me as well.”
“It will be interesting to see where Rudy falls on the spectrum.”
For a moment, all else left my mind. I took his comment to mean that he wanted to be around to see Rudy grow up. It hit me like the cliché ton of bricks that I knew I wanted him to be there. What kind of father would Derek be? And the possibly logical extension of that—what kind of husband?
“Ready?” Derek asked.
I nodded and he started the Rover.
We parked down the road that ran along the ditch to the Smythe’s driveway. It was about 9:45 p.m. and the plan, against Derek’s better judgment, was to walk up their driveway and staying on the periphery, sneak through their backyard. We had a flashlight that Derek had covered with some dark cloth to make it dim enough to escape notice but light enough to keep us from breaking our necks. When I saw it, I giggled.
Derek muttered something.
“What?” I whispered.
“Do you want to go first or put your hand on my shoulder and follow me?”
“Well, since I know where I’m going….”
“Right. I’ll be the follower. Give me your hand.”
So we headed to the back of the house, Derek holding my one hand, and me shining the dim flashlight ahead of us with the other.
I tried to visualize where I had been in relation to the house when I’d entered the cornfield earlier that day. It was really dark and the dim flashlight was only good for seeing where our next step would be. All of a sudden, the cornfield ended and parting the cornstalks, we could see the people sitting at their table, looking like they were having a snack.
“This is what the aliens would have seen,” I whispered. “Three pe
ople. One flipping her hair back, the other eating cookies, the third drinking chocolate milk. An all-American family scene.”
“Better they should see that than a lot of other things they could have happened upon.”
“Or did they just happen upon this family?”
“We don’t even know if there is a ‘they’ yet,” he whispered back.
We stayed behind the cornstalks and both looked up at the sky.
I gauged the distance to the back of the house from where we stood.
“This must be around where the tingling happened,” I said.
“All I feel is gnats,” Derek said. “And they appear to have biting abilities.”
I was hoping for a green light or some tingling, but nothing happened. I saw a few fireflies and wondered what they would be able to tell, if interviewed, about that night; if any of their number were sacrificed under whatever mechanism had propelled the cigar-shaped craft. We stayed for a long time until I could feel tiny bugs flitting around me looking for a place to land. Derek was swatting them away, making little cracking noises in the corn stalks.
“For God’s sake, stop that, “ I whispered.
“There’s no one out here. Whatever they are, or it is, they or it are not coming tonight.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten.” Derek said tersely.
When their kitchen light went out, I was finally ready to accept there was going to be no repeat performance. We stole through the field back toward civilization. I was wondering what I would say and how humiliated I would be if anyone saw me.
Derek was unlocking the car door when I felt a presence. I turned, ready to do I don’t know what, and by the dome light in the car, I saw a young boy wearing a bright white baseball uniform standing there with a box. Derek had come around to the front of the car and we both stared at him.
“Support the Bridgefield Little League?” he asked.
I could hardly hear him over the pounding of my heart. Derek was looking at me and I at him, with some astonishment.
“What?” I croaked. “What are you doing out so late?”
“Buy a candy bar for the Little League?” he asked again.
Derek fumbled in his pocket for a dollar and gave it to me. The boy didn’t say “Thank you” when I handed him the money. He handed me the candy and I climbed quickly into the car and locked the door. Derek got in the other side and saw I was shaking.
“You look pale. Take a bite of the chocolate,” he said. “Maybe some chocolate, sugar or some chemical in the candy will calm you down.”
He sounded concerned. He took my un-chocolate-filled hand in his. Then he took the chocolate bar and unwrapped it for me.
I took a bite and I looked around to see where the boy had gone next, but he had disappeared.
“There are two things wrong with this scenario,” I said. “First that child should not be selling candy at 10 o’clock at night, and second, Little Leaguers always sell M & M’s. Always.”
I craned my neck trying to see if there was any cigar-shaped craft behind the house now. Still nothing. That chocolate hit the spot and I carefully folded up the wrapper.
“I feel better,” I said. “In fact, I feel pleasantly excited yet in a relaxed way—if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t really,” Derek said. “I’m going to get you home.”
As we started driving toward the city, out of habit, I grabbed my steno pad and began to write a few questions down but my left hand wouldn’t work quite right. When my left arm began to tingle, I threw the pad on the seat like a hot potato.
“What?” Derek said.
“My arm. It’s tingling. Tingling just like those people described. It’s pleasant but strange. Here, touch me. Does it feel different to you? Hot? Cold?
Derek touched my arm and shook his head. “Feels normal to me.”
Then he rubbed my arm, with one hand on the wheel. Then he pulled over.
“I wanted this,” I cried. “I wanted to feel this.” And then held my head out the window and threw up. And then I fainted.
I woke up with my head banging against the Land Rover window and Derek pulling up to the hospital Emergency Room entrance.
“Not going here,” I said, rubbing my head.
“You’re already here,” he said.
The attendant helped me into a wheelchair and pushed me through the doors. I wondered if Derek was coming in too, then I fainted again.
I awoke on a plinth in the ER hallway, an IV in my arm and Derek sitting on a tall stool next to me.
“They are asking me if you are a fainter,” he said. “Are you?”
“Define fainter,” I said.
“I would think it would mean someone who faints routinely.”
“Nope, obviously only when I am pregnant or have eaten alien candy bars.” I managed a probably wan, little smile.
“Ah, so you do remember our evening together. Wish to hell I had eaten that bar. Remember, you weren’t feeling well before you ate it, either.”
“Has anyone looked at me yet?”
“Some really young-looking woman with an authoritative demeanor said you need an ultrasound.”
That sounded like my doctor.
“Apparently pregnant women can’t have x-rays,” he continued.
“I’m thinking I should not tell anyone I ate alien candy.”
“Not unless you want to give birth in one of those hospitals for crazy people.”
“I can say I ate candy though, right? I should say that, right?”
“Yes. Yes. You should tell them that.”
“You look worried. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’m feeling better.”
Derek did look worried. “They asked me if I was the father, and Rita, I didn’t say no.”
“What did you say?”
“I believe I said ‘Not exactly’.”
“What the hell would that mean?” I said. Then I started giggling like I used to after several drinks. I looked at Derek clad completely in black, and looked down at myself dressed the same, and thought about us in the field and the boy selling candy. I could not stop giggling. I giggled through the ultrasound, the doctor’s questions and all the stuff that goes on in the ER. If it had not been my doctor, she might have committed me for inappropriate giggling. After she asked me several times if I had been drinking, she agreed that, except for the giggling, I was fine and could go home.
Derek saw me into the house and flopped down on the couch. It was now two o’clock in the morning. I had stopped giggling and flopped down next to him. I looked over at him. His eyes were closed. I wondered about the looks we might have gotten in the ER, from my doctor, from the people who were taking blood and doing tests. About Derek saying he was not exactly the father.
“You’re staying here,” I said. “I’ll get pillows and a sheet.”
“I’m staying here. You’ll get pillows and a sheet.”
“You’re so James Bond,” I whispered as I tucked the sheet around him.
“I know,” he muttered, eyes still closed.
I bent down to kiss his cheek but his lips looked so much more inviting. I kissed him. Not a quick touch on the lips but a lingering hint of wanting more. He opened his eyes and, after a moment, closed them and kissed me back. His lips were warm and moist. He reached for me, holding me close and deepening his kiss. Now that I was in a position to compare, it was the longest and the best kiss I’d had, possibly ever.
Chapter Seventeen
There’s Hope
Propped up with pillows, looking out the skylight just before sunrise, had become my favorite time. The world was quiet. There might be a few stars. If I were lucky, the moon or some remnant of it, was there for me. A month ago, I didn’t even pay it any attention, but since that morning in Jameson’s cornfield, it all looked new.
Then, I remembered the doctor wanted to see me today and I worried about what I should tell her. I couldn’t exactly tell the doctor that I might have eaten alien
candy. About my hand tingling, perhaps she would buy the beginnings of carpal tunnel syndrome from all the computer work I do. And I was worried about Rudy. Boss’s “Rosemary’s Baby” comment kept popping up in my head. If I told the doctor about the aliens and the candy bar, I would be opening myself and Rudy up for an E.T., read extra-terrestrial, experience. Thanks again, Steven Spielberg. I visualized myself on the operating table, in labor pains, people waiting to rush Rudy away for medical analysis. If I hadn’t forgotten about her in my zeal to feel the tingling, if I hadn’t eaten that dumb candy bar, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Great mother-to-be I was.
Then there was Derek. Tingling in a whole different way, I thought we could’ve made love last night. If we both hadn’t been so tired. If I hadn’t been so pregnant. I wondered if I could have done it without any of the probing journalistic and yes, personal questions I always seem to have a burning need to ask. No, there would have been no good way to ask a bunch of questions. That’s why just doing it, like Nike says, would have been the best.
Then there was the whole thing about Rudy having a father. Yes, her birth father always would be Fergie, but say Derek and I wanted to be married. I knew I was leaping way ahead, but say it happened. Could I marry Derek? Could Derek be Rudy’s father, her “second father”? The answer to both of those questions was yes—but.
I crept downstairs where Derek was still asleep. I tiptoed into the kitchen to start the coffee and by the time I heard the first trickle, he was in the doorway.
“It’s Sunday, right?” he asked. His voice was morning husky and he was running his fingers through his hair.
I nodded.
“Did we dream all that last night?”
“All that what?”
“From about eight o’clock on?”
“Not unless we can dream in sync. I’m sure there’s been some research on that.”
“Are you always this willing to converse in the morning?”
“Are you?”
“Actually, I would say yes,” he yawned. “I think best and most creatively in the morning. I am curious about the kissing, though.”
I started pouring coffee.
“We did that, right?”
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