by Kim Fielding
Someone knocked politely on the door, and he answered.
“Good morning.” Dorothy held a large basket covered with a white cloth. Burt stood next to her, and he nodded a greeting.
Walter stepped back to let them inside, and for a moment they all stood awkwardly. “Do you have police?” Walter finally asked.
“No,” Dorothy answered. “We don’t need police.”
“But I shot Martin.”
They each settled a hand on one of Walter’s arms. “You were confused,” Burt said. “You didn’t mean to hurt him, we know that. You were frightened, and your mind sometimes plays tricks on you. Martin shouldn’t have run toward you like that.”
“It wasn’t his fault!”
“It was nobody’s fault,” Dorothy said soothingly.
Walter’s throat was tight. “Why are you being so goddamn nice to me?”
“Honey, you deserve to have people be nice to you. You’re a good man. The war damaged you. War damages a lot of people. But you’re worth something. Give yourself a chance to heal and maybe you’ll see that.”
“No! You should hate me. All of you should. Martin was the best thing I ever….” He stopped and shook his head. “I think I could have fallen in love with him.”
Dorothy and Burt didn’t look shocked. “But now that you know what we are?” Burt prompted him.
“I don’t know what you are!” Then Walter calmed down a bit and sighed. “But I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re good, I can tell that much. And Martin… I liked the shape of him.” A sob caught in his throat and he tried to turn away.
But Dorothy caught him and pressed her basket into his hands. “Some food for you. You missed lunch and dinner yesterday. You’ll feel better if you eat.”
Maybe the food was poisoned, he thought wearily. He took the basket, gently extricated himself from her grip, and set it on the table. “I need to pack.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Burt said. “We’d like you to stay. That’s what we were discussing last night when you found us. We had just decided to formally invite you to live here. You’re still welcome.”
Walter’s eyes stung. “How can you say that after what I did?”
Burt smiled. “Because we can see the real you. We have… different senses, you know?”
Even thinking about it hurt Walter’s head. He was certainly willing to accept at this point that the residents of Kiteeshaa were capable of some unusual things. But Christ, Martin had felt so goddamn human when they’d made love.
“I have to go.”
Burt frowned. “But Martin—”
“Please. If you’re not going to arrest me or… or punish me somehow, please just let me go. I need to leave.”
Burt and Dorothy watched sadly as he packed his few belongings. He took the books Martin had given him. He knew he’d feel bad over the theft later, but what did a little extra guilt matter? “Who should…. God, who should I pay? For the room?” His voice cracked at the question.
“Don’t be silly,” said Dorothy.
They trailed him to his car, and after Walter stuffed his duffel in the trunk, Dorothy pushed the basket at him again. “Take this,” she ordered.
He sighed and placed the basket on the passenger seat. Then he leaned against the car. “I’m so sorry I did this to you,” he said. “You have such a nice little town. You all deserve your peace.”
“So do you, honey.” Dorothy gave his shoulder a quick caress. “And you are always welcome here. Something I like about you is how accepting you are.”
He blinked at her, then remembered how Martin’s people said good-bye. “I like your kindness. And thank you for… your forgiveness.”
“It’s easy to forgive someone else. You made Martin happy, Walter. Remember that. It’s what’s important.”
6
The short drive back to the highway felt endless. It was like those nightmares he had, the ones where he was being chased by bloodied men in uniform and his boots were mired in thick mud. Only now it wasn’t the horrors of war he was trying to escape but rather the memories of what he almost had in Kiteeshaa, and what he’d ruined with a single pull of his trigger finger.
Who he’d ruined.
The world was a poorer place without Martin, and that thought made his eyes sting.
He turned south on the Coast Highway without a destination in mind. But barely a half mile later, he saw a sign for a state park. It was a beach Martin had mentioned to him—a favorite, he’d said, for collecting treasures and watching the waves. Walter turned the Ford into a parking space and cut the engine.
For no logical reason, he took Dorothy’s basket with him when he left the car. He had to descend uneven steps to get to the beach, and as he did, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the wooden treads beneath his feet. The expanse of sand in front of him made his stomach churn, and the ocean itself—well, he couldn’t look at that at all.
Plodding unevenly through the dry sand, he made his way to a large piece of driftwood and sat on it, facing the waves but with his eyes trained on his feet. He could hear the waves, of course. Their ceaseless crash and pound reminded him of a heart beating. Reminded him too of the pulse of the Kiteeshaa townspeople in their meeting the day before. Maybe all life was related. This sea was the same as the one that had washed him onto the shores of France. His own human species was the same as Martin’s alien one. Wanting the same essential things: home, family, peace, love.
Without really deciding to do so, he lifted the cloth from Dorothy’s basket and peered inside. She’d packed him a small feast: two sandwiches piled thickly with roast beef, an apple, some pickles wrapped in plastic, and a little jar of potato salad. A covered plate proved to contain berry tartlet. She’d included a thermos of coffee and a quart bottle of milk as well.
He didn’t think he was hungry, but he took a bite and then another, and like magic all the food just disappeared. He tucked everything back into the basket except the open thermos, which he nestled between his thighs. Then he inhaled deeply, and the briny scent of the ocean was thick, without a hint of blood or gunpowder. No whistling of mortar shells or rat-a-tat of gunfire; just the waves thundering and gulls crying.
Gathering his meager courage, he finally lifted his gaze to the Pacific.
Although his heartbeat skittered and his breaths came quickly, he didn’t have to look away. Just like Martin’s people, the ocean was terrifying and beautiful. It called to him even as it made his chest feel tight.
He wondered if they had oceans where Martin came from. Martin hadn’t said.
Staring at the waves, Walter tried to see inside himself. Feel his shape. The process scared him, like crawling through the smoking ruins of a building in search of a survivor. But Martin had found something within him to admire. It seemed as if a good way to honor Martin’s memory would be to respect his opinion, to believe that something worth saving truly did hide within those ruins. And Dorothy and Burt—even after what Walter did, they had been willing to let him stay. Surely that meant something as well.
Deep inside, Walter found… a glimmer. Not a beautiful emerald glow; this was only a flash of pale light. But it was there.
He let out a noisy breath. “Martin was right.”
“Of course I was.”
Walter yelped. He hopped off the log, got tangled in his own feet as he turned around, and fell on his ass. Then he cried out again when he saw a handsome man with pale blue eyes and soft blond curls smiling down at him.
“I killed you!” Walter yelled. He didn’t even try to stand up—the sand would be too treacherous for wobbly legs.
“No, you…. Oh, no. Is that what you thought?”
“I… I shot you!” There had been a gaping hole and so much blood.
Martin nodded slightly, then untucked and lifted his shirt. A round scar marred his belly, puckered and bright pink.
“N-n-no!” Walter stuttered. “I shot you yesterday. You can’t—”
“If I’d been in my
original form, your bullet wouldn’t have harmed me at all. If I’d been fully in this body, well, I suppose I might have died. I was in between, so… it hurt, but I healed.” He stepped over the log to Walter’s side and held out a hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Not yesterday. Not today either. I forget that you can’t sense me the way I sense you.”
With considerable trepidation, Walter took the offered hand and allowed Martin to help him stand. As soon as Walter was upright, Martin enveloped him in a bear hug. “I thought I’d lost you,” Martin murmured into his ear.
“No, that’s my line. God, Martin, I shot—”
“I scared you. I’m sorry.” Martin abruptly let go of Walter, then took a step back. “And I misled you about my nature. I’m sorry about that too.”
“You tried to tell me. I didn’t listen.” Walter shook his head. “I don’t think I would have taken it well.”
“But now that you know….”
“It’s a lot to accept. But you’ve seen the real me and you accept that.”
Martin smiled. “Not just accept. I told you. The real you is beautiful.”
“Like driftwood,” Walter said, gesturing toward the log.
“Better.” Martin came close again and stroked Walter’s cheek with a thumb. “You’re wounded, Walter. Much worse than what that bullet did to me. And your own people don’t understand because they can’t see the scars. But I do. Scars can heal, though. I can help.”
Walter wanted very badly to give in, to let Martin sweep him off his feet and tuck him away somewhere safe. But nothing so good could be so easy. “You’ll always have the one I gave you.”
“Only because I choose to keep it. I could have healed it completely.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It was the only souvenir you left me.” Martin’s smile was sweet, yet sad enough to break Walter’s heart.
Walter looked down at the thermos, which had fallen when he lurched off the driftwood and had leaked the last of its contents into the sand. “Why did you come to the beach?”
“Dorothy told me you’d left. She said you….” Martin appeared suddenly shy. “She told me what you said before you left. That you thought you could love me. So I searched for you. You weren’t so hard to find.” He waved up at the bluff, where Walter’s battered old car squatted alone by the side of the highway.
Walter was suddenly angry. “Why didn’t she and Burt tell me you were still alive?” Christ, he could have gone the rest of his life believing he’d murdered Martin.
“They didn’t realize you thought I was dead. I think they misread your grief. And I told you—sometimes we forget what you’re blind to. We can tell when one of our own has died.”
A war, Martin had said. “And when your family and friends were killed?” Walter asked quietly.
Stark grief etched Martin’s face. “I can still feel the echoes of it.”
It was Walter’s turn to scoop him into an embrace. God, Martin smelled so wonderful! Like campfires and fresh growing things in the spring.
“Come back with me,” Martin said. “Stay with us.”
“But I’m not… one of you.”
“We don’t care. I don’t care. I like what you are.”
Could it be that Walter had found acceptance so easily? Perhaps. Who better to understand him than a group of refugees? Still, he couldn’t quite believe it. He didn’t deserve this.
“I’m not perfect,” Martin said, smiling against Walter’s cheek. “No more than you are. You’ve already seen that sometimes I follow my heart rather than my head. I’m told I can be stubborn. I don’t understand your music at all, and your math? It does nothing but confuse me. Even our youngest children are better than me at arithmetic. Sometimes when I should be happy, I remember everything we lost and I have to sit for a while and cry. And now that I’ve tried it, I think I’m going to be a little obsessed with kissing you and having sex with you.”
Walter chuckled. “That last part doesn’t sound like a problem. Or maybe it’s one we can share.”
Martin pulled back a little, enough so Walter could see the sparkle in his eyes. “That’s just it! There’s your shape and mine, and we fit together so perfectly. We make a completely new shape. And Walter, it’s so beautiful! Can’t you see?” He leaned his forehead against Walter’s.
Walter closed his eyes and yes, he could see. With the pounding ocean and the endless gray sky to witness, Walter silently pledged to open his heart. He could tell by the fervency of the resulting kiss that Martin heard and understood his promise. If any people were watching them from the edge of the highway, the observers wouldn’t just see two men making out: they would see them glowing.
“Tell me something that makes you happy,” Walter whispered when they finally broke the kiss.
“The sound of rain falling on a roof when I’m cozy inside. You?”
“The idea of climbing into that wonderful bed in unit three and spooning against you.”
Martin laughed joyfully and kissed him again.
“What’s the special at the Kitee Café today?” Walter asked.
Martin cupped Walter’s face in his hands and grinned. “Let’s go home and find out.”
About the Author
Kim Fielding is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. A Lambda Award finalist and two-time Foreword INDIE finalist, she has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full time. She also dreams of having two daughters who fully appreciate her, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.
Kim can be found on her blog: http://kfieldingwrites.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites
and Twitter: @KFieldingWrites
Her e-mail is [email protected]
For a complete listing of Kim’s titles, visit her website: http://www.kfieldingwrites.com/kim-fieldings-books/