And not after I cut up his face the way I did.
No one could recognize him after all that…not even his own brother.
The Man with X-Ray Eyes
My father died when I was just a boy.
There was an accident at the mill where he worked. One man lost a leg. Another lost the vision in his right eye and most of his scalp. My father got the worst of it, though—he was crushed to death.
We buried him two days later on a sunny June morning. After the service, most of our friends and relatives came back to the house. A somber parade. They stood in the kitchen and sat around the living room and the den, whispering, crying, nibbling on little sandwiches and drinking from paper cups.
I stayed outside mostly, sitting in the shade of the front porch.
Most folks didn’t know what to say to an eleven-year old who had just lost his father, so they pretty much left me alone.
After a time, my grandfather came out and sat down next to me on the step. He put his arm around me and we sat there in silence, listening to the grass grow and the birds sing. After a while, I asked him if he felt like crying. He slowly nodded his head and told me what it felt like to bury his only son; how his heart ached with sorrow and swelled with pride all at the same time. He told me that my father dying the way he did was a cruel reminder that life has a way of playing tricks on all of us, that sometimes things aren’t the way they seem. And then he told me how much he loved me, how proud he was of me, how much I reminded him of my father.
That was just like Grandpa. He always knew the right thing to say, the right thing to do.
And he was right—life does have a way of playing tricks on all of us.
That was a long time ago; seems like forever. I’m much older now, just turned forty-two last month. My grandfather is gone, of course, and so is my mother. I stayed with her in the old house until she passed away from ovarian cancer in the autumn of ’76, and then I sold out to a young couple from somewhere east of Boston. I left town at the age of twenty-one and spent the next five years at the university.
After graduation, I moved back to Coldwater. Just across town, on the other side of the tracks, right next to where the old Lexington Bed and Breakfast used to be. A nice, little house with a decent yard and a white painted fence.
I’ve been there ever since.
I don’t date very often. There’s just not many opportunities in a small town like Coldwater. At least not for a guy like me. Last time I had a date—six months ago, at least—was with a woman I met at the library one evening. Anne something-or-other. A tall redhead from over in Windhurst. We went to a movie and then out for pizza. She spent most of the night staring at her wristwatch and playing with her hair. We never had a second date.
I’m not lonely, though. I guess I’ve gotten used to this kind of life. Besides, I always have my kids. I see them at school five days a week and around town most every day. They call my name and wave and sometimes stop to talk. So, it’s a rare day that I feel alone or without company.
I teach history over at Coldwater High School. Six classes a day, three with the seniors and three with the sophomores. Been there almost fifteen years now.
My teaching philosophy is simple: work hard and have fun. I try to make all my classes interesting for the kids; plenty of films and graphics and student participation. I think they learn more that way—and that’s what’s important.
Every year the kids tell me I’m one of their favorites. And every year it means the world to me.
My co-workers don’t talk to me much, but that’s okay. Sometimes I think they’re just jealous.
I’ve never seen a UFO.
I’ve met a few people who claim they have.
Roy Welderman, a gym teacher from the high school, swears he saw one fly directly overhead one night when he was crappie fishing out on the lake. He told me (and this is a direct quote): “Hell, I almost shit my pants right there in the boat. That’s how scared I was.”
A lady down the street from where I live—an old friend of my mother—told me she was actually abducted by a UFO when she was a teenager. Said it flew down and landed in the field behind her house early one morning and when she walked out there to investigate, she was zapped unconscious and abducted. Said she woke up in bed, naked, all covered in grass and dirt, her feet cut and bleeding. When she checked the alarm clock on her nightstand, four-and-a-half hours had passed.
Weird stuff, huh?
Sure, like most folks, I’ve seen them on television and in pictures, but I’ve never seen a UFO up close and personal.
I wish I would.
I’m not sure how the aliens got here, or when they first arrived.
I saw my first alien the summer I turned sixteen.
Her name was Jenny Glover, and she was new in Coldwater. The weekend after the Fourth of July, her family moved right across the street, into the old Sumner place. She was fifteen, and just like me, an only child.
God, she was beautiful. Long, shiny hair the color of summer wheat. Eyes like an angel. And she liked me. She actually liked me. She always used to say that I made her laugh.
Those first couple weeks, we spent all our free time together. Showing her around town. Going to the movies. Playing card games in my basement. I can still remember how my heart felt every time she came close to me or brushed against my skin: like it was going to jump right out of my chest. Jesus, she drove me crazy.
But then, one day, everything changed…
We were walking on the dirt path that runs alongside Hanson Creek, taking a short-cut back from the grocery store. About halfway home, we took a break and sat down on an old, fallen log. For a long time, we just sat there, shuffling our feet in the dirt, not looking at each other, talking about nothing. Then she took my hand in her hand, and I knew we were going to kiss. If I didn’t faint first.
I looked up into those ice blue eyes, really looked for the first time…
…and I saw something that wasn’t human.
Somehow I saw.
And then in a flash of sudden understanding, a flash of absolute knowing, I knew what she was, what she intended to do.
And I knew right then and there that I had no other choice.
So I killed her.
The second one was many years later.
I was in college at the time. It was summer break, and I was at Fenway Park, watching the Red Sox and the Mariners. An extra inning game in the middle of a gorgeous August afternoon.
Between the tenth and eleventh innings, I moved down a couple dozen rows to a better seat along the third base line. I excused myself and sat down next to a plump, bald man with a smear of mustard on his chin. The man looked up and smiled at me.
I nodded, but didn’t return the smile.
He was one of them.
After the game, I followed him home to the suburbs and killed him in his garage.
I’ve only been wrong once.
And once is enough, believe me.
Happened about a year ago. I was vacationing by myself in Florida. I’d never been to Disney and had always wanted to go.
There was a little girl at the park with her family. Cute as a button, and about that small. Maybe six or seven. She was waiting in line ahead of me with her older sister and brother. She kept looking at me and smiling…looking right into my eyes.
And I knew.
Later on, back at the cabin, I discovered my mistake. And it almost killed me. Honestly it did. I couldn’t believe it.
Somehow, I had been wrong.
She wasn’t one of them after all.
I had killed a human being.
The doctors and the detectives like me. Despite what they suspect, despite where they fear all this is leading, they can’t help it. I can tell…I can see it in their eyes.
They asked me to write down everything in my own words.
They recorded all of our conversations, but they want something down on paper. Something official, I guess.
First, they want a little history about myself. About my life—past, present, future. That’s easy enough.
And, then, about the aliens. They want to know every last detail—starting with the first one I killed out by Hanson Creek when I was sixteen years old and ending with the old lady from just last week.
They want to know how many others I’ve been able to find over the years. Where? When? How?
They want to know where I’ve traveled to during my summers off from teaching. Visits with relatives? Vacations? They want to know all of it.
And they want to know about the eyes. The eyes are very important, they tell me. How do I know the things I know? How do I see the things I see?
They’re all very nice to deal with. Very pleasant. And they’re patient, too; they never rush me with anything.
Of course, I’ll give them all the answers they need. They’re on my side now. Or at least, they will be very soon.
Earlier this morning, when I finished telling my story, I gave them directions to my grandfather’s old cabin in the woods. They left a few hours ago by helicopter, so they should be there by now.
Any time now, I expect a phone to ring somewhere down the hall. Then they’ll come for me again. With more questions, I’m sure.
After that, I expect a lot of phones will be ringing. All over the country, probably.
Or maybe not…some things are better kept secret.
I took precautions, of course.
Aliens walking our streets is not a very believable story—Jesus, don’t you think I know that?—so I took some safety measures, just in case.
I cut off their heads.
Each and every one of them. Cut off their heads and saved them. Took them up to my grandfather’s cabin. Took Polaroids. Then stripped the flesh away with chemicals. Then I took more photos. Carefully labeled each one of them—date of death, gender, age and identity (whenever possible).
Inside my grandfather’s cabin, I have all the proof anyone will ever need…
Skulls. Hideous looking things.
Skulls of various shapes and sizes—none remotely human, none constructed of anything resembling human bone.
Skulls that will forever change our history.
Over forty of them in all.
They’re back from the cabin.
About twenty minutes ago.
They haven’t been in to speak with me yet, but I can see them talking outside in the hallway. The two detectives and the doctor with the long hair.
They’re scared. Real scared.
I can see it in their eyes.
THE BOX
Annie grabbed her purse from the counter, glanced at the kitchen clock and yelled, “Charlie, we’re leaving.”
A muffled voice—“Coming, mom”—followed by a stampede of heavy footsteps crashing down the stairs.
Annie shook her head, holding the door open for her teenaged son. “One of these days you’re gonna fall right through those stairs.”
Charlie grinned and kissed his mom on the cheek. “Sorry, had to pee. Where’s Buttercup?”
Annie closed the door behind them and checked to make sure it was locked. “Bailey’s waiting in the car. And she’s grumpy. Again.”
Charlie opened the front passenger door and slid inside. Peeked into the back seat. “Cheer up, Buttercup!”
Twelve-year-old Bailey rolled her eyes and pretended to turn up the volume on her iPod. But Annie noticed a hint of a smile as she did it.
Charlie had that effect on pretty much everyone.
Annie waved goodbye and watched Charlie wade into the crowd of students, backpack slung over his shoulder, stopping every few yards to chat with someone or high-five another boy. She recognized Aaron Parker from across the street and the Apperson twins from next door. Aaron got up from the bench he was sharing with two pretty blonde girls, and he and Charlie walked into the school together.
Annie turned to Bailey in the back seat. “You want to move up front?”
No response.
“Bailey, turn down your music.”
Again, no response.
Annie sighed and checked the rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb.
Annie sat at the traffic light after dropping off Bailey, waiting for the light to turn green.
My little girl’s not so little anymore, she thought sadly. And definitely not acting much like her little girl these days. She hadn’t even said goodbye when she’d gotten out of the car.
Annie noticed a MISSING CAT poster taped to a street sign and snapped a picture of it with her cellphone in case she ran across the kitty later. It was exactly the sort of thing Bailey would have once applauded her for, but now would have poked fun at.
Annie didn’t care. They had lost their corgi, Max, three months earlier, and it had been a heartbreaking time for the entire family. One day Max was there, begging for breakfast scraps at the table, and the next day they couldn’t find the little guy anywhere. They’d hung posters, called area vets, organized search parties.
But they’d never found him. The not knowing had been the worst.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she somehow found and returned—she checked the photo on her phone—Sparkles the cat?
That would show Bailey, wouldn’t it?
The light turned green and Annie headed for home.
Annie pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine and sat for a moment with three very clear thoughts swirling in her head:
I can’t forget to make cookies for Bailey’s class tomorrow. I better write myself a note.
I can’t forget to pick up Mark’s shirts at the drycleaners after lunch.
I can’t believe Lisa is having an affair.
It was this last tidbit of gossip that occupied her thoughts as she exited the car and walked into the house.
And that’s exactly what it was: gossip, because it was all just speculation at this point. Lisa had admitted to nothing. How could she? None of the other neighborhood ladies had confronted her with their suspicions.
Annie didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. Yes, Lisa had been acting strangely distant lately. Yes, she had cancelled their last lunch and their last two book club meetings. Yes, she was all of a sudden eating healthier and working out like a madwoman.
But did any of those things really prove anything?
Annie decided she didn’t care and was tired of the other women talking about it. It felt…mean. And none of their darn business.
Annie placed her purse back on the counter where she always left it and looked around the kitchen. She glanced through the arched doorway into the living room.
Clean or do laundry?
Some women complained about housework, but Annie actually enjoyed it most days. She believed it was a privilege to stay home and raise the kids. To take care of the household. It was valid and valuable work, she always said.
Annie turned on the radio in the kitchen, adjusted the dial until a Justin Timberlake song came on. She turned up the volume and twirled around the kitchen, singing and giggling.
The song ended, and she started loading the dishwasher.
Annie paused at the bottom of the stairs, adjusting the laundry basket on her hip. It was her second trip upstairs from the basement laundry room, and she was tired and hungry. One more and she would make herself a sandwich for lunch.
She walked into Bailey’s room, placed the basket on the bed, and transferred an armload of socks to her sock drawer. The rest of the clothes belonged to Charlie, so she picked up the basket and crossed the hall into his bedroom.
While Bailey’s bedroom looked as if a tornado had touched down in the middle of it, Charlie’s room was neat and orderly. Football and basketball and soccer trophies lined up just so on his two bookshelves. Books in alphabetical order. Posters hung above his crisply made bed. Framed family and sports photos hanging above a desk that held only a computer and keyboard and a pen and pencil holder.
Thank God Charlie takes after me, Annie t
hought, starting to hang his t-shirts in the closet. At least one of them does.
She started to turn back to the laundry basket for more shirts and almost tripped over the shoe box on the floor.
Charlie had once watched an ESPN interview with a rookie basketball star and they had shown the young man’s closet. Row after row of shoe boxes. Stacked high and wide. Each box containing a brand new pair of basketball shoes.
Charlie had been fascinated and shortly thereafter declared that he wanted to do the same thing—on a much smaller scale—in his own closet. So, every time he bought a new pair of shoes, he added the box to his neat little stack at the bottom of his closet.
Except today one of them was sitting out on the floor.
Annie couldn’t remember that ever happening before.
She bent down and picked up the box to return it to its proper place…
…and something inside the box rattled.
Puzzled, she opened the box and looked inside.
At first she thought it contained nothing but crumpled tissue paper, the kind which stores use to wrap new shoes with. But she gave the box a shake, and it rattled once again.
She walked to Charlie’s bed and sat down, the shoe box on her lap. She tossed the lid on the bed beside her and started pulling tissue paper from the box until her hand touched something that felt like leather.
She pulled a dog collar from the box, a heart-shaped tag rattling against the metal buckle.
The collar looked familiar. She quickly read the tag:
MAX
1920 Edgewood Road
A Long December Page 3