Only Alien on the Planet

by Kristen D. Randle

  The thing about me is—essentially, I'm a coward.

  I am. I can't stand weird stuff, anything that's not normal—mental illness and death and hospitals and pain and suffering and scary movies and people who need you and going into the basement alone at night (which Paul used to recommend I do, voluntarily, as a kind of self-therapy).

  I'm a coward, and I've faced it, and I've learned to accept it. And I'm okay with that, as long as nothing happens so I have to start feeling ashamed about it, or guilty.

  I don't think my parents know this about me. Or else, they must just refuse to accept the truth, because they keep treating me like I'm this mature, kind, generous, well-adjusted, generally courageous person. Or maybe it's just that they buy into all that Goethe stuff about shaping people with your expectations—thank you, German philosophy.

  But the other thing is, I just hate it when people are disappointed in me. I knew exactly what my parents would expect once they'd heard about Smitty: they'd expect me to do the decent thing. They'd expect me to befriend the kid. They'd probably want me to take him to the park every Saturday afternoon or something. Then they'd finally have to face the truth about their daughter, and they would definitely be disappointed, big time.

  Because I wasn't going to do any of that. Not for a million bucks. I didn't want to go over to Smitty's house, I didn't want to take a walk in his moccasins, I didn't want to get involved with him, and I really didn't need anybody trying to shame me into it.

  As to my folks, the solution was simple: I just didn't tell them about it. But Caulder was another thing altogether—Caulder, who was getting to be about the best friend I ever had, besides my family; Caulder, who had been almost single-handedly making the world a bearable place for me. I really didn't want him thinking less of me; I really wanted him to see that there were things I was good at. But he wouldn't let up on me. “Come on, Ginny. Just meet him.” The pressure was terrible.

  And who could I talk to about it, I ask you? Who would you go to for relief from your shame and your guilt? Once I would have gone straight to Paul; he never had unrealistic expectations about me. He always tried to see my side of things. But that was before he'd gone brother emeritus, available only by phone. You'd think you could trust all your brothers to be that understanding, wouldn't you?

  Of course you would.

  Practically speaking, I knew I wasn't going to get any satisfaction out of Charlie; he's too sickeningly philanthropic. But James— James is like me, short on nobility, long on personal comfort. So I took a chance—on one of those long, solitary, parentless evenings, I opened my heart to my brother, James. I was being very honest and humble, and I should have known better.

  “Selfish,” James commented, before I had even finished. “So, you're scared of the guy.” James has this annoying habit of going straight for the bottom line. “What—is he dangerous or something?”

  “I never said he was dangerous.” But then I added hopefully, “I guess he could be.”

  “Does he drool?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you disgusting?” I said to him.

  “Well, does he?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Some people do,” Charlie reminded us. “They can't help it.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” I said stiffly. “But that is not the point.”

  “The point is,” James said, slipping down into the couch and putting his feet up on the coffee table, “you can't stand the thought of taking any kind of responsibility that's going to pull you outside of your little shell. You're scared to get close to the guy.”

  “So okay, I'm scared!” I yelled at him. “Why shouldn't I be scared? So—what, are you telling me you don't think this whole thing is very weird? And what do you mean, 'shell'?”

  “Would you like it if people were scared of you, just because you couldn't talk to them?” Charlie asked.

  Oh, thank you, so very much.

  “Did it ever occur to you people that he might like being alone?” I demanded, going for broke.

  Charlie looked at me with gentle reproach. “I'll go over there with you, if you want.”

  “I'm not going over there. This is not what I wanted. What I wanted was a little sympathy. A little compassionate justification.” I started gathering up my books. “Next time I have a pressing need to feel ashamed and guilty, I'll definitely know who to go to.” I stalked out of the room, marched down the hall, slammed the door to my room, and didn't come out for the rest of the night.

  Not that any of it helped. It wasn't like that door was going to keep out anything important. Turn it around, I could hear Paul saying, all the time grinning. Imagine yourself into compassion.

  I sat there on my bed hating everything. I hated my father and his ideas. I hated Paul for growing up. I hated this town and Smitty Tibbs and my homeroom teacher and every other uncomfortable thing in the world. But most of all, I hated losing Caulder. Because I knew I was going to. People like him are too good for people like me. It had just been a matter of time till he found out the truth.

  But if I'd known Caulder well enough, I could have saved myself a lot of soul suffering.

  It was just after that, Caulder decided it would be very good for us to start studying together. He had come over after his family supper and spread his books all over our dining room table, settling right in. The next night, James and Charlie drifted in, then Caulder's sisters, Kaitlin and Melissa, and pretty soon, there wasn't much room left at that table.

  When we were all there, the house didn't seem so empty. The study sessions spilled over into the weekends, and then the six of us started doing things together—roller skating and bowling and stuff. We made a religion out of Friday nights at the university's Classic Films Society—old movies are another one of the Christianson obsessions—and every Sunday, we all went to Caulder's church.

  “It's like having a big family,” Charlie panted one day, throwing himself down onto the grass next to me. “Which is good, considering we actually do seem to be orphans.” He and James had been playing badminton in the back with the girls until James and Kaitlin started arguing over some point of rule.

  “I want to go home,” I said, not bothering to lift my chin off the back of my hand.

  “Not me,” Charlie said, and rolled over on his back. “I love these trees. Have you noticed? The leaves are starting to turn. There's the thinnest line of yellow just starting on the edges. How long does it take, do you think, for the whole tree to turn? This whole street of trees. Ginny, it's going to be beautiful. We never had anything like that back home.

  “Autumn,” he went on, like he was tasting the word. “I've said it a million times, but I never knew what it meant before. Kind of scary, huh? You have to wonder how many other things you think you know, but you don't. I love this feeling in the air, this edge, like something is about to happen.”

  James was calling him. “I gotta go,” he said, taking a gentle swipe at me.

  I squinted up at the leaves, the sun coming down through a million tiny green stained-glass windows. I couldn't see any yellow till I stood up and took a single leaf in my hand. Charlie was right about that. You just had to look.

  Caulder came out on his porch and leaned over the railing, one hand shading his eyes. “You seen the girls?” he called.

  “In the back,” I told him.

  He nodded and waved. “Want to go over to Tibbs's?” he yelled, grinning.

  “Not right now, thanks,” I said, batting my eyes at him over clenched teeth.

  “Later then,” he said cheerfully, and he disappeared back into his house.

  “In your dreams,” I told him once he was gone.

  One day very soon after that, Mrs. Shein, who believes in being cheerful instead of merciful, assigned us what she called a simple review problem—one of those totally cryptic geometric proofs that you find triple starred at the end of a chapter. One look at it, and I knew I was dead.

  I worked on it for hours that ni
ght. Caulder, Mr. Math Whiz, was no help at all—not because he couldn't solve it, mind you. Because he couldn't explain how he solved it. Caulder finally gave up completely, having chewed halfway through his pencil. But then something dawned in his face, and he started grinning. “You've got it,” I said hopefully.

  “I surely do,” he said, and he stood up. “I know exactly where we can get help with this.” I felt a terrible stab of foreboding. He pulled his coat off the back of his chair. “Come on,” he said. “Get your stuff together.”

  “Just where are we going?” I asked, having this sinking feeling I knew.

  “Smitty's,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Oh. Uh-huh,” I said.

  “I'm serious. He's more technical than I am. He can explain this to you. I can't. Come on, Ginny. I'm not kidding.”

  So what was I going to do? Short of throwing myself on the floor, I mean. Whatever else I may be, I do have my dignity. Caulder made me pack everything up, then he dragged me out the door and down the sidewalk, and there we were, standing on the Tibbses' front porch. My stomach was doing horrible loops.

  “Hi, Mrs. Tibbs,” Caulder said when the door finally opened. Smitty's mother was a youngish looking lady, very consciously dressed. “We've got a couple of math problems we can't quite nail down,” Caulder explained, smiling. “We thought maybe Smitty could give us a hand.”

  She arched her eyebrows; evidently, this kind of thing didn't happen very often.

  “We won't take too much of his time,” Caulder assured her.

  She looked doubtful. Actually, she looked at me, and then she looked doubtful. She pushed open the storm door. “Well,” she said. “Come in.”

  We followed her into the living room, where there was this powder blue carpet and a pale sofa with brocade upholstery. It was—I don't know—perfect in there, the kind of place you'd expect to find plastic runners on the floor. Like an ambassador's office or something.

  She extended one hand, meaning we were supposed to sit down, which I did—but only on the very edge of the sofa cushion. I couldn't have vouched for the condition of the seat of my jeans, and I was terrified of leaving grimy smudges on that furniture.

  “John,” she said. There was a man sitting over in the corner behind a newspaper, half hidden by an open grand piano. “The children have come to see Smitty.” She smiled at us and sat down across the room. “How is your mother, Caulder?” she asked. “I haven't seen her for a while.”

  “She's fine,” Caulder said. “She's always got something going.”

  “Well…” Mrs. Tibbs said, and looked down at her watch and frowned. “John,” she said again. The newspaper didn't even rustle. Mrs. Tibbs sighed. “I have a meeting, and I'm running a little late…” she said to us.

  “We're fine,” Caulder said, not giving an inch. “We just need to see Smitty for a minute.”

  She was clearly undecided as to what she should do with us. The newspaper shifted, came halfway down. “John,” she said. “Caulder's here.” It was the big man from the driveway. He gave us a not unfriendly glance and a nod. “They want to see Smitty,” she went on.

  “He's upstairs,” Mr. Tibbs said.

  “I know he's upstairs,” she said. “They want to ask him about some—what was it, Caulder?”

  “Math, Mrs. Tibbs.” Caulder was being very polite.

  “Math,” she repeated, looking at her husband.

  He looked at her blankly. It was like she was trying to get him to say something, but he didn't have the faintest idea what she wanted.

  She gave her husband a long look and then turned back to us. “I'm not sure what you think he can do,” she said. “Of course I'll call him down for you—but Caulder—”

  “We just have a few questions, Mrs. Tibbs. You know you don't have to worry about me.” Caulder patted my trig book and smiled at her again.

  “Well,” she said. “I'd love to stay and help you myself, but I do have my meeting…” She stood up. “Just don't upset him,” she said. And then quickly, “Of course, Caulder, I know you never would. Why don't you two go on into the dining room where you can work, and I'll go up and get Smitty. Then I'll have to go—”

  “We'll be fine, thank you,” Caulder said. He got up and so I got up. We followed Mrs. Tibbs out of the room and went in through a door she opened for us.

  “Just make yourselves comfortable,” she said, reaching in for the light switch. A small but brilliant chandelier flamed to life. She closed the door softly behind us.

  “Sit here,” Caulder told me. I pulled out a chair and sat down. These chairs were awfully formal, but at least they were wooden, and I didn't have to worry about making a mess out of them.

  I think I must have been wringing my hands or something.

  “Come on,” Caulder said, cuffing me on the arm. “Relax.”

  I dropped my jaw and gaped at him. “Relax,” I repeated. I sat on my hands and started looking around the room. The first thing you had to notice was this big portrait on the wall—Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs and Smitty and another kid, older than Smitty, but somewhat like him—all sitting there looking very beautiful inside this heavy wood and gold frame.

  “So, Smitty's got a brother?” I asked. I don't know why that surprised me so much.

  “More or less,” Caulder said.

  Before I had a chance to ask him what that was supposed to mean, Mrs. Tibbs put her head in at the door. “He'll be down in a minute. Now Caulder—”

  “We won't be long,” Caulder said. “Thank you, Mrs. Tibbs.”

  She smiled, but you could tell she still wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation. Fine. She wasn't the only one. “Good night,” she said one last time, lingering just another second before she finally gave up and left. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes. A moment later, we heard the front door close.

  And then Smitty Tibbs came in and sat down.

  I jumped.

  I hadn't heard a sound. One second we were alone, the next, he was there, pulling out a chair for himself.

  He was wearing glasses—round lenses with thin tortoiseshell frames. They looked kind of old-fashioned and jaunty. It was weird to see something jaunty on that empty, beautiful face.

  “This is Ginny,” Caulder said. “She's not real bright, but she's my friend.”

  I kicked him under the table.

  “I'm only kidding,” Caulder said, rather melodramatically rubbing at his shin. “Actually, she's kind of bright. Not overwhelmingly. We just have this problem with these problems.” He went on for another minute, explaining things. I just sat there, staring at Smitty. I figured it was okay to stare—it wasn't as if he was going to see. His eyes were fixed…well, not really fixed. He wasn't staring. He was just kind of absently looking—like when you lose yourself in your thoughts. Anyway, it seemed like his attention was lost on something across the room—his mother's hutch, maybe.

  Caulder nudged me. “Do the problem,” he said. “Show him.”

  “I can't do the problem,” I whined.

  “Show him,” Caulder said to me, keeping his teeth very close together.

  So I flipped open my notebook—not very gracefully—dragged out the assignment sheet, found the diagram in my book, and explained to the human void sitting next to me just exactly what the problem was. I was thinking this was about the stupidest, most useless thing I had ever done in my life.

  Until he moved that stare from his mother's hutch to my paper.

  So, he was listening.

  Of course he did it like—Oh. Here's a math problem that just happens to be lying on my dining room table. Not that he seemed surprised. He never seemed anything.

  Finally, I finished. I sat there, waiting. All the echoes of my voice had settled out of the air, and I was beginning to get the uncanny feeling I'd never really spoken at all.

  Smitty Tibbs pulled the book a little closer. Then he reached for my notebook, removed a blank piece of paper, picked up a penci
l—all very simple movements and unselfconscious, as if he were alone in the whole world. He tapped the diagram lightly with the eraser of the pencil.

  He began to work the problem. He went through it slowly, writing everything—documenting theorems and corollaries—in detail, taking no shortcuts, with absolutely no abbreviations, no assumptions—and he did it in this very clean, precise printing that reminded me of my dad's architectural hand.

  I began to forget who he was, watching him work. I got lost in the logic, in reading the things he'd written—very technical, perfect. So, of course, I got thoroughly confused. Without thinking, I said, “…but…”

  His hand stopped.

  Then I remembered where I was. And I got embarrassed.

  “What's the problem?” Caulder asked me.

  It wasn't something I could explain. I just hadn't understood—it was a connection I hadn't made, a logical fault.

  Smitty Tibbs waited a moment longer. When I didn't say anything more, he went back to work—only, he started a few steps above where he'd stopped, going back over what he'd already done—this time tracing out each line on the diagram as he worked with it. I'd had to have been blind not to see what he was doing. When he finally finished that proof, even an idiot would have understood it.

  Therefore, I understood.

  I understood a lot of things.

  Caulder was right, for one.

  There was something inside of there.

  “So what about his brother?” I asked Caulder as soon as we were out of that house. “Is he like Smitty? Or is he normal?”

  Caulder laughed. “He's not like Smitty,” he said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them against the night chill. And then he studied me as though he were trying to read my soul. “I can tell you a little bit more about Smitty,” he said finally. “If you're interested.”

  As if I could be anything else now.

  Caulder grinned to himself.

  “None of this is common knowledge,” he said. I nodded. “Just so you understand.” I nodded again. “Smitty was actually normal till he was about two. Then one day, Smitty's mom took her kids to the community pool, and Smitty fell asleep in the sun. So she covered him up with towels and went in swimming. I guess it never crossed her mind he wouldn't be okay.”