Only Alien on the Planet

by Kristen D. Randle

  I sat up and glared at him. “Shut up, okay?” I said. Caulder was offended, of course. But he did shut his mouth. After that, it was interesting. We had to figure out how we were going to hold the book so everybody could see it, and where to put the notebook so Smitty could write—but so nobody would be touching anybody by accident.

  Smitty had kind of pulled himself over on his side. That was the first time I'd seen him off his back. It was also the first time in days I'd seen him actually look at anything. A little color was coming back into his face.

  I watched that face as he read over the problems, his cheek on his hand. I was still thinking it was a gentle face. He had a nice mouth—not soft, but sensitive. His lips were pursed slightly now as he tried to focus on the work. His eyes were still very dark, and his hair was wild.

  He picked up the pencil and began to write.

  “Talk,” I said gently. “You can explain it to me in words now.”

  Cheek still cradled on his hand, he looked over at me.

  “You can do it if we go slow,” I said. “I'll understand it better.”

  Without moving, he seemed to fade away inside of himself. But after a moment, he came back. “All right,” he said.

  Caulder was sitting there next to me, listening to us with fierce intensity.

  It took a long time for Smitty to get through that first problem. It was a whole new way of thinking for him. It really was like he had to translate from one language to another before he could speak. It made him hesitate in funny places, looking for a word, or the turn of a phrase. He was very shy about it. But he did well. And the second problem was easier.

  When we finally left that day, Smitty spoke a quiet good-bye.

  I felt good. I felt like I'd done it the way Charlie would have. I had connected, and it hadn't hurt me, or Smitty, or anybody.

  I hardly even noticed how quiet Caulder was, all the way home.

  chapter 13

  After a couple of weeks, I decided to tell Charlie everything from the beginning. Not leaving out a thing. Not sparing myself any humiliation. I needed to do it; it was time I got somebody to really help me.

  “What I don't understand,” he said to me once I'd finally gotten through it all, “is why you're so ashamed about what you did. Did you kiss him because you were trying to shock him, do you think? Or were you just frustrated? Or was it just the flaming of a sudden passion?” He grinned at me.

  “It was not flaming passion,” I said. At least, that's exactly what I'd been hoping it wasn't.

  “Emotions are so complicated, aren't they?” he mused. “They're never pure and simple. I guess you just have to be as honest as you can. I think you have to follow your heart, Ginny. Look—you've got an unusual thing going here—you've got a chance to build a real relationship with somebody. There are people who never get that chance in a lifetime. Listen very hard, and follow your heart. Your heart is good. It's your brain that gets you into trouble. Anyway, I don't think you should be ashamed. I think you've been doing the best you can.”

  And when I thought about it, maybe he was right.

  “We have some good news,” Dr. Woodhouse told us, waving us into her office chairs the next Monday afternoon, “and some of the other kind. The good news is we've been able to cut way back on the medication. He's handling himself better, and he's becoming more and more articulate. He's making this kind of progress only because it's what he wants, himself. Frankly, I didn't expect anything like this. I told you he's a tough, bright kid. He's working very hard.

  “The bad news is this: we can get him to talk about what he remembers, and we can get him to talk about his parents, or about his brother, or about school. But we can't get him to talk about himself. Or about you, evidently because his feelings about you are too deeply tied up with himself. Not that he actually refuses to talk about these things. He just doesn't respond when we get too close to home. He does refuse hypnosis. That was a flat refusal. The first actively assertive thing he's done here. Kind of refreshing, really.

  “Knowing this shouldn't change what you all are doing. But I'd be interested in hearing your observations about this stuff when you check out today. Okay?”

  She never should have said anything.

  Please understand, Caulder is a wonderful person—wonderful, faithful, true and all that kind of stuff. But as I've said before, he's very stubborn about getting what he wants. And he started in on Smitty the second we walked in the door.

  “How you doin'?” Caulder called, striding into the room like he was on some kind of holy mission. He dropped his books on a chair and started to tug it over toward the bed.

  “Hiya,” I called softly, watching Caulder with foreboding.

  Smitty turned his face to us and one tiny corner of his mouth lifted. It was wonderful. It was amazing. If Caulder had been in his right mind, that would have been enough for him. But I don't think he even saw it.

  Caulder dropped into his chair and leaned toward the bed. “I want to know how you feel today.” He said it with fixed intensity, like a bird dog on point. I was left to bring my own chair over, so I didn't see the answer on Smitty's face. Smitty hadn't said a word.

  “Aren't you going to tell me?” Caulder asked. Subtle as a bulldog. “Okay,” he said when he still got no answer. “What's the problem?”

  Smitty turned his face away from us and went totally blank.

  “Tibbs, excuse me, but what're you doing?”

  I slugged Caulder on the arm, but he was past noticing me. “Caulder—” I said, beginning to get angry. I saw the wonderful, fragile interchange we'd started evaporating into the air.

  Smitty's eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

  “Listen—” I started.

  “No,” Caulder said to me, making a sharp movement with his hand. He leaned over close to the bed. “Knock it off,” he said. He said it quietly but his eyes were burning holes in Smitty's face. “Whatever this is, you got to knock it off.”

  The needles in the monitor meters were beginning to dance nervously.

  “What do you want?” Caulder asked him. “You want to live the rest of your life alone? If there's something wrong, you can bet you're not in any shape to handle it by yourself right now. If there's something wrong—don't you think that's what we're here for? What do you think I've been waiting all these years for? I came here to listen to you. People talk about their feelings, Tibbs—that's what friends are for. You don't shut them out when things get hard. You shut down on us like this, and you're just telling us you don't want us here. That what you want to say? 'Cause if you want us out—we'll go.”

  Something quick came across Smitty's face.

  “Go,” he said.

  But then he whispered, “Don't.”

  “Then you talk,” Caulder said.

  Shut up, I mouthed at him. He looked poison back at me. “Back off, “ I hissed, and I meant it. Caulder threw himself back in his chair, his eyes still hot.

  We sat there for a long time, glaring at each other. You couldn't have told what was going on in Smitty's head, except that the meters showed he was having a hard time.

  And then he said something finally, softly. The monitors peaked.

  Caulder let his breath out slowly and looked at me. “What?” he said. And then he leaned in toward Smitty. “Say it again?”

  A moment went by. “Not working,” Smitty whispered. His breathing was ragged.

  “Come on,” Caulder said. “It's gonna work. You've just got to try. You're not trying. You try and you'll be fine.” As if he hadn't heard a word the doctor had said to us.

  The amazing thing was that Smitty's face was showing tension. “Fine?” he said softly. He closed his eyes.

  Caulder blinked. I was still glaring at him.

  “Caulder doesn't mean to bite,” I said, not taking my eyes off Caulder's. “He's just stupid. And he apologizes. Don't you?” But I warned him with my eyes: Don't open your mouth. “He's just anxious for you to get well, that's all.�
�

  Smitty let go of a breath. “To be normal,” he said after a long moment. Interestingly, I had heard a strong tinge of bitterness in the words.

  “Yes,” Caulder said.

  I added, “Whatever that means.”

  Caulder started to say something else, but I held up a hand and glared at him until he shut his mouth and crossed his arms. It was so quiet in the room after that, Caulder began to fidget.

  Smitty's eyes were still closed. “Not possible,” he said.

  “What?” Caulder snapped, flaming right back up again. “What's not possible? For you to be normal? Of course it's possible. Are you nuts?”

  “Caulder—” I hissed.

  He glared at me, but when he realized what he'd just said, his face went pale.

  And Smitty said softly, “Yes.”

  There was dead silence after that. For the moment, Caulder didn't dare open his mouth. Smitty still lay with his eyes closed, pulled back inside his pain. And I sat between them.

  “Everybody's nuts,” I said finally, trying to heal the silence with talk. “My brother, Paul, used to say that each person defines reality in his own way. Then the human assumption is that anybody who doesn't see things the way he does, or who doesn't do things the way he does is, by definition, irrational. Which is a crazy way of thinking in the first place. So, in other words, every living person is a little nuts.

  “So, every person sets up his own rules, and then uses them to judge everybody else. You just have to realize that. There is no real normal. You just have to decide what you believe. And stay open for new ideas. For the time being, I am using my own concept of reality as a guide. Obviously, Caulder is passionately and rigidly partial to his.”

  Caulder blinked at me.

  “You're not the only troubled one, Smitty,” I went on gently. “You're just more visible than most right now.”

  “I'm sorry,” Caulder said.

  “Then let's just shut up for a while,” I suggested sweetly.

  “She's right,” Caulder said doggedly. “We're all weird. We're all scared. My mom's scared to be happy. I'm scared—of just about everything. Look, I'm really sorry, okay? I'm not very patient. It's a personality flaw. I just want you to be well—okay? Functional. So you can be happy. I don't mean normal. I don't even know what normal means.”

  Smitty heaved a slow sigh. Caulder went kind of sad and dreamy, staring absently down at his hands.

  I kept going on because, somehow, the talk was helping—just the sound of calm voices, like a salve. “For everybody, sometimes, life is really hard. But wonderful things can happen. That's why it's good to stay alive through the dark times, because wonderful things really can happen.”

  “Yeah,” Caulder said thoughtfully, and then suddenly he was grinning to himself. “Yeah, they certainly can.”

  “And just what are you thinking about?” I asked him, instantly suspicious.

  He had turned into a perfect Cheshire Cat. “What?” I asked, kicking at his ankle. Smitty had opened his eyes, probably because we'd temporarily forgotten all about him.

  “Sometimes,” Caulder purred, “you get to kiss beautiful, blond, nubile women.” He batted his eyelashes at me.

  It took me a minute to realize he wasn't just being sarcastic about me. When I finally got what he was saying, I nearly dumped the books out of my lap. “You kissed Hally. Why didn't you tell me?”

  “Do I have to tell you everything?” he asked sweetly.

  Smitty was watching us. Looking particularly at Caulder. “It was good?” he asked, openly curious—just part of the conversation.

  My mouth dropped open, and I stared at him. “I can't believe you asked him that.”

  Smitty looked back at me for a long moment. “I was rude?” he asked.

  “No,” Caulder said, laughing. “Any guy would have asked that.”

  Smitty watched us both for another moment, then blinked at me and said, “Some parts of me are normal.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” I said, and I folded my arms and shoved myself back into the chair. Caulder was laughing.

  Smitty was still looking at me.

  “It was good. It was great. It was very nice,” Caulder said, and then he sighed, happily. “Her lips…”

  “Would you just shut up?” I said to him.

  Smitty's eyes had taken on a totally uncharacteristic spark of interest. “You're angry?” he asked me.

  “Not really,” I said. “Just disgusted.” Actually, all this talk about kissing had made me very uncomfortable.

  Smitty made a soft, considering sound.

  “What?” Caulder asked.

  “Faces,” Smitty said softly. He was looking at Caulder now. Then he moved his hand slowly so the edge of it crossed his plane of vision. “They change—” He dropped his hand and lay back on his pillow. Caulder looked at me. I leaned over, picked up a textbook, and handed it to him. The room was always so quiet when we stopped talking. The rustling Caulder made, riffling through the pages of the book, seemed very loud.

  Caulder found his page and looked at me. He raised an open palm: Should I read?

  “Paul,” Smitty said softly, speaking to the ceiling again. “What did he do to you?”

  The question took me totally by surprise. And when I slowly began to realize what he was probably asking, I could hardly breathe to answer.

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to keep the shock out of my voice. “Only good things. He loves me.”

  He let go a long breath. “I'm tired now,” he said. He sounded weary.

  Caulder got up, awkwardly. “We've got to go anyway.”

  Smitty closed his eyes.

  Caulder put the room back in order. I pulled on my jacket, and was hugging my books to my chest. I was still disturbed by the question.

  “Okay?” Caulder said. He came over, balancing his own books. “See you tomorrow?” he asked.

  Smitty opened his eyes, very drowsy looking. “Tomorrow,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

  “Okay,” Caulder said. He jerked his head toward the door. I went that way, looking back over my shoulder at the bed. Smitty was lying quietly.

  “So what is this about you and Hally?” I asked once we were out in the hall, wanting him to work Smitty's question out of my mind.

  Caulder gave me a face that was all innocence. He was messing with the collar on his parka, trying to pull it around straight. I reached up and did it for him.

  “If something as significant as kissing happened,” I went on, “you should have told me. Because you know—even if you don't tell me, Hally will.”

  “Does she talk about me?” he asked like the thought had never before crossed his mind.

  “Are you kidding?” I said, and the balance of power swung very nicely over my way.

  “So, what does she say?” he asked, trying to go for nonchalant.

  “Actually,” I said airily, “this kind of information ought to be worth something, don't you think? Some little—”

  “Extortion,” Caulder said.

  “Ah,” I said. “Right.”

  “Is it good, what she says?” he asked, looking a little worried.

  I bumped him into the wall with my hip and ran for the car.

  “What is your problem?” James said to me at dinner.

  “What?” I asked, taking another bite of broccoli.

  “You keep staring at everybody,” he said. “And I wish you'd knock it off.”

  “I do not,” I said.

  “You kind of are,” Charlie said.

  “You kind of are,” my dad agreed.

  “It's like you think this is the last time you'll ever see us or something,” James said. “It's creeping me out.”

  “James—” Mother said.

  “Well, she is.”

  So I made a face at him to make him feel better.

  “How'd it go at the hospital?” Mother asked.

  “Pretty well, actually,” I said, stabbing at my potato.

  �
�It'll go by turns,” my dad said. “Sometimes good; sometimes not. You just have to hold on through the bad times and keep trying.”

  I wondered how much my dad knew about that—what kind of things he'd been through in his life. Probably a lot he hadn't told us…

  “She's doing it again,” James said.

  “What? “ I glared at him.

  “You should have seen the way you were looking at Dad,” James said.

  “Will you eat?” Mother said to James.

  “How can I? How am I supposed to eat when she's staring at me?”

  “I wasn't staring at you.” And that was true. I'd been staring at Dad. James just wasn't all that interesting.

  “Ginny,” Mom said, sounding tired. “Are you staring?”

  “No,” I said. “I'm just looking. And thinking.”

  “About what?” Charlie asked.

  “I'm not sure,” I said. “I think it's being with Smitty. You can't take anything for granted. I never realized how intricate it is—you know—interacting like this. It's like music, the way we sit here— everything going back and forth, weaving in and out. Reading each other's faces. Interpreting tones of voice. I've been doing this all my life without even thinking about it. I don't remember learning it.”

  Charlie was looking at me thoughtfully.

  “Once you start to think about it too much,” he said. “It stops working.”

  “You were staring,” James pointed out.

  “Did you know it's really easy for little kids to learn different languages?” Charlie said. “Little kids can pick up a language in no time at all. Like, you move to Germany, and the parents are still trying to figure out the grammar while the little kids are already yelling at each other in fluent German.” He shrugged. “Some adults never get it.”

  “Really,” James said.

  “PBS,” Charlie said, citing his source, and went back to his meat loaf.

  “So maybe the key is,” my dad ventured, “just let the kid pick it up. Forget teaching him. Just do it, and let him watch. He'll get it. Especially if he's as bright as you guys say he is.”

  “You're so wise,” James said, grinning at Dad.

  “Why, thank you, James,” Dad said graciously. “Perhaps some day, you will be too.”