by Robert Reed
“So?” said Cornell, almost whispering.
Pete scratched his chin, whiskers making a dry sound under his fingers. “Pretty tough being your age, isn’t it? Full of yourself, growing an inch an hour…and no time for fathers…”
No time? That wasn’t true. Dad was always with him; privacy was impossible in their little house. Other parents had normal jobs, and they worked almost every day—
“Just try to talk with him, can you?”
It was late September, and they were in Pete’s backyard. Past his chain-link fence, big new houses were springing from the raw earth, castlelike turrets and fancy weather vanes beneath the faint white glare of Antarctica. Only a fraction of the lots were sold, but already this didn’t feel like their neighborhood. The new homes were intruders; they brought a kind of claustrophobia.
“We’ll both talk to him,” said Pete, “and help him. Whatever it is, we can get him to talk it through. We owe him that much.”
And Cornell snapped, “Why do you care?”
The question had an impact, surprising both of them. Pete set his jaw and seemed to ponder. Then he asked his own question. “Why do I help your dad with his work?”
“He pays you.”
“A fair wage, but not a fortune.” He paused. “What’s the main reason?”
“To find aliens.” Only was that the main reason? Cornell heard his words and realized he wasn’t sure—
“Actually,” said Pete, “it’s because your mom vanished. That’s why.”
And Cornell said, “Yeah?”
The dark face blinked, and he said, “I was fond of her. And when she vanished, I was the one to help put your dad back together again. But you don’t remember that, do you?”
Not at all.
“He came to our house and told us…well, about the abduction. And he cried. I’ve never seen any grown person, man or woman, cry as hard as he did that day.”
“So?”
Pete blinked and said, “So I started going with him, helping him navel. Helping him carry. And after a year or two, I realized what a wonderful person he could be. Generous and open. Childlike, really. We could all learn lessons from Nathan.”
Cornell moved his feet, and he snorted.
“I know, he’s difficult. At times more than difficult, I know. But that’s because he looks at everything differently. You know that.”
Too well, he thought.
“Do you remember Mrs. Pete taking care of you? While we were on the road?”
Sort of. A warm blur of half-memories came and left.
“For a little while, she got to play mother with you. And both of us have always, always looked at you as the closest thing to a son.”
Cornell drummed his hands against his thighs, hard enough to sting. His temper surged—his mother’s temper, he remembered—and he heard himself shouting, “Leave me alone. Get out of my business.”
Pete blinked and said nothing.
“It’s my business. Our business. You stay away.”
“If you need to talk, any time—”
Cornell didn’t hear the rest. He turned and ran to the fence between their yards, grasping the top pipe with both hands and neatly, almost gracefully, vaulting over into the long grass, his feet kicking up nameless little bugs that flew and settled and flew again.
He fought with Dad all winter.
The worst fight came on the heels of a long hard snow, neither one of them able to escape the tiny house. With nowhere to go, Cornell sat in the living room and watched TV, and Dad stayed in the basement, classical music making the floor shake. It was like being sick, only worse. Sickness insulated a person, diminishing capacities and compressing time. But here Cornell had to live every damned second, and worse, he discovered that Dad hadn’t bought enough food. There was exactly one choice for dinner—pepperoni pizza in a colorful, frosted-over box—and he put it on a cookie sheet, then into the oven. From the kitchen’s window the world was made of blowing snow and black skies, and he stood at the window until the timer went bing.
Dad heard it. He emerged from the basement, ruining the solitude, a faint whiff of bourbon clinging to him.
Cornell removed the pizza and put a slice on one old plate.
Dad blinked, then said, “Pizza,” as if he’d just learned the word. He found his own plate and slice. The music from the basement quit with a flourish of notes. Then it was just them, the tiny kitchen warmed by the oven, and the wind making a steady far-off sound. The old man dabbed at his crumbs with a dampened fingertip and licked it clean. God, Cornell hated when he did that Dad stopped, seemingly reading his thoughts, eyes frowning and then the smooth voice saying the most unlikely word.
“Love,” he said.
Cornell blinked, a chill spreading through him.
Then Dad said, “Love,” again, with force, nodding and dabbing, licking and continuing with his point “The alien worlds, wherever they reside…they must be rich with love. They must have a wondrous sense of purpose and union. We can’t imagine it. People, I think…we just sip at love, in tiny sweet doses—”
More crazy talk, thought Cornell.
“—and we can’t even control when we’ll sip, or for how long.” A pause, then he said, “I used to argue that they were superior because of their intellects, their technology. But their greatness…now I can see that it comes from their emotions. First and always. And what emotion is larger than love?”
This was a mutated version of the old utopia speech, and Cornell was sick of it, almost physically sick, snapping at him, “You don’t know anything about aliens. All these years, and you haven’t learned anything.”
Dad swallowed, eyes distant. Simple.
Cornell wanted a reaction. He grabbed the old man’s plate, shattering it against the table, thick ceramic shards everywhere and both of them stunned.
Then Dad rose and tried shouting, his voice never quite loud. “What do you need? Please just tell me, what do you need?”
A fair question. Cornell groaned and said, “You embarrass me.”
“I what?”
“Embarrass me.”
“Since when?”
And Cornell couldn’t think of an example. Not now, not this quickly. Instead he said, “You’re crazy,” and pulled his hands across his dampened face. “Everyone knows it. You’re the flying saucer nut—”
“What have I done?” the man whispered. His eyes slipped sideways, face sickly white, and Cornell felt victorious for all of ten seconds. Then, summoning a vague resolve, Dad declared, “They are my life’s work. Or don’t you understand that?”
Cornell looked at the floor.
Dad breathed, breathed again, then went downstairs, feet sounding on the wooden steps.
Then Cornell picked up the shards, throwing them away and putting the last of the pizza into an old margarine tub and it into the refrigerator. He felt worse by the moment, and sorry, but he couldn’t think how to apologize. He didn’t dare try. This temper was a living thing inside him, and he was afraid of what it might do next. Better to wait, he decided. I’ll say something nice tomorrow, he promised himself. Then he sat at the table again, watching the snow falling, flakes melting against the warm glass and the tiny beads of new water coalescing into jerky little rivers.
The girl was in his homeroom class—not pretty as much as willing—and they used the last half-built house behind the cul-de-sac. The big room was either the master bedroom or a family room. The outside walls were finished, the inner ones just a skeleton of clean yellow pine. It didn’t take Cornell long to do more than ever before. The girl used her hand, and she shuddered when he did the same to her, her moans loud and self-involved and a little frightening. He knew enough to hold her afterward, saying things like, “Thank you,” and “Nice,” and pretending he was comfortable on the springy plywood floor.
It was evening, in April, a few months before the second anniversary of the Change. People still spoke about the sky and aliens, in public and private, but o
pinions had hardened over time. The Change had nothing to do with humanity, said some; it was an act of God to humble man, said others; and there always were people who believed there had been contacts with aliens, but in secret. Who knew what was true? Cornell had made the rebellious stand of taking no opinion, at least none he’d admit to or make coherent. Let others make fools of themselves. “I won’t say a word,” he promised himself.
The girl stood and pulled up her pants, asking, “Which is yours?”
Which house, she meant. He joined her and pointed, noticing the light in the kitchen. Past it was Alaska, still in daylight and white with clouds and snow; and for an instant Cornell forgot not to be amazed with the scene, feeling that kick of the heart before he could breathe again.
The girl asked, “Are your folks together?”
He said, “No,” and then added, “My mom’s gone.” He wouldn’t say died. It was another recent promise to himself, to dilute the lies whenever possible. To be a little less dishonest.
But she asked, “Gone where?”
“I don’t know.”
She said, “Too bad.”
Except she didn’t sound sorry. Cornell looked at her face in the bad light, wishing she was prettier.
“My folks are together,” she said, smiling to herself. “They’re doctors. They make a ton.” Then she glanced at him, saying, “Isn’t your dad a scientist?”
“No,” he growled.
“But isn’t he some kind of researcher?”
“Not much anymore.”
“I heard he works for the CEA.”
Cornell laughed. “Who told you that?”
“I don’t remember. Why?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t look at her.
She straightened, then said, “Sorry.”
Coaxing her back to the floor, he got her to neck until she said, “So, do you miss your mom?”
“Sometimes.”
“Think about her?”
All the time, in all the practiced ways, but he wouldn’t let himself say it. And he wouldn’t admit to anyone that he wished he was with her, even if she lived on some dead old moon. Life with her had to be better than life here. That’s what he believed, at least when it suited him. But for now he simply shrugged and said, “I think about her, sure.”
He felt better when he was unknown. He felt safe then.
The girl pushed closer, and a cool wind blew through the open windows, stirring up sawdust that smelled good in the back of his nose. She said, “Hold me,” and he did, one hand under her shirt until she said, “No more of that.” They were still and quiet, and Cornell was thinking about love, how people could only sip it and how they never knew where love would find them. When he fell in love, someday, he would tell the story of his mother. But this wasn’t love and it could never be, nice as it seemed, and suddenly the girl asked him, “What are you thinking?”
“About stars,” he lied.
“Yeah?”
Cornell nodded and said, “I miss them, sometimes.” And he wiped at his eyes once, then again, not crying but needing to pull the moisture out of them. A third time, and a fourth.
7
“Mr. Novak? Help me for a minute?”
Cornell was climbing out of his car—a stubby Chinese model that he’d gotten last year, third-hand—and the voice seemed to fall from the bright, slightly smoky air. He saw Mrs. Pete standing on her perfect yard, her big-brimmed hat half-obscuring her face, one hand holding a spun-cellulose can of beer. Again she asked, “Help me?”
“Okay.”
“There’s a shelf I can’t reach, back in the garage. I need my Dutch oven. I’m making a quick-and-dirty stew for tonight.”
Another Change Day; another party for the cul-de-sac. Cornell said, “Sure,” and remembered last year. The new people, the Guthries, had brought an enormous inedible ham. And the Lynns fought. Or was that the year before?
“Were you working?”
“Yeah.” He’d done the early shift at the pool, lifeguarding for a herd of hyperactive kids. Todd got him the job, and he hated it. He hated the sun and noise and the responsibility of watching so many bodies. This was a boring summer, and he’d look forward to fall except that school was just a different flavor of boring.
“You’ve managed quite a tan, Mr. Novak. I’m jealous.”
It was teasing, the way she said his name. They were inside the big garage, her voice echoing and the air cool; she pointed to the oven, twice saying, “Thanks for your help.”
He hadn’t done anything yet.
“Pete hid the big ladder. There’s just this shaky thing.” A pause. “Can you manage?”
Cornell was tall, having long ago outgrown his father. He wore his hair in the modern style, three little pigtails ending with synthetic diamonds. He wanted a beard, but it was too soon. He had fought with Dad about topical hormone treatments, finally dropping the idea. It always was like that. Everything was a fight, and he never quite won. They’d have long stretches where a kind of stasis was reached—not peace, but at least a quietness—and then everything went sour, usually surprising both of them.
“Reach it?”
Cornell had the oven by its handles. It was designed for a sonicwave oven, a popular Christmas gift two or three years ago. It wasn’t heavy, but it was clumsy to carry, what with his position and the shivering ladder. And Mrs. Pete wouldn’t help, standing to one side while telling him, “You just saved my life.”
Cornell managed to safely climb down.
“Drag it inside for me?”
He hadn’t been inside the Petes’ house for months, maybe since last New Year’s. It might have been the longest absence in his life, which was strange to consider. The house’s roominess and silence were unchanged, and it was astonishingly bright, big windows and skylights facing west. The air smelled of commercial scents until Mrs. Pete stepped close, sharing her beer breath.
Cornell pretended not to notice.
She confessed, “I don’t belong on ladders.”
“Glad to help.”
A wistful smile, then she asked, “Want one?”
She took two beers from the refrigerator, and he said, “Okay.” He didn’t like the flavor, but he liked the wickedness. Mrs. Pete watched him sipping, and she talked, and he sat on a stool with the kitchen counter stabbing him in the back. When would Dad come home? he was wondering. Cornell was going out tonight with a girl from the pool. Had he told Dad? Probably not. “Where were they going?” Cornell had to ask. Halfway across the state, Mrs. Pete told him. Some idiot claimed to have seen aliens cavorting in his front yard. Just like old times, wasn’t it?
Cornell shrugged his shoulders.
“I miss the old days,” she claimed, almost laughing. “I didn’t believe, but things were exciting…and Pete had a lot of fun…”
“I suppose.”
She paused, her breathing audible, wet and quick. With a deeper voice, she said, “I do like my house.”
He didn’t respond, unsure of her point.
“I use to hate it,” she confessed. “All these rooms and nobody here but the two of us. But you know all that. About my complaints. My threats. Whatever Pete called them…”
Never. Pete never mentioned anything so personal, and she had to know it. Pete was nothing if not intensely private, and what was she thinking?
“I should have collected dogs.” Mrs. Pete spoke slowly, with drunken precision. “Except, frankly, I’ve never approved of women who keep beasts in lieu of children. Talking to them, dressing them in baby clothes…that’s rather disgusting, I think…”
Cornell said nothing.
And she breathed deeply, once and again, then stepped closer without touching him. One hand lifted as if she would touch him, but then it hung in space, its destination forgotten. She looked more worn than old, sunlight making wrinkles look deep and the thick hair shot full of white strands. And then she was crying, suddenly and without sound, and Cornell was angry with her for crying. He fel
t embarrassed, then repulsed, her hand finding the will to clasp hold of his shoulder and the deep, old-woman voice asking, “Can’t you once call me Elaine?”
The free shoulder shrugged.
“I should have tried mothering you. At least more than I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” she said, “you’re the loveliest little man.”
Cornell felt distant. Unreachable.
“Not as pretty as your mother, but close.”
Then he halfway pushed her, not meaning to be abrupt but adrenaline giving him speed. And he moaned, telling her, “Get away,” with a voice harsher than intended.
She looked at him, eyes unblinking and red, her mouth set, and suddenly the crying was replaced with something worse. There was a resolve, clear and frightening, and she said, “She called you Corny, didn’t she?”
He didn’t answer, and she said:
“She thought it was funny, that name.” A fire seemed to blaze up in the woman’s eyes. “Oh, it’s so awful about your mother, isn’t it? Taken away by aliens. Kidnapped. Stolen.”
“What do you mean?”
“And a beautiful girl. The sort of girl every woman fears, absolutely fears, because women know her at a glance. By instinct.” A pause, an odd glance skyward. “Because women know her in some way men can’t. Which makes her worse, of course. Not that I didn’t like your mother. Don’t misunderstand. Pam was a sweet creature, in her fashion—”
“What are you saying?”
A theatrical sigh. “What am I saying? That men went crazy around her. She had a way of enchanting them, making them fall in love. Like Pete did. And I was jealous, I suppose. He’d stare at her, and what could I do? I might as well have been jealous of his food, as much chance as he had to ignore her.”
Pete had mentioned being fond of Mom. When had he—?
“You men are so simple. So sentimental. Do you know that Corny?” She tilted her head, sipped a beer and said, “Like children, you are.”