Things That Are (retail)

by Andrew Clements

  Doesn’t matter. I have to call him.

  And I’ve got my phone out. Flip, scroll, select, dial. Bobby picks up in the middle of the first ring.

  There’s music blasting, the Beatles, “A Hard Day’s Night.” It stops, and he says, “Hi, I’m close—be there in five minutes, maybe less. Meet you out front?”

  “Um…no. Come to the garage door back in the alley, okay? And I’ll let you in.”

  “But I thought we were—”

  I cut in, “See you there, okay?”

  And I hang up.

  One of the last movies I ever saw in a theater was Enemy of the State. I know it’s not smart to base any thinking on stuff I saw in a Will Smith movie about a huge invasion of privacy by the U.S. government, but I can’t help feeling like there are satellites overhead taking high-resolution pictures of my neighborhood. And agents with binoculars out front in a white van. And other agents with headphones, recording everything. And they’re all wearing dark suits and dark glasses.

  “Gertie, come.” I take the harness handle from its hook by the mirror and clip it on. And right away I feel better. No matter what resources Special Agent Charles Porter has, I’ve got Gertie.

  And now my dog and I are going to walk to the back of the house, then down the four steps from the kitchen, across the small landing, then up four steps to another door, the one on the right that opens into the covered walkway that leads out back to my dad’s study—twelve steps—then we’ll walk straight across his study—ten steps—and through the opposite door into the walkway that connects to the garage—fourteen steps. It’s a lot longer than just going out the back door and across the yard to the garage. But it’s a more secure path. And it’s more hidden. And I think it’s what I should do in this kind of situation.

  Except I don’t know what kind of situation this is…do I?

  No.

  But it’s time to stop thinking. Time to do.

  And I say, “Gertie, forward.”

  And I give myself the same command: Alicia, forward.

  It’s the only way to go. In this kind of situation.

  chapter 8

  squeaks

  There are two cars in this world I can positively identify by sound: my dad’s rumbly old Saab convertible and Bobby’s Volvo station wagon—which is even rumblier and clankier and squeakier.

  After waiting in the garage for a minute or so, I hear the Volvo and I push the button that lifts the wide door onto the alley. It’s a big garage, so there’s room for Bobby to pull in next to our car. When the engine stops, I push the button again, and the door grinds its way back down.

  The car door groans open, and Bobby says, “How come you shut the garage? Aren’t we going to my house?”

  He’s out of the car and standing beside me.

  “I hope so,” I say, “but first we have to talk.”

  He takes my hand. “I know.”

  And I have no idea what he means. But he’s got my complete attention.

  Then Bobby says, “I…I acted like a real jerk, you know, back at the library. I wanted that to be a lot…different than it turned out, more…more friendly and everything. And I’m sorry.” He pauses, brushes the hair away from my face. “So, yeah, let’s talk, okay?”

  And I could scream, because this is the perfect beginning for the kind of talk I want us to have. About how we feel. About each other. And we can’t. Not yet.

  So I say, “Bobby, I’m so glad you said that, because I felt awful. After you left the library. And I want to talk too, about…everything. But some other stuff happened, just in the last hour or so. And it’s serious.”

  “What? What do you mean?” he says. “You’re not…like, sick or something, are you?” And there’s almost a quaver in his voice.

  I squeeze his hand. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s William. I had a talk with William.”

  “William? William who?”

  “The man from New York. The man you were arguing with at three o’clock this morning.”

  Bobby takes a step back, lets go of my hand.

  “No way! He called you? But…like, how did he get your number?”

  “He didn’t call. He’s here in Chicago, Bobby. He came up to me in the library and started talking. About forty minutes ago. Said that he’s seen two men following you, said he thought you were in danger. He said someone is probably watching me too.”

  Bobby pushes a quick breath out between his lips. “This is…this is bad—what else did he say?”

  “That was about it. We got cut off because a security guard came over and talked to me. And it gets even worse, because just a few minutes ago an FBI agent came to the front door.”

  “No way! The FBI? Here?”

  I nod. “Yeah, and he wants to talk to me and my mom and dad—they’re not home now. We’re supposed to call him later.”

  Gertie whines softly, nudges my leg. I forgot—poor thing, she still needs to go out. So I take off the harness handle and open the door to the backyard. “Okay, Gertie, good girl.”

  I shut the door and turn back to Bobby.

  I lift one eyebrow, and I say, “So…what do you think? What’s going on? And what should we do?”

  “I…” He hesitates, and then starts over, speaking slowly. “First of all, I’m so sorry that you’re getting pulled into all of this. Again. I didn’t want that to happen.”

  He sounds small. And tired. And his voice has a tenderness I haven’t heard for a long time.

  “Because I really messed up. That’s what’s going on. I set something in motion, and I have no idea how it’s going to end. And it’s all because I saw this guy’s shadow in a store in New York, and I should have just turned away, pretended not to see him. But I didn’t. I stared.”

  I’m hugging my arms—it’s freezing here in the garage. “Let’s go talk in the house, okay? We can walk through my dad’s study.”

  I could call Gertie in, clip the handle back onto her harness, and have her guide me. Or I could easily walk back into the house without my dog, without any help at all.

  But I want to be helped.

  “Could I hold your arm?”

  “Sure.” Bobby steps ahead of me, and I put my right hand above his left elbow. And he moves his arm, hugging my hand against his side. He’s wearing a fleece jacket, too light for a day this cold. I feel the warmth of his arm through the fabric.

  As he opens the door into the walkway, he says, “How did William sound to you? I mean, besides British. Did he seem strange or anything? Or even, like, dangerous? ’Cause when I first met him in New York, I thought he was a real creep, a genuine psycho. Which is why I got the police involved.”

  “Really?” The word comes out like a gasp. Because I’m shocked. Two years ago we were so careful to keep everything about the invisibility a complete secret—especially from the authorities.

  He says, “I mean, I didn’t tell them exactly what to look for or anything, but I needed William to back off, leave me alone. So I told the police where to find his neighborhood. And that he was great at disguising himself.”

  “You told them that?” Again, I’m surprised.

  “Yeah,” he says, and I can hear the regret in his voice. “Because it felt like my only choice. I was afraid he was going to start hurting people, or maybe take a hostage or something, try to force me to tell him how the whole process works. And I knew I couldn’t tell him that. So I told the police to watch out for him, just to give him something else to worry about. And I wish I hadn’t, because it didn’t go the way I planned. I didn’t think things would loop back to me. Or to you. And I’m really sorry about that.”

  Again, the tenderness. I squeeze his arm a little, and I say, “It’s okay. We’ll just have to deal with it. But about you and him and the police and what happened in New York—I think he was starting to tell me about that in the library, before we got cut off. But, really, he didn’t sound creepy to me. Desperate, yes. And scared that the police are after him—exce
pt I don’t think he’s sure the police actually know anything about the invisibility, or even if any of them believe the whole invisibility thing is for real.”

  “Really?” Bobby says. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because William said that one policeman had hold of his arm for about ten seconds, and then he got loose, got away clean. And that’s the only actual contact he’s had with anyone at the NYPD.”

  “That is huge news.” There’s a gush of relief in Bobby’s voice. Then more soberly, he adds, “If it’s true. Because if there’s only one policeman saying he had his hands around some invisible guy, I bet the cops called a psychiatrist, not a physicist. Which means we might still be able to keep the whole thing bottled up. Unless William does something really stupid, like getting himself caught. Or attacking someone. And you’re sure you didn’t get a bad vibe when you were talking to him?”

  I shake my head. “He’s really tense, and I got this undercurrent of desperation, but I think he’s mostly scared. That’s the feeling I got. And I think he honestly wanted to help, to warn you about the men following you.”

  Bobby opens the door into my dad’s study, and he says, “See, that’s what I don’t get—why this guy’s being so nicey-nice all of a sudden. Because when we talked last night in New York, he even apologized for the way he’d acted at first, said we had to work together now, said he’s trying to help me, and of course, he wants me to help him. But he was not like that when he showed up at Gwen’s house in the city. He’d seen me spot his shadow, and then he followed us home, silently, right into her living room. Threatened us, really scared us. All that could have been an act, I guess. But I don’t get it.”

  We’re halfway across the study when Bobby stops.

  He says, “What, is your dad keeping pets back here? Hermit crabs? Or hamsters?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “So…what are the little cages for?”

  “Cages? Really? I haven’t been in this room for months. Your dad’s been back here a lot more than I have.”

  “My dad? What do you mean?” he asks.

  “The two of them have been working on something for the university, my dad said. A joint project of the physics department and the astronomy department. So, what are these cages like?”

  And I’m picturing the way I remember this room from years ago—about twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide, Daddy’s big desk near the garage end, bookcases lining both walls, an Oriental rug on the floor, a long oak table covered with stacks of scientific journals, and no windows except for the three skylights.

  “Here,” he says, “take a look. The table’s got a lot of other stuff on it, all sorts of electrical stuff, so be careful.” And Bobby guides my hands to the oak table, and then to a clear space near the center.

  And what we have are small glass aquariums with wire mesh tops, three of them side by side.

  “And they’re empty?” I ask.

  “Yup. Just wood shavings. And little food pellets. And some tiny poop. Nice.”

  “Shh,” I say. “What’s that?”

  “What?” he asks.

  I lean down closer to one of the cages—little scratching sounds. “Hear it now?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Give the cage a shake.”

  I do, and Bobby gasps.

  “Alicia!”

  “What?” And I hear him slide the two other cages around on the table, then the sound of scrabbling claws and little high-pitched squeaks. An involuntary shiver runs through me.

  “Those squeaks?” he says. “And the tiny droppings? There are mice in these cages, in all three of them.”

  “Down under the shavings?”

  “Yeah,” Bobby says, “and now up on top, moving around.”

  I’m confused. “You mean, like, little lab mice?”

  “Exactly,” he says, “the kind used for experiments.”

  “But my dad’s not that kind of a scientist, never was.”

  “Well, he is now,” Bobby says, “because these little guys have been worked on.”

  “You mean they’re, like…deformed or something? Bobby, that’s horrible!”

  “No,” he says, “not deformed. At least I don’t think so. But I can’t really tell. All these mice? They’re invisible.”

  chapter 9

  tissue

  I feel around until I find Daddy’s desk and then his chair. I have to sit down.

  My dad. Running a research lab in our backyard. Experimenting on mice. Creating invisible squeakers. Frankenmice.

  Everything is coming unglued. I can’t think what to say about it. And I’m surprised by the first words out of my mouth.

  “Bobby, your dad is in on this.”

  He says, “What? What do you mean?”

  “He’s been at our house at least five times in the past couple months, and every time, the two of them have been out here for three or four hours. And now we know what they’ve been up to.” I wave toward the cages. “That is their big joint project. It has to be.”

  I wait, but Bobby doesn’t try to argue. Because the puzzle pieces fit together too tightly. And I want to jump up and grab Bobby’s hand so we can run to the garage, get in his car, and drive over to his house. We’ll pull the shades, lock the doors, smash our cell phones. We’ll build a fire in the fireplace, curl up on the floor, and the two of us will talk for hours and hours as the flames burn to embers. Then we’ll doze off, warm in each other’s arms. And we’ll wake up and realize all of this was just a bad dream.

  But it’s not. It’s happening. This phenomenon. The cold, hard physics. And I have to deal with things as they are, we both do.

  I take a deep breath, let it out. And I say, “So…why are they doing this?”

  A long pause before Bobby answers. “No idea. Unless it’s like they…”

  Footsteps. In the walkway from the house. Coming fast.

  My instinct is to rush back the way we came, hide in the garage. But I’m no good at rushing anywhere.

  The door opens, and Bobby says, “Dr. Van Dorn…um, hi.”

  I make an attempt at a smile toward the doorway. “Hi, Daddy.” And as guilty and confused as I sound, I’m so glad it’s him. I imagined those footsteps belonging to William. Or the FBI. Or a terrorist.

  There’s an awkward wedge of silence—nothing but tiny mouse scratchings.

  Daddy clears his throat. “Well. It looks like you’ve met our little friends there. I’m glad you know about this now, both of you. Because I haven’t liked keeping this hidden. The only other person who knows is Bobby’s father. And both our wives. And neither of your mothers have been happy about this, none of us are. But we all understand why it’s been important to move ahead with the research.”

  I know this tone of voice I’m hearing. It’s the same voice Daddy used when I was five and he explained why I couldn’t talk to strangers. Or chase a ball into the street. Or climb out my bedroom window onto the front porch roof. It’s his danger voice, the one that means, “Don’t argue, because I know I’m right about this.”

  And as he begins to talk, it sounds like he’s been ready to explain this for a long time. Because he’s got his major points all lined up. He knew this moment would come.

  “Dr. Phillips and I began tracking research on this subject in the scientific journals two years ago, right after Bobby’s experience. This is a hot area in applied physics right now—they call it cloaking technology. And it’s being funded by the military and intelligence communities in at least five different countries, which is a very disturbing fact.”

  Daddy’s beginning to pace on the carpet, three steps one way, turn, and come back. I know this pattern. He’s working the logic, putting his lecture together.

  “And there’s about a hundred million dollars’ worth of ongoing research—and those are just the published figures. They’re trying to figure out how to hide things like planes and satellites and military installations. But they’re focused on specific materials that de
flect waves, materials that let waves—radar or microwaves, for example—slip around them instead of bouncing off, sort of the way the materials in the B-2 stealth bomber deflected radar waves. And recently the research has extended to the visible light spectrum—to develop a material that will let normal light waves slip by with no reflection, which would make anything beneath it invisible.”

  A salesman, that’s what Daddy reminds me of. He wants us to buy in. He needs us to agree.

  He says, “But Bobby’s experience? That was actual molecular-level light management, or at least that’s what we’re calling it. To have living tissue stop reflecting light? That is very different from making an inert material do that. And we have to assume others are also working on this. Don’t you see? To think we can keep this idea hidden, it just isn’t realistic. And in terms of pure science, when something like this pops into view, it can’t be ignored. It would have been irresponsible not to try to understand it. And it would be even more irresponsible if we didn’t try to be prepared for the worst case: which would be a person or a group of people who want to use this knowledge to harm others, to create terror and instability. We’re doing our work from a humanitarian perspective, and with a global view, and it’s purely defensive. And we’re documenting everything we’re doing. Just in case. But the work has to be done. We have no choice. I hope you can see that.”

  I don’t know if Bobby is nodding his head in agreement. Or looking skeptical. Or if he’s stunned and outraged by Daddy’s speech. Because it was his experience. And it’s been hijacked.

  Me, I’m trying to keep my face neutral. Because I don’t know how I feel about this. It makes me want to ask Daddy if he and Dr. Phillips have started writing their acceptance speeches for the Nobel Prize. It makes me want to ask how the mice are doing—are they having invisible mouse babies? Any nasty side effects that Bobby and William should know about? And I have a lot of physics-type questions, a lot of what-ifs too. Because this backyard experimentation, this is another asteroid right here in our home orbit, big and wobbly.