by Stephen Cox
‘He’s a good kid,’ John said, rubbing Cory’s head. ‘Dear Lord, you need a plan though.’
Eva grilled the fish with butter and Cory gobbled down seconds.
She could do a lot with fish. Her Joy of Cooking was full of ideas.
*
Another blissful day, filled with picking fruit and watching Cory running and climbing trees and getting muddy, but Gene had to be at work tomorrow.
Leaving Cory singing in the bathroom upstairs, the four adults sat and John announced, ‘So if you stay and they come after you, what’s the plan?’
Gene went through everything, heading to Canada, Indiana or West, even Dr Jarman’s spare car hidden on Elliott Street, just in case – the whole thing.
‘I’ll get you some snacks for the road,’ said Eva.
*
In the car, as woods and fields rolled past, Cory said, ‘No murdered-things in house pleeese. Take all murdered-things fridge bury them.’
‘We won’t ask you to eat them,’ Gene said, but Molly doubted Cory would drop his objection.
She had bigger concerns. What were they going to do? Cory’s people might take a year to come, or they might never get here – would they be able to hide him for a year? Five years? Ten?
She was so glad John and Eva had accepted their son. She looked at Gene again and the old bad times seemed a long time ago and a long way away . . . but she felt such a foreboding, that nothing would ever feel under their control again.
Live each day at a time: that was the old AA motto. Who knew how anything ever ended?
CHAPTER 21
His first Halloween
Raindrops glistened from last night and birds flew up, abandoning the berries on her bushes, as Molly searched the garden. There was no sign of Cory, but she’d bet he was out here somewhere.
She could hear children talking the other side of the high fence. The gate was closed, but . . . Surely Cory hadn’t—?
Two voices, she guessed Chuck and Bonnie. She saw them together in the woods behind her house rather too often of late.
He was probably on the roof of the shed watching them. She slipped the key into the gate, opening it as quietly as she could, and stepped out to see the two children right next to her fence. Bonnie could have been playing Pure Innocence in a church play, but Chuck looked as uncomfortable as if she’d caught him stealing cookies.
‘Good morning, Mrs Myers,’ said Bonnie. ‘How are you today?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Bonnie. How are you two?’ Molly looked at the Scout knapsack in Chuck’s hands. Bonnie was holding a flask of water.
Bonnie volunteered, ‘We’re doing a project, on animals. We thought we’d look for tracks, but there aren’t any today.’
Chuck went a little red in the face.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Molly said enthusiastically. ‘You just carry on looking. I thought I’d cut some of these beautiful branches to decorate the house. But that won’t stop you, will it? I’ll just go and get the cutters.’
‘That’s okay, ma’am,’ Chuck said hurriedly. ‘We’ll just look someplace else because there aren’t any tracks here.’
‘What a shame.’ Molly watched the two of them walk away, her nerves jangling. Lovely kids, and a touching friendship, but did they know something? Maybe Cory left footprints sometimes, but he wore ordinary shoes, and anyone could use the path.
She went in, locked the gate and whistled, the sound that meant into the house right now.
In the kitchen, Cory looked woebegone. ‘Bonnie and Chuck didn’t see me Cory hid so-well honest.’
‘Spying on people isn’t nice, Cory. What were they talking about?’
His tentacles were in turmoil.
‘Sweetie-pie, they’re nice kids but I need to know.’
‘Nothing.’
She squatted down, took him in her arms and held him.
‘They’re good kids but if they know about you, they’ll talk, and then the Bad Men will be back, lots of Bad Men. I need to know.’
His fear raised the hairs on her neck.
‘Not Bad Men. Talking about Halloweeen like last time, trick-and-treeet and all the children-together, and games-and-costumes and candy-for-weeks.’
‘And?’
‘And looking at path, and near gate. They said playing looking for spies. If found tracks, make pl . . . plarstercasts. Nansee-drew.’
She held him, and thought how dangerous this innocent curiosity was to him. ‘You have to promise me, Cory Myers, no showing, no talking. Always hide – in fact, always come inside if Bonnie and Chuck are snooping. Promise me.’
He let out a howl and his anguish and loneliness made her ache inside. ‘Hoo-hoo-hoo. Cory have no children no friends none-at-all. At home, on ship, sleep sixteens together, bigger ones help little ones.’ A complicated fluting in his language. ‘Always games and talks and dream together so many. Earth so lonely. Not solo, don’t want to be alone.’
‘You have us,’ she said, but she knew it was not the same.
‘Children in street and human-school all children together and parties and trick-or-treeet and Cory can’t not at all not ever. When-when-when Cory people come?’
She held him, and it hurt, that she couldn’t make this right.
That evening, when he was finally asleep, Gene and Molly held another council of war.
‘We could let him trick-or-treat,’ Gene said.
She almost spilled her drink. ‘You’ve got to be kidding; it’s so risky.’
‘Use your imagination.’ Gene’s hands waved. ‘If a kid’s in a wheelchair and doesn’t speak . . . people will think he’s a bit, you know, simple in the head . . . Add a good disguise. It’s the one time we can pull it off! And if we went to Bradleyburg or Dixville, we wouldn’t even need a cover story.’
Against her better wishes, Molly sweet-talked Rosa into lending them a wheelchair. Cory loved wheelchair-racing in the deserted parking lot of the abandoned mill, and him trying to push Gene had her full of giggles. And on the day, she looked at Cory in hairy monster gloves and his head in a special mask, and Gene was right, you couldn’t tell. A scary growl was a scary growl.
It worked, although her heart pounded every time someone grown or little admired Cory the poor monster. If they spoke to him, she would say sadly, ‘Oh, he doesn’t speak.’ They would look pitying and give him even more candy. So much candy, even cautious Cory puffed up like a belching frog.
The day after Halloween, Cory was still wearing the scary costume. At supper, Gene handed him a big flat present, wrapped in red paper with stars.
‘It’s a just-because present,’ he said, beaming.
Cory took care not to rip the paper, which revealed a big book on stars and planets, all in colour pictures. It looked very expensive.
‘Wow!’ Molly said. ‘We should write your name in that, Cory.’
‘Mag-nif-i-cent.’ Cory’s ears drooped. ‘Lux-ur-rious!’
She felt his sadness across the table. Gene, crestfallen, had his arm round his skinny shoulders.
‘Which star m-mine? Where home? Where Pioneer-home?’
What could they say? Tears came.
‘Cory people must come yes-they-will.’
‘I hope so,’ Molly said. ‘When they do come, won’t that be wonderful?’
‘Cory all alone. Need freeends.’ But he still picked up Gene’s disappointment. ‘Good book from Dad. Ex-cell-ent book. Cory decided, take Mom and Dad and John and Eva home planet. First humans to stars yes-Cory-will.’
‘Wouldn’t that be amazing,’ Gene said, trying to pretend his eyes weren’t wet.
‘Dad and Cory read star book now-together right-now. Whole book.’
Then he shivered, and they dared not ask what he was thinking.
*
‘What’s up, Molly
-moo?’
She sat next to Gene on the sofa. ‘Diane’s in a right old state. Any trouble with the kids, she misses Hube. They were such a team. So anyway, Junior won’t come home for Thanksgiving – he told her he couldn’t celebrate “the victory of genocide and colonialism”; that the black man must stand with the red man, their oppressed brothers. He’s joined some group that want to take African names. And as if that wasn’t enough, Maddie’s found yet another unsuitable boy and wants to drop out . . .’
‘I guess you don’t stop worrying when they leave home,’ Gene sighed.
‘Diane’s just so hurt they won’t come home. She’s sure Maddie’s new boyfriend is using drugs . . . Diane’s going insane about it. Anyway, then she started pushing – you know what she’s like. “How’re things?”, all innocent.’
‘Um . . . what’s wrong with that?’
‘She’d noticed the sweater, that’s what. Unlike you.’
A pause. ‘I always liked that sweater.’
‘And now I’ve lost twelve pounds I can wear it again, Mr Observant! So then Diane more or less said, why the act? She knows me. “You and Gene, you’re doing so well, and you seem to have more energy, Molly.” So I fence for a bit, then as usual I make an excuse and go – and as I was leaving, I bumped into Janice, and there’s a real something. I told you on Sunday, didn’t I? They stopped talking when they saw me – you know when your friends are talking about you—’
‘No,’ Gene said, bemused.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘You think she’s going to call the FBI on us? No, we just need to play it cool, maybe step back a little more . . . Perhaps you should stage a little relapse, then you and Cory can go to Dr Jarman’s for a few days.’
‘I hate this.’
‘Or we tell the adults, anyway.’
The conversation went around and around, like a leaf in a whirlpool, like it always did.
*
Cory loves fall coming in all its beauty and sadness. How fine the trees on fire in their fall colours, and so-many fruits and berries! Cory so-excited when he found Earth tilted and had, Earth word, sea-sons. His home just weather, no sea-sons. How exciting, birds gather to fly south. He wants to see winter with storms and ice and snow and Christmas.
On car trips he hears children playing and from his hiding place on the roof he sees them, and in the books, the children all have friends, even if they are sometimes animals and ghosts and monsters. Cory feels the love of his parents like the sun, but also true, how alone, like a sea current that pulls him down-down-down.
But Cory is frightened of the Bad Men who will steal him from his parents and maybe eat him. The TV and newspapers are always full of Bad Men killing.
He keeps his promises to Mom, but a ball is not ‘talking’. Chuck’s bright red baseball is so-big secret. He hides it in the attic place too-small for adults.
Cory found the ball in the garden last week. It looked just like Chuck’s and smelled like him. Maybe-maybe it was just thrown over the fence, but Cory is smart-detective. The loose plank in the fence was moved, yes-it-was, and there was a Chuck-sized boot-print. In the garden.
Every day Cory holds the ball to his face and taste-smells. Ball is an invitation; easy for Cory to get out, same way Chuck got in. But wary-Cory knows it might be a trap.
Cory goes into the garden, wishing he was in the woods, telling himself the old stories like he was a big one and a little one together in the children’s hall. He hears Bonnie’s voice over the fence.
‘You are such a scaredy-cat, Charles Henderson. Just a baby.’
‘You shouldn’t have stolen the keys. We could just play in the woods.’
Wanting to see, Cory hides and with a foot here, a hand there, he is on the shed roof. He checks carefully, in case Bonnie has a camera.
Chuck holds a basket and under his arm is a familiar box, a board game. Bonnie has a rolled-up blanket and something jangling on her fingers: keys.
Bonnie is clever words and quick-quick temper. Cory likes how she moves and sings and ties coloured things in her black hair, the dance of her friendship with Chuck.
‘Old Mrs Hardesty is a witch,’ Bonnie says fiercely. ‘She never speaks to our family, because we’re black.’
Cory feels Chuck’s shame, yes, as Chuck says, ‘She’s old and confused. She’s gotta live with her family now. It’s still wrong to break into her house, even if it is empty.’
Bonnie does a little bragging dance, swinging the keys. ‘There’s no one home, we have the spare key – and we’ll be like mice, we won’t leave a sign.’
‘Someone might come,’ says Chuck, glancing up at Cory’s window.
‘No, they won’t. Young Mrs Hardesty came yesterday, she won’t be here again for ages. Anyway, if you’re too scared, I’ll do it on my own.’ She turns and skips up the footpath.
Chuck sighs. ‘Girls!’ He follows her.
Cory needs to see if they really will go into the house. He slips off the shed roof into the garden and scurries to the gap in the fence. Peering through, he can see Bonnie by the back door, fiddling with the key.
Cory is so-so careful, looking and pushing his mind out, his tentacles tasting the air for unfamiliar humans or any sign of danger.
Chuck goes to push open the door, but Bonnie stops him.
‘We have to promise first,’ she says.
‘Scout’s Honour and hand on the Bible and cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die,’ says Chuck, and Cory can hear he is serious, oh-yes-he-is, ‘we’ll keep this and anything we find today a secret from everyone, no matter what. Including our parents.’
Bonnie makes the long promise too, then she laughs. ‘We’ve got so much cake, easily enough for three people.’
They disappear into the house and no one sees except Cory and the squirrels. And the back door stays open . . .
Cory wrestles with his inner Teacher and begins the approach to the house, promising himself he will mind-feel behind the door, to check no one is lurking. Cory best hider ever.
Underneath the kitchen window he hears the clink of cutlery and the murmur of human voices. The back door goes into little space, then the kitchen, like Cory house, a bit.
He sneaks a look through the crack in the door. The house smells of things left alone, damp wood and dead things and some unfamiliar scent like a rotting flower, but there is nothing lurking to catch him. He inches towards the kitchen, where the children are sitting at the table, their backs to him.
Cory stands up to get a better look.
‘It’s kind of a dumb game for two,’ Chuck says. ‘Three players would be better.’
‘I wish we’d brought someone else,’ says Bonnie, with a sigh, but her voice and her feelings are out of tune; Cory can feel her big ripple of satisfaction. His heart is pumping fast and he readies himself to flee . . .
They know, they know, they lured Cory into a trap . . .
He turns to run to the door, into the woods, when Chuck says, ‘If you’re there, we won’t tell anyone. We’ll make every promise we know. You can trust us.’ Both humans have their heads down, not looking.
‘Please,’ Bonnie says. ‘I dreamed that you’re so sad and lonely. Play with us.’
Cory does feel so alone. There is a moment of balance, to run or to stay – then the humans turn around and it is like diving off the tallest-ever tree into the water. He slips from hiding, and in that moment, fears he has made the worst mistake ever . . .
‘Wow!’ And Chuck’s face shows everything in his heart: astonished and happy and yes, a little bit vomit-feelings, like Cory is rotting-slime-disgusting, but Chuck is pushing that down, trying to keep it from his face. He claps his hands. ‘You came on the Meteor! I knew it! Tell us how—’
Bonnie is all joy and amazement, just gazing at him. ‘Of course he did. I bet on your planet you’re real
ly handsome. Oh, we will be such friends and we will keep you such a secret,’ she promises, getting off her chair. ‘What’s your name?’
He steps towards them and feels only friendship-to-come.
‘I-am-Cory.’ Cory, which came from cor-cor-cor, help-I’m-hurt, because no human can say his real name, Little Glowing Blue Frog.
Bonnie becomes leader. ‘Hugs if you hug, then sacred and terrible promises, then cake, then talk. The game can wait.’
Cory takes her hand. He has learned her smell, and he is happy.
CHAPTER 22
His first Christmas
Molly began her Christmas lists before the first jack-o’-lanterns appeared. Gene said a couple of times, as the lists got longer, ‘We don’t need to overdo it, Molly.’ But, yes, she thought, I do. If she died, she wanted on her tombstone Cory’s First Christmas Was Perfect.
When Molly was a child, Christmas mattered. It smelled of baking and preserves, things hidden in forbidden places, recipes cooked only once a year and foods not for now but later. There was lots of church and they could stay up for Midnight Mass and everyone sang the old songs. Stockings waited for Santa and there were carrots for the reindeer. Even when money was tight, there was always a book and sometimes a toy. Getting it right was something parents needed to do.
Things had changed; as a teenager, Christmas had been a time for arguments, both fresh and heated over, and storming out of the house; it became a time of disappointment. Sugar-snow gingerbread wouldn’t change her mother to an angel and candles didn’t make her father listen. When she’d left they sent no cards and she hadn’t expected any.
But now she had this strange son for whom everything was new and exciting. Who yes-yes-please wanted to fill the house with the smells of cinnamon and ginger, with iced cookies that looked like reindeer . . . want to go see rein-deeer . . . want to see North Pole . . . and yes-please to try baking fruitcake. He wanted her to take him to the shops, hidden in the laundry basket, to get presents. And waving a book at her, asked, ‘Why girl-toys and boy-toys? What good present for girl, good present for boy? Reeeely good presents.’