by Stephen Cox
She mouthed the words as she read them. Some had been written in his language, as he often did when he didn’t know the English. Happy Christmas big brother. Sorry big row my Mom your Dad. A long bit in alien. Thanks for comic. Something something she couldn’t read. Signal? Happy Christmas. A row of Xs. Brother Cory.
‘Well?’ Roy said, standing in the hall in a spreading pool of melted snow.
‘I’m going to place a boy’s life in your hands,’ she said quietly, watching Roy’s eye widen as she added, ‘We may be arrested. He may be killed, or dissected as an experiment. We took a child in, an orphan, Cory. He’s . . . special. Different. We had to hide him . . .’
‘Who from?’ Roy said, not yet unbending.
‘The government, the press – everyone. People cannot know about him. He’s forbidden from showing himself . . . He shouldn’t have talked to Chuck – I’m sorry, this is a disaster . . .’
‘So I was right: Gene’s sick but you stayed because the kid was in the house – is this kid sick?’
‘He was, very, but not now; he hasn’t put Chuck in any danger.’
‘What about the Russians?’ She saw a new, terrible theory dawn on his face and knew there’d be no deal, no head-start for old times’ sake, not if Roy thought she was working for America’s enemies.
‘Heavens, Roy! Believe me, their spies finding him would be the worst of all!’
When Cory hid near her, she thought sometimes she could detect him, as if some motherly corner of her brain knew he was near. It was like a mouse in the room, or some piece of furniture not quite where it should be, and part of her said now, Cory is hiding nearby, frightened.
‘Roy, I need you to understand, this child is ours and we will fight to protect him as much as you would Chuck and Alice and Tammy. I need you to promise you’ll keep our secret, and if you can’t, we’ll get in the car, collect Gene and go tonight.’
He thought for a moment or two. ‘Tell me the story, then we’ll see if I can promise anything. You’ve still gotta convince me, Molly. I don’t rate being lied to.’
‘Do you want some fruitcake? Cory made it. Roy, he looks real odd, so you need to be prepared.’
He didn’t reply but walked in and sat at the kitchen table. A good sign, she hoped, as she made coffee.
‘I haven’t got all night,’ Roy said, but she could tell he was curious now.
‘I’ll go and get him,’ she said. She was pretty sure Cory was on the stairs; that was a good place to watch from and easy to run and hide in an upstairs room.
‘Cory,’ she called, ‘Cory, Roy won’t be mad. It’s time to come out, Cory.’
He flicked into sight at the top of the stairs, shivering. He’d shrunk into himself; he looked so small and scared. ‘Sorreee sorreee sorreee.’
She went up to get him and hugged him. ‘Chuck’s dad is angry, and I’m angry too,’ she said, ‘but we have to make it work now, okay? So you need to meet Roy. He’s Chuck’s dad and he won’t hurt you . . .’ She prayed that that last bit was true.
She walked Cory into the kitchen, feeling the cold shiver coming off him, but he didn’t hide. The mischievous part of her enjoyed watching Roy’s eyes open and his mouth drop.
‘Oh my Lord,’ Roy whispered. ‘That thing Chuck drew . . . that was him?’
‘Cory’s my son and I love him. So does Gene.’
‘I can see,’ said Roy and she thought, he did, he really did. He stared, stunned and silent, for at least a minute, then said at last, ‘I need to know everything, Molly. I’ll have that fruitcake. Does it . . . um . . . do you eat cake, Cory?’
‘I’m not sure people who break promises get cake,’ Molly said. ‘Who else knows, Cory?’ She had never known Cory lie, although he didn’t always give the full truth.
His tentacles quivered.
‘Bonnie?’ she said, not at all surprised when he nodded.
Roy sighed and said, ‘Bonnie’s been playing with some strange boy and Diane don’t know? You’ll wish you’d never been born, Molly Myers!’ He looked at Cory. ‘Anyone else?’
Cory shook his head vigorously. ‘Chuck big-big trouble?’
Roy frowned. ‘Chuck’s in trouble for sure. But your mom will explain everything.’
They sat while she sliced cake and Cory kept saying, ‘Sor-reee.’ Roy looked at Molly and she realised this was her solid friend back. Then he looked at Cory and his expression was . . . what? . . . wonder, amusement, confusion?
‘I’ve got about a million questions. Okay, don’t tell the world, I get that, but I just don’t get why you kept this from your friends, or the government.’
‘Well, there are reasons,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk you through it.’ Their conspiracy might be a little bigger, but maybe they’d be safer this way. She felt like she could let out a breath she’d been holding for months; that it would be all okay.
‘So, on Meteor Day . . .’
*
Midnight, and the moment she had dreaded and longed for: Janice and Diane came into the kitchen, their faces all fury and amazement; Roy, almost giddy, had promised he’d give them the highlights.
Janice’s mouth opened and closed and Diane snapped, ‘Well?’
The strain of the hiding and the lying was over. The tears flowed as she stood and reached out her hands.‘There hasn’t been a day I didn’t want to tell you, but first he was so sick, and then the FBI, and the army . . .’
Neither of them moved – and then Janice began to laugh. ‘You owe me ten pixy dollars, Diane! She did steal a baby . . .’
‘Well, the child is no baby,’ said Diane, still frowning. ‘Molly, I’m . . . I’m shocked and hurt – beyond hurt. Why didn’t you trust us?’ She was stern, and so wounded.
‘You don’t know what it’s been like,’ Molly sobbed.
‘If the army came after my kids, I’d be out there with a shotgun,’ said Janice, a little flushed.
And then her friends were hugging her and words weren’t needed.
CHAPTER 23
Spring, Cory’s second year on Earth
Gene walked across Founders Green in search of a late lunch. The spring sun was warm and brightly coloured flowers were in full bloom. A sort of bandstand now covered the black and orange fragment of the Meteor and as Gene watched, a jay perched on the rock, cocked its head to one side and stared at him. Every time he looked at the rock he had a brief stabbing memory of the day it fell.
Gene hadn’t finished any of the songs he started about Meteor Day; his words couldn’t catch the destruction, nor the extraordinary heroism of ordinary people: the secretaries who comforted the dying, the three seniors who lifted a burning timber off a broken man, the firefighter who went back for the dog. But he knew a great piece of music was out there, waiting to be born – a symphony, or a choral suite, perhaps.
He hummed the theme from ‘Sailors on the Sea of Night’. Joan Baez had taken the tragedy of the two men who died above the Moon and made magic out of it. The song brought back that shared time of worldwide loss; her musical pictures of the silver ship against a sea of stars spoke to everyone whose loved ones would never come back. Gene wished he had the talent to do that for Amber Grove.
The tables outside the diner were packed; the good weather had brought yet more visitors with their theories and their incessant curiosity. At least he didn’t have to talk to them.
These past few months, with more adults to talk to and teach him, and friends to play with every day, Cory had really flourished. There’d been one brief, frightening outbreak of fever, but it had felt almost normal: kids get sick, Diane had said, and sure enough, he’d shaken it off within days.
Gene took his normal tiny corner table, salivating as he ordered a bacon and sausage sandwich. Now he didn’t smoke, meat was his secret vice – he loved Cory, but he was so tired of cheese, eggs and tuna. He got out his brown
notebook and looked again at the musical theme which was eluding him.
A smartly dressed woman came towards him; he assumed she was heading to the restroom and ignored her until she put a hand on the spare chair and asked, ‘It’s Mr Myers, isn’t it?’
Her face rang a distant bell. Had they met? She was blonde, with a business-like smile, older than Molly, but not old. The hairstyle, the attaché case, the tasteful jacket, all suggested somewhere far more cosmopolitan than little Amber Grove.
‘Um,’ he said.
‘Carol Longman. I write for Witness magazine. Could I have a moment of your time?’ She was already sitting.
A journalist. Gene stiffened, ready to guard every word, every gesture, but she already had her hand out and he shook it, a polite reflex.
Gene flicked through Witness at work most weeks. It might be too pro-war for him, but he loved the photography and the worldwide focus of its writing. Even so, he didn’t want any journalist at his lunch table, for any reason, and especially not someone whose magazine churned out support for the President and his wars.
‘Sorry, I just need to grab lunch and—’
She ignored him and said, ‘I wrote about the Meteor, and another piece last Thanksgiving, about how Amber Grove was doing.’ She passed him her business card: Senior Correspondent. ‘People here were kind enough to say they liked it.’
‘I’d talk to the Mayor,’ he suggested. ‘And Pastor Roberts at First Methodist, Evie Watson at the Better Business Bureau . . .’ They liked talking; they took care what they said and they took the bullet for those townsfolk who didn’t like the press.
She waved away his suggestions. ‘Everyone’s talked to them,’ she said. ‘I need something new, something bigger than arguments between the members of the memorial committee.’
He decided her smile was like her clothing, carefully chosen to do its job.
‘I don’t want to be rude, but you reporters have made no friends here,’ Gene said. ‘Some have been downright disrespectful to the dead.’ If she’d been a man, he would’ve got up and walked away by now.
She got out a slim folder and showed him magazine clippings. ‘Please, read my stuff while you’re waiting for your food. If you don’t agree I did a better job than my colleagues, I’ll go.’
Here was her bylined photo above her piece: Little did Everytown, USA know that fire and destruction would rain from the skies . . . The photos were stunning; they took him back to those early days. He skim-read the story, shuddering. He had a good memory; wasn’t she the writer who—
Yes, here in the clippings: Town Leaders Condemn Press Intrusion, by Carol Longman. Brief, and sharp.
‘You thought they were jerks too,’ he said.
‘I just checked the facts. People told me the truth and I thought some colleagues needed to hear it.’ Still, there was something too practised in her charm.
She took out a notebook.
Nothing good could come of talking to her. ‘I can’t help,’ he said. ‘You won’t need that.’
She frowned, then said, ‘You were right in the thick of the rescue on Main Street. A couple of people mentioned you . . .’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to talk to your magazine.’
‘And your wife, working at the hospital – that must’ve been dramatic.’
He felt hot. Who’s been talking? ‘This is what I mean about sticking your nose in: she’s been ill, ever since the Meteor. We’re not talking to the press and we don’t appreciate being approached. Good day.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Myers.’ But she still didn’t get up. ‘I’m not wasting your time. There’s a real story in this town, one no one is talking about – I mean the army and that fence in the woods, this radioactivity fairy-tale they drag out to explain everything. I hoped someone at the hospital would give me something hard and scientific to knock that down – there was some scare in the hospital, wasn’t there?’
Such a story would quickly have the whole world descending on Amber Grove, all prodding and peering and asking questions! The truth behind that story would bring everything crashing down on his family. ‘I suggest you speak to the army’s public relations guy.’
Carol Longman sighed. ‘Mr Myers, the army line makes no sense. There’s a big story out there and my editor’s been leaned on. Suddenly he doesn’t want me nosing around Two Mile Lake or what’s behind that extraordinary fence. “Carol,” he said, “I trust you to do a nice colour piece with heart: a small town rebuilds. American grit. Find some unsung heroes. I want tears, hope and a shot of the flag. Just don’t bother the army people.”’
Francine had arrived with his food and as she hovered, they both fell silent.
Francine shot Gene an apologetic look. ‘Miss Longman, I hope you’re not bothering my regulars.’
‘Please put this on my tab, Francine,’ Miss Longman said. ‘Mr Myers is being very patient; he’s told me very clearly he won’t be interviewed and I respect that.’
‘No, I’ll buy my own lunch,’ Gene interrupted, wondering why he hadn’t told her to go. He didn’t like her – she was pushy, too controlled, putting on too much of an act. But this sudden sarcasm about her editor? This hint of passion felt more real . . .
Once Francine had returned to her till, Miss Longman leaned over the table towards him. ‘Our science guy, Eric Flood, came down here and wrote a big piece about how the radioactivity story doesn’t stack up. He’s just polishing it up when our editor comes up to his desk and spikes it. He’d come straight from lunch with some top army brass.’ She shook her head, clearly upset. ‘Journalism is what someone else doesn’t want you to print.’
He met her eyes and repeated, ‘I can’t help you, so please, leave me and my wife alone.’
‘You know what the story is,’ she said, with absolute certainty. ‘You know something, anyway.’
He tried a dismissive huh, even though Molly always said he was a poor liar. Lord knew what the woman saw in his face, but he said, ‘You need to leave.’ And thank the universe, at last she picked up her case and rose.
‘Thanks for your time. You need to know, my editor wanted to cut the intrusion piece; he said powerful people could figure out who I was talking about, but I threatened to walk if he didn’t run it. I felt I owed it to the people I interviewed.’ She gave him another card. ‘That one has my little hideaway number too. That’s not in the phonebook. Only real important people get that.’
Yes, there was a number in elegant writing written on the back.
‘Okay, we’re done,’ Gene said, then added politely, ‘You have a great photographer.’
Finally, she gave him a real smile. ‘I do. The best there is. Thank you.’
He watched her walk to the counter and speak to a tall woman with short dark hair, dressed for a hike in the hills. The second woman looked at Gene, raised a hand and gave an apologetic smile, then she hoisted up a big black camera bag with ease and the two of them left the diner without looking back.
Gene needed to phone Dr Jarman and Molly as soon as he could, get the word out that the press was snooping around again.
He should write a section of his symphony on the press: sharp, nagging, notes in brass and wind, butting in unwanted against the main themes. Carol Longman had not struck him as a woman who gave up easily.
CHAPTER 24
October
‘Halloweeen is coming, two days to go!’ Cory says, bouncing up and down.
Molly says, ‘It’s been Halloween for a week already, Cory. Just give me a break, please.’ She scratches his ear, and he beams at her, so full of happy. The kitchen table is covered with sheets of big drawings, Cory’s ideas for costumes:
1 Mike Delgardo Spaceman
2 Cowboy
3 Sea-Demon Hunter
4 Pirate
5 Wizard
6 Dream Healer doing healing s
o-much-complicated to draw
7 Dragon
8 Ballerina-Princess-Fairy
Molly raises her eyebrows and he knows it is the last drawing, all pink and tinsel. Gene pulled his eat-sour-fruit-face at silver-tinsel-pink-glitter too. ‘Clothes only for girls is silly,’ Cory says. ‘Pleeese Mom make me a costume pleeese. Halloweeen is more fun even than Mask Festival. When Cory people come, Cory will . . . I will take home Halloweeen and pumpkins and Christmas and Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. Ho-ho-ho.’
They will like new festivals and fireworks, flowers and birds and pumpkins made of fire. He starts to make up the speech-to-explain in his head.
Then he is off again: ‘Why-so Indian-summer, what meeen? What other types of summer? What Indian-spring, what Indian-fall . . .’
‘Cory, sweetie-pie, please call your friends and go to the meadow and run this off before I go crazy-crazy,’ Molly interrupts him, laughing. He races to the telephone, although he still thinks it is funny, when on the home planet or ship all he had to do was say into his wrist communicator, ‘Find friend Chuck Henderson please.’ Or he could ask any smart machine, they’d all talk through the mind-ocean and find the person.
Janice answers the phone and agrees that Chuck and Bonnie can come-over-to-play, which means the lecture from Mom: Do not kidnap dogs – but it isn’t Cory’s fault dogs like him, no-it-isn’t, he never steals them, only friend-borrow-little-while. He mustn’t forget to put the hood up. Don’t swim in the waterhole, it’ll be beyond disgusting. In case of danger, HIDE. And, Three hours Cory, or Mom will be mad-so-angry and she’ll come blowing her whistle. He knows what she’ll be saying: ‘The whistle means grounded, and maybe no trick-or-treat.’ Oh-no! So Cory says, ‘Promise promise promise!’
He remembers the whole human year since his first Halloweeen. Now he has Mollee-Mom and Gene-Dad and best friends Chuck and Bonnie and all is safe and well.
*
Soon the three children are off, down the wooded slope and across the dead railroad line, where Chuck makes his oh-no, train coming! joke like always. There are never trains on this track, but Cory can hear the mournful hoot of one far-far away. He really wants to ride trains, and water-ships, and little baby human airplanes, and a hot-air balloon and a motorbike . . .