Mr. Fahrenheit
Page 26
It had been months since he’d seen Papaw. Papaw moved slower these days, but also looked younger somehow, and retirement seemed to suit him. Even when he complained about how expensive everything in the city was, he did so with a kind of delight.
Benji felt a wonderfully strange sort of pride as he showed Papaw the city, like he’d built Chicago with his own two hands. In a way, maybe he had. He was creating his Chicago here. His Chicago had a studio apartment with uneven floors and perhaps the world’s most unreliable toilet.
But it was his.
FORMER BFHS QUARTERBACK BECOMES HOMECOMING HERO ONCE MORE
BY THE EXPONENT-TELEGRAM STAFF
Bedford Falls owes a debt of gratitude to BFHS alumnus Shaun Spinney. Spinney, 21, was in the football field’s parking lot during the chaos that erupted following the drone’s crash. When the entrance to the lot became blocked by a multi-car collision, it was Spinney who took action and directed the frantic drivers and cleared the pileup to make way for the arrival of emergency workers.
How can Spinney explain his heroic actions?
“I’m super good at telling people what to do, and I like being in charge,” said a somber Spinney in a telephone interview. “I’ll be real truthful, okay? I could be a real cocky son of a [gun] sometimes. Then I hurt my knee in college, and all of a sudden, bam, I couldn’t see a future for myself anymore. When those people crashed in the parking lot, and everyone was losing their [minds], I thought, ‘Somebody better step up, right in this moment.’
“And I’ll tell you what,” said Spinney, with obvious emotion, “that was the first time I felt proud of myself in a [darn] long time.”
When asked if he would be interested in pursuing a career in local law enforcement, owing to the looming personnel changes, Spinney said, “I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about it a lot. . . .”
As night came, they headed to the restaurant Benji had chosen for dinner: Rita’s Retro Café, which was modeled after 1950s diners, all chrome stools and tabletop jukeboxes.
“This is quite a home ya got here, bud,” Papaw said after they ordered.
“It’s nice,” Benji said. “Well, not always ‘nice,’ but exciting, I guess.”
Papaw nodded. “Sure, every place’ll have its good and its bad.” It came so easily, the way he agreed with Benji, supported him, even though Benji knew Papaw would have liked for him to stay at home.
“Zeeko’s been askin’ after ya,” Papaw said.
“How is he?”
“Doin’ real good. Taking EMT classes at the community college. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you. Have y’all talked at all since graduation?”
“No.”
“How ’bout CR?”
Benji smiled a little. “He sends me the same text once a week: ‘What are you wearing?’”
Papaw laughed. “That boy’s got too much time on his hands, I’d reckon. Doin’ a lot of bench-warmin’ this year. But Notre Dame’s a competitive program. He’ll get his day. So what do you say back to him?”
“Not much. He asked me if I wanted to come back for homecoming next week. I never answered, though.”
“Benjamin, y’know, I’ve gotta ask. . . . I appreciate you callin’ me every once in a while. But don’t you ever get lonely, son?”
“Yeah. I do. But I wanted to be lonely, honestly.”
That loneliness, the leaving behind of all the people and places that had defined him, was a big part of why he had wanted to come. Of course, he knew he hadn’t really left everything: He and his hometown and friends were so intertwined that it was hard to tell where they ended and he began. The real magic wasn’t making his past vanish from him; it was becoming big enough to accommodate other things, too.
There was another reason Benji didn’t talk to them regularly: He worried that their phone calls and texts would be monitored. None of them had been “disappeared,” and he assumed this was because the government wasn’t sure they had been involved. He had seen Agent McKedrick’s memory; he knew the man in black had never told his superiors the names of the high school seniors he believed might have been involved with the alien incident. Even if any agents had survived the Battle of the Bedford Falls Homecoming Carnival (and Benji had no clue if they had), they apparently hadn’t gotten close enough to positively identify Benji, Papaw, Ellie, or Zeeko. In other words, it was possible that no living person knew for sure what Benji and his friends had done.
Which wasn’t to say Benji didn’t sleep with the ray gun on his nightstand, and carry it with him everywhere he went.
The door of the café opened behind Benji, the city’s ambient symphony of honks and shouts and famous wind filtering in. Papaw’s face lit up as he saw the one person Benji had not gotten away from since moving to Chicago.
“Ellie, honey, how are you?” Papaw said, standing to give Ellie a hug.
“Better now that I’ve got my two handsome Lightmans with me, Sheriff,” she said. She took off her winter hat and shook out her hair, which she’d recently pixie-cut after years of wearing it long.
“Ellie, somethin’ happened to your head.”
“I got my hair cut.”
“On purpose?”
“How I’ve missed you, Atomic Bob,” Ellie grinned.
She slid into the booth beside Benji. “Sorry I’m late, sweets,” she said. “Cinema History ran over.” She kissed him on the cheek. No apology necessary.
It was all pretty new, him and Ellie, still the first tentative steps. But it was a wonderful mystery.
Papaw and Ellie talked awhile, just catching up, just a normal conversation. This is so nice, Benji thought. He’d once been so certain that life was only and always measured by huge, grand moments. He’d thought that people who chose not to chase those moments were somehow less significant, somehow less alive.
He’d learned better when he went to the emergency room after they’d destroyed the saucer. Many of the normally reserved people of Bedford Falls wept in relief and joy as they found their loved ones safe. All those people had their own stories, ones as complex as Benji’s own. On the surface, it might seem that people in small towns all made the same cookie-cutter life choices. But it was like old rock ’n’ roll. If you weren’t paying attention, you might think, These songs are all the same. They’re just playing the same chord progressions over and over.
But within those similar progressions, you could make masterpieces.
Ellie walked with them to the train station. She gave Benji a kiss and Papaw a hug before catching the “L” train back to her dorm at Northwestern University.
Benji and Papaw stayed outside on the open-air platform; Papaw’s train back to Indiana would depart in a couple of minutes.
An announcer came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the train scheduled for Indianapolis has been delayed. The delay is anticipated to be no more than ten minutes. We thank you for your understanding.”
Papaw rolled his eyes. “Your tax dollars at work,” he muttered. He didn’t sound lighter, like he had all day; he sounded genuinely bitter about the government, as he had for most of Benji’s life.
Same old Papaw, Benji thought.
And almost before he realized what he was doing, he stepped closer and pulled Papaw into a hug, feeling a fierce wave of love. He loved his grandfather: all his kindness and crankiness and generosity and stinginess, all the imperfections that made up the mystery of him.
After a moment of surprised stiffness, Papaw eased, hugging Benji back.
“Oh, thank you so much, Benjamin,” Papaw said. “I keep thinking, ‘You’re a good boy, Benjamin.’ But you’re not. You’re a good man, Benji.”
“So are you, Papaw.”
They sat on a bench until the train came. There was not much to say, and they no longer needed to fill silence to enjoy it.
As boarding began, Papaw said, “You sure I can’t talk ya into comin’ with me for a couple days? I mean, look at this old man before you, Benji. Do you really trust h
im to be okay on his own?”
“I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”
“Good. With something to look forward to, I’ll almost certainly not die before then.”
“Papaw!” Benji laughed.
They were almost to the train, small red lights blinking on it to indicate its imminent departure, but Papaw stopped in his tracks. He peered upward, into the gap between the roof and the open air. “Will ya look at that, bud,” he said.
“What?”
“You can see some of the stars comin’ out.”
Benji stood there on the platform while the train pulled out, stood in the city wind and the silver billowing steam. He felt a pang deep down in his chest as the train carried Papaw toward the horizon, and for one moment part of Benji thought, Maybe I should move back to Indiana. And maybe he would.
Or maybe he would stay in Chicago forever. Or maybe he would move to L.A. or New York. He wasn’t in the business of predicting the future anymore.
He stood there until the red lights on the train reached the horizon and blended with the other lights: the blue stars and the white city. And for some reason, the merging of those things struck him as almost impossibly beautiful. He was awash in the middle of his maybes. He was happy. And what greater magic was there than that?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It took two and a half years for this flying saucer novel to achieve liftoff. Thank goodness I was blessed with so many extraordinary copilots.
My gratitude to the Nerdfighter and YouTube communities, who have taught me the beautiful flexibility of the concept of “home.” Some of those people include Craig Benzine, Bryarly Bishop, Ryder Burgin, Sabrina Cruz, Lindsey Doe, Bertie Gilbert, Emily Graslie, Caitlin Hofmeister, Akilah Hughes, Nick Jenkins, Alan Lastufka, Ashley Mardell, Peter Musser, Link Neal & Rhett McLaughlin, Tyler Oakley, Josh Sundquist, and Nathan Zed.
Many fellow storytellers were also instrumental in guiding and sustaining me through the making of Mr. Fahrenheit. Many thanks to Scott Derrickson, Sara Zarr, Paolo Bacigalupi, Emily Wing Smith, and the Glen West 2012 Workshop, perhaps especially Jennifer Baker.
And special thanks to . . .
My wonderful “IRL” friends, including Scott Faris, Eric Cooney, Nathan Talbott, Kelsey Roach, Caleb and Emily Masters, and Chris and Kerri Waild.
The incredible magicians who inspired me to write about “the business of wonder,” especially David Copperfield (!!!), Nate Staniforth, and Christian Painter and Katalina Absolon.
My How to Adult comrades Emma Mills, Hank Green, and John Green. Emma, you’re one of my best buds, and I’m so lucky to get to make things with you. Hank and John, aside from the people who 1) created me, 2) married me, 3) agent me, or 4) edit me, you are responsible for more of the best things in my life than anyone else. Not to be mushy or anything, but, look, I mean, it’s just, I like you. Thanks for being my fairy godbrothers.
The amazing team at HarperCollins, especially Alessandra Balzer, Viana Siniscalchi, Jon Smith, and Margot Wood.
The New Leaf Literary crew, including the amazing Pouya Shahbazian, Christopher McEwen, Kathleen Ortiz, Suzie Townsend, and Danielle Barthel. Also, super-special shout-outs to my awesome VidCon buddy Jackie Lindert, and Jaida Temperly, who is not only the most delightfully helpful person I’ve never met but also stepped in to help edit a pivotal draft of the book when I had lost the forest for the trees. Thanks so much, guys!
My agent, Joanna Volpe. People of Earth, would you like to know the great thing about Jo? That’s a trick question, because the answer is “everything.” Jo, I knew from the beginning that you would be a fantastic agent, first reader, and business partner. What I did not know was that you would also be such a generous, kind, and amazing friend. I wish I could find the words to express how much you mean to me and Sarah. All I can say is, we love you. Thank you so much for everything, Jo. Let’s keep doing this thing, okay?
Donna Bray! You had faith in me and this book when I had faith in neither. Many times, you had every right in the world to tell me to hurry up already with my flying saucer manuscript. Instead, you told me, “I trust you,” and without your faith and caring patience, I would not have had the heart to brave the fallow months when Benji Lightman & Co. felt like ungraspable vapors. I love this book, and that is largely because you and I worked on it together, which is another thing I love. I said it in The End Games, but I’ll say it again: I think you’re ingenious, Donna, and I’m forever grateful to be one of your authors.
My family, including extended family and the Laynes and Prindles, but especially my siblings (Matt, Molly, Patrick, and “outlaws” Adriane Martin and Dave Butler) and parents, Mike and Kim. Mom and Dad, you have saved me again and again. Whatever is best in me, I owe to you guys. I hope to be half the parents you are one day.
My grandparents, especially Grandma “Bobbie” and Papaw Crouse, and Nonnie and Papaw Martin. Bobbie is, no joke, one of my best friends ever, and by far the strongest woman I know. Talking with Papaw Crouse, on the front porch in the evening time, taught me so much about people, goodness, and life in the past. Without those conversations, Mr. Fahrenheit wouldn’t exist, because it never would have occurred to me to write it.
Thank you to Nonnie and Papaw Martin for helping teach me by example how to live a good and decent life. You’ve both worked so hard to make the world a more comforting, promising, and loving place. Talk about magic.
And of course the biggest thanks goes to my wife, Sarah Martin. Our lives changed so much during the writing of this book, and you, Sarah, were with me through the tears of pain and tears of joy. I will tell you a secret: For all my life, I often felt like a spiritual twin of the narrator in Marty Robbins’s 1959 song “El Paso,” who sang of saddling up and riding alone through the dark. But recently I’ve realized the comparison no longer rings true. The greatest gift of my life is that you have traveled with me through the cold of all the lightless nights, with the faith that dawn would gather soon on the horizon ahead. In the Chordettes’ 1954 song “Mr. Sandman,” the singers asked the magic man to assure their beloved that his lonesome nights are over. Sarah, thank you so much for bringing my lonesome nights to an end.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T. MICHAEL MARTIN is the author of the novel The End Games, as well as a vlogger and the director and cohost of How to Adult, a popular life-skills YouTube educational channel produced by Vlogbrothers Hank Green and John Green. Martin and his wife, Sarah, live in Indianapolis. You can visit him online at www.tmichaelmartin.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
BOOKS BY T. MICHAEL MARTIN
End Games
Mr. Fahrenheit
CREDITS
Cover art © 2016 by Jon Smith
Cover design by Jenna Stempel
COPYRIGHT
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
MR. FAHRENHEIT. Copyright © 2016 by T. Michael Martin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2015951287
ISBN 978-0-06-220183-6
EPub Edition © March 2016 ISBN 9780062201850
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FIRST EDITION
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