by Nick Lake
“is fine as long as he doesn’t run into rabbit holes,” says my mother.
“but—”
“we’ll be taking him home today,” says my mother. “i’ll stay at my father’s house with him for 7 weeks. help out. do u have any objection to that?”
“w-well…,” stammers Dr. Kohli. his forehead is creased. “he’s not in mortal danger, so if u want to discharge him, then that’s up to u; the leg is seen to. but i would really rather—”
“that’s good then,” says my mother.
“we can take him home today?” says Grandpa.
Dr. Kohli looks at him. “yes.”
“good.” Grandpa smiles at me.
something about that smile reminds me of my first day at his house, & i remember Comet, & i can’t believe i haven’t thought of him until now. his gleaming eyes. his energy. the way he seems permanently wound up, a spring inside him.
“Comet?” i say.
Grandpa smiles wider. “in the truck. he was running around the hallways, terrorizing the nurses.”
i grin back. i can imagine it.
“then i guess we can say—” the Dr. says.
“goodbye,” says my mother. “i’ll come with u to complete the paperwork. my father will take Leo. a wheelchair can be arranged, to the car, i assume?”
“y-y-yes, of course.” Dr. Kohli presses something on his screen & there’s a bing & then he says, “wheelchair to room 202 please.” he turns to my mother. “we’ll need to give u some crutches too, of course,” he says.
“oh, we have some,” says my mother.
“right. ok,” says Dr. Kohli. i can c he is thinking he’s going to have to write this up somehow; i can c he is worrying that something is wrong.
he is not the only 1, i have to say.
things move quickly. an aide comes & helps me into a wheelchair—my mother goes off with Dr. Kohli—& Grandpa walks beside us as the aide wheels me thru the white hallways toward the door & then out into the blinding sunshine—i don’t have my glasses—& across the wide dusty parking lot, to Grandpa’s battered & faded pickup.
once there, the aide silently helps Grandpa maneuver me into the rear seat. they prop my leg between the 2 front seats.
Comet is there, in the back, waiting. he leaps up at me, slobbers on me, rubs his wet nose against mine. i pull him hard against me, & he squirms & then licks me again.
“hello, Comet,” i say.
bark, he says.
he jumps into the footwell & settles down over my good foot, warming it instantly, a pulsing blanket.
we sit & wait in the truck. Grandpa puts on the heating—it’s chilly. after a while, the car starts to warm up & the insides of the windows fog, rubbing out some of the concrete parking lot around us, the weather-beaten cars.
my mother turns up maybe 15 minutes later. she has a determined expression on her face—more determined than usual, anyway. she is putting her wallet into her bag—when i say her bag, i mean a practical shoulder bag, not a purse.
she climbs into the passenger seat & points forward, like, go.
“so,” Grandpa says to her. “u’re coming home.”
“just to help out for a short while,” she says.
neither of them say anything else.
Grandpa drives back to the ranch. the sun is bright, hanging low in the sky, like a floodlight for tracking fugitives.
& as we turn off the road & thru the heavy security gate, i c the tatters of the birthday party balloons, fluttering multicolored. then we’re on the bumpy path leading to the ranch, & Grandpa drives slowly so as not to shake my leg too much, i assume. Comet grumbles a little in his sleep as the car shudders.
Grandpa parks in front of the house, & i shake Comet awake & open the door for him: he jumps out, then waits for me on the earth by the car.
Grandpa & my mother get me out of the truck & onto my crutches: i make it into the house fairly easily, i mean, i have been accustomed for weeks to discomfort & the pressure of the world’s weight; ever since i landed on earth i have been like a beached creature plucked from buoyancy; the broken leg is just an expansion of a theme.
i walk, & Comet walks close beside me, sticking to my heel, like he knows to do.
i sit in the living room, & Comet jumps up beside me & waits for me to lift my arm to accommodate him, then lowers himself onto the sofa—my arm, which fits him perfectly underneath it, like he was made for me to rest on, goes down & we are a unit of 2 bodies.
Grandpa starts to light a fire: i feel echoing snaps inside me when the twigs break; i feel my bone giving way again. pop. pop. pop.
“i’m going to my room,” says my mother. “i have some work to do.”
“don’t u always,” says Grandpa.
“well, i wonder who i learned that from.”
he looks up, from the fire—he has his pyramid of kindling now, neatly stacked. “i was always there when u needed me,” he says.
“& i am here for Leo,” says my mother. “Leo, call me if u need help walking or with the bath. ok?”
“ok,” i say. i feel like i am in the middle of an old fight.
she turns.
“why 7 weeks?” says Grandpa.
“what?” she replies.
“u said to the Dr. u’d be here 7 weeks. it seemed very specific.”
she blinks at him. “i’m going back up.” she looks at me. “with Soto. u met him, i think. he talks about u a lot.” she pauses, as if the concept of talking about people is something alien to her. “he’s been flight cleared. my job is to get him up there, then fly back.”
“u’re delivering the boy to space,” says Grandpa.
she doesn’t answer. she just looks at him.
“very well,” says Grandpa. “u’d better go & check in with base.”
she nods & disappears, & i hear her footsteps on the stairs—i know her room is up there, but i’ve never been in there. i don’t know why. maybe i’m not so curious about her. maybe i’m a little scared of her. it’s ok. it doesn’t bother me. i know she doesn’t c me the way other mothers c their children: i’m her shadow, not her reflection.
but still.
at least she came when i was hurt.
Grandpa lights the kindling & soon the fire is burning in the stove. he shuts the door & comes & sits on the sofa on the other side of Comet.
“Grandpa,” i say. “what was it like on the moon?” i’m thinking of the Dr., of how starstruck he was.
Grandpa shifts in his seat. “u asking idly or u really want to know?”
“i really want to know.”
“there was a lot of gray dust,” he says. “& u could bounce around, if u wanted. i didn’t have any kind of epiphany, if that’s what u mean.” he rubs his eyes. “i’d already been in orbit. i’d already seen the earth as a globe, from afar. the moon…that’s just a ball of rock.”
but it’s a ball of rock that never leaves the earth, i think. that circles it all the time. it’s love.
“oh,” i say. it’s an oh that contains all the wide horizon of my disappointment in my mother & now my grandpa, for seeing the universe as something merely mechanical.
“anyway,” says Grandpa. “it wasn’t what i was doing it for. u know, being an astronaut. i wasn’t 1 of the romantics.”
“romantics?”
“the ones who read science fiction. who want to reach space, to enlarge their minds.”
“so what were u?” i ask.
he thinks for a second. “i was someone who wanted to be the best. the best pilot, the best astrophysicist, the best astronaut.”
i nod. i can c that. i would like to be the best. i would like to be the 1 they call when the EVA is too difficult for anyone else to do. but there was an inflection on the word was, i noticed.
“& now?” i say.
“now what?”
“now what do u want?”
again he takes some time to think. “to look after my land & my loved ones,” he says, at last.
/> i smile at him. i feel Comet’s heart beating, under my palm. Grandpa pats my hand. my leg is beginning to burn, i realize. i look into his eyes & i c only love there, only security, only things i can trust.
“Grandpa…,” i start to say. i want to ask him about the men in black, Santiago, everything. but what would i say? Grandpa, there’s a secret & i want to know what it is. i’d sound like a child.
“yes?” he says.
“i think i need some of that painkiller,” i say.
he looks at his watch. it’s a civilian 1. i’m wearing his old 1, after all, his Speedmaster, the 1 he wore over his suit when he spacewalked. “u’re right,” he says. he gets up with a creak & a slightly exaggerated groan & goes & gets a glass of water & the pills.
i swallow them.
we sit, in the warmth. Grandpa doesn’t like to watch shows or movies.
after a while, i reach out for my screen, which is on the little table by the sofa.
i unroll the screen & tap Orion’s name & hit CALL.
bong. bong. bong.
but no answer.
i tap Libra’s name & then CALL.
bong. bong. bong.
no answer.
i smack the screen down on the couch. this is getting old. then i look up to make sure Grandpa didn’t c me. i close my eyes & take a breath. pull calm into my lungs; breathe out frustration. i guess they’re both busy, doing something with their mother. i wonder what. waterskiing? i don’t really know much about Florida. maybe Orion is in a concert hall somewhere, letting Bach’s harmonies wash over him. maybe Libra is in her mother’s garden, digging up carrots.
the room is getting warmer.
Comet snuggles closer to me & whimpers, then paddles his front paws against me. chasing calves maybe. which is good, chasing them in his sleep is altogether safer, i think.
my eyelids are getting heavy.
they’re closing.
red flickering of the fire flames thru my eyelids.
glow.
i breathe it in.
breathe out frustration. breathe out pain. breathe out everything.
i sleep, for i don’t know how long.
then: bing. bing. bing. bing.
i blink.
i grab for my screen, thinking it’s Orion or Libra, calling me back. but it’s dark, & rolled up. then i notice that Grandpa’s screen is on the table too & the tube of it is flashing red, vibrating, with the bing bing bing tone.
Grandpa is snoring on the sofa next to me, head back, mouth open, eyes closed.
i have to stand to get his screen: i prop myself on my crutches & get myself into an upright position. i hook the screen with a hand & unroll it in 1 smooth motion.
on it:
an image of silhouetted people seen from above, shining red in the darkness, moving thru what looks—tho the image is dark & grainy—like the big hole in the fence. infrared footage, i realize. from the drone. 2 men. maybe 3. carrying long, thin things that might be guns.
bing bing bing is not a ringtone at all but an alarm tone; how did i mistake it for a ringtone?
ALARM, INTRUDER reads a warning on the screen.
ALARM. INTRUDER. ALARM. INTRUDER.
“wake up, Grandpa,” i say.
i shake him. he sits up, blinking. “what is it?”
i show him the screen.
“dammit,” he says. “how many?”
“2, i think? or 3.”
“armed?”
“yes.”
“dammit,” he says again. then he stands & walks over to the cupboard on the wall while taking the key from his pocket. he opens it. lifts out a shotgun that he racks with 1 hand—kerchuk—& a pistol that he hands to me.
“what do i do with this?” i say. it’s cold & heavy in my hand.
he reaches over & thumbs a switch on the side. “safety’s off,” he says. “point the barrel end at ur target. then pull the trigger.”
great, i think. something like the feeling of putting ur tongue on a battery terminal is running thru me, but i feel it everywhere—in my mouth, in my stomach, in my legs.
my leg. shit.
Grandpa hauls me up to my feet. Comet jumps down to the floor & looks up at me, wondering what all the commotion is, presumably. his eyes are big & wide.
“can u get upstairs?” Grandpa says. “with the crutches?”
“i don’t think so,” i say.
a pause. “they’re on foot?”
“yes.”
“ok, so we have maybe 5 minutes. i’ll help u upstairs.” he pulls another shotgun from the rack & puts it under his arm with the other weapon. “come on.”
we pick up my crutches & i wonder what to do about the pistol. Grandpa takes it back from me, flicks the switch on the side, & tucks it into my waistband. “turn that safety off again if they get to the second floor. hopefully they won’t.”
yeah, i think. hopefully. my heart is colossal in my chest, battering, going ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum to a crazy rhythm, like it’s on a different tempo from the rest of my body.
Grandpa takes my weight on my weak side & carries 1 of the crutches as well as the 2 shotguns. together we manage to hoist me up the stairs, 1 by 1. halfway, my muscles are flooded with lactic acid & burning—near the top, i feel that my lungs might collapse.
Comet bounds ahead of us, then waits at the top, as if mocking me.
but we make it, & i lean against the wall for a moment, gasping.
“come on,” says Grandpa. “no time.”
he bangs on my mother’s door. then bangs again. she opens it, frowning. a screen on the desk shows a view of some kind of lab at the base.
“what?” she says.
“intruders,” says Grandpa. “on the way.”
she doesn’t say anything else, just nods, & he hands her the spare shotgun. “u 2 stay up here,” he says. “i’ll try to stop them from getting up the stairs.”
i think of the hole in the fence.
i think of Grandpa, talking to me about the stream. just a question of opportunity. & money.
i think of the lines in the town, outside of those 2 stores. guns & money.
opportunity.
guns.
money.
i am shaking, i realize, when my mother puts a hand on my forearm. “it’s going to be ok,” she says.
“u don’t know that,” i say.
“no,” she agrees.
oh. great. sometimes i don’t think she really understands this mothering thing.
we follow Grandpa to the stairs & he runs down, surprisingly nimble & quiet. the front door opens right onto the hall & faces the staircase & we can c it from up here. Grandpa stands on the side where the hinges are. he motions up to us for us to go, for us to hide.
but i don’t move.
my mother pulls on my arm. “to the room,” she whispers.
i shake my head. i want to watch Grandpa. i want to c that he doesn’t get hurt. my mother has put some kind of cream on her face. i can smell it: lightly floral, lightly mineral. moonlight is coming in thru a window in the landing, slanting bluely down at us.
she sighs. “ok.”
unnecessarily, she puts a finger to her lips. we shuffle a little into the shadow, away from the glow of the moon.
“stay,” i whisper to Comet, at my feet. he sits down on the floorboards, head on his paws.
a minute passes.
2 minutes. i’m still watching Grandpa as he stands by the door.
then the door handle—it’s round & brass—jiggles. rotates from side to side, someone trying to open it, to turn it. the sound is furtive, rodent-like. a crepitation. the door doesn’t move.
an even fainter sound now, metallic. something is being fitted into the lock, it sounds like.
schhh. schhh.
& the handle turns again & the door opens slowly inward, & because of the side Grandpa is standing on he is hidden by it. a man in black with a mask over his face steps thru, holding what looks like a long pistol, & Gra
ndpa levels the shotgun at chest height & fires, straight thru the door, the sound is monumental, epochal:
BLAM—
& the guy sort of falls to the side & drops to 1 knee, screaming. at least i think he’s screaming—it might just be the high-pitched sound in my ears that has followed the gunshot. Grandpa steps around the door & kicks the man’s wrist, knocking his gun to the floor, then takes another step & kicks the pistol—it skids, spinning, down the hallway & out of my & my mother’s sightline.
the guy reaches out & grabs at Grandpa’s leg, but Grandpa clubs his hand away with his shotgun & then:
pew—
& Grandpa ducks & runs out of sight as something hits the stairs, splinters them, & my mother pulls me back, down the hallway. but at the same time there’s a smashing sound, followed by a tinkling—the unmistakable noise of a breaking window.
we move quickly, me on my crutches, to Mother’s room & there: glass is gleaming on the floor & a man in a ski mask is leaning in, knocking more sharp shards from the window frame onto the floorboards. i feel the cool night air, rushing in from outside.
my mother runs forward, shotgun held in front of her. she lifts it to her shoulder as she gets closer, but several things happen in extremely quick succession:
the man in the window—he must have climbed up a ladder taken from 1 of the barns maybe—leans forward, legs still outside, & my mother doesn’t stop soon enough:
he grabs the end of the shotgun:
yanks, hard:
& simultaneously kind of twists to the side:
& my mother is pulled thru the window & falls, with a surprised yelp, & then:
a thump,
which resonates thru my bones & mind.
briefly, the man fills the window—all moonlight is blocked out, all stars. the room is shadows, pooling, looming shapes. then he is thru, landing catlike on both feet, & light shafts in again & i am a statue, turned to stone by it, unable to move, unable to do anything.
he still has the shotgun in his hand, but he’s holding it by the barrels. he grabs it with his other hand & turns it, as he takes a step toward me.
& almost without my expressly deciding to, my hands push the crutches to either side; they topple away from me, slowly falling trees:
