Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  I turned off the dining room and kitchen lights. Standing in my darkened kitchen, I cracked open the side door. I drew it toward me and stood looking through the security door’s screen. All seemed dark and still between my house and Mrs. Calderón’s.

  Across the cul-de-sac the atmosphere was very different. Shouts and raucous voices drifted from Mateo’s house: He and his crew were having another wild party.

  I wondered whether Abe would be sitting watch on his front porch, and I had a strong desire to see him. I couldn’t divulge to him what had happened to me, I decided—he was an old man, after all, and just might keel over!—but I longed just to see his familiar, kind face.

  After a moment I opened the security door and descended the steps. The air, warm and dry, felt good on my skin. I closed the security door behind me and stood in the shadows a few minutes longer, just watching. Listening.

  Mrs. Calderón stayed up late most nights but, true to form, her blinds were drawn. I could hear the faint sounds of a television coming from her house.

  I stepped out of the shadow of my house. Yes, I could see well enough by the street light glowing dully on the mouth of the cul-de-sac. I extended my left hand and glanced down at it. Nothing. I lifted a foot out in front of me. Nothing.

  I put my foot back on the ground and looked toward my toes. Nothing. I turned this way and that and saw only the paving-stone walkway to the garage and the grass down the side of my house.

  If the mites are using the optical invisibility thingy Dr. Bickel described, then I’m not really seeing through my toes, I’m seeing a reflected image of what lies beneath my toes.

  It was weird.

  It was beyond weird.

  I tiptoed, barefooted, down my drive to the sidewalk and turned right. Mr. and Mrs. Flores’ house was dark except for a dim yellow light over their door, while Mateo’s house was lit up like a Christmas tree. Six or seven vehicles, pimped out with custom wheels and paint, filled his drive and lined the curbs.

  I listened for my footsteps as I walked, listening for what someone else might hear, but my bare feet made little sound on the smooth concrete. As I drew near the cars parked in front of Mateo’s house I became more cautious. A gang member might be sitting guard in one of the cars.

  I was almost past Mateo’s house and the clutch of cars parked in front when I heard something close by. I froze, my heart thudding in my ears.

  It was the strangest feeling. Here I was, basically invisible to the naked eye, “sneaking” around the cul-de-sac, and yet, because I wasn’t used to being “invisible,” I had to squelch the urge to hide between cars.

  Again, really weird.

  Huh! I don’t need to hide in order to “sneak” around. My astute brain produced that dazzling conclusion all on its own, but the next thought really got my attention.

  If no one can see me, then . . . maybe I could do some unusual things.

  I decided that idea deserved further consideration.

  I was still standing there, wondering what I’d heard, what had alerted me, when I caught the sound again—from near the overgrown juniper shrubs between Mateo and Abe’s houses. (Technically, the shrubs were only overgrown on Mateo’s side; Abe kept his side trimmed at precise, ninety degree angles.)

  There it was again. It sounded like a sniff. A wet, watery sniff.

  I was, naturally, a little curious.

  No one can see me. No one can see me, I repeated to assure myself. I crept closer, listening for the sound, until I saw him.

  Emilio.

  He was sitting on his haunches, scrunched under wild-growing juniper branches, as far back in the bushes as he could go, pretty much hidden from the lights of Mateo’s house. I stepped a little closer and heard a sob. Bent down and peered into the bushes. Saw him swipe at his eyes.

  I had to look away. It felt wrong to be privy to his unguarded emotions, but I couldn’t prevent my heart from producing lots of reasons for his sorrow.

  What must life be like for this kid? I glanced at Mateo’s brightly lit windows. Raucous music and the roars and shouts of drunken laughter filled the air.

  The kid is always hiding. Always trying to stay out from underfoot. I wonder if he ever feels safe.

  I understood not feeling safe. I had never felt safe as a child, but at least I’d had Dad and Mom and, later, Aunt Lucy to protect me, sometimes even when they didn’t understand how they were protecting me.

  I think Dad might have realized, before he died, what was going on. I think he had at least begun to suspect, because he had taken to watching more closely. Or at least I thought he had. A myriad of painful memories flitted through my mind in the few, brief seconds before my attention circled back to Emilio.

  He is alone. Terrified. Probably hungry.

  I pondered Emilio’s situation, many empathetic feelings grappling with my new circumstances and well-founded caution. I glanced toward him again. Aunt Lucy’s voice rang in my head as I studied the boy.

  We show our gratitude to God for all we have by sharing with those who are not as blessed, those who might be far from Him, she had always insisted. When we give kindness in His name, we show God’s love.

  Genie had sneered at Aunt Lu behind her back. I hadn’t, not because I agreed, but because I respected Aunt Lu. Still, I hadn’t believed what she said any more than Genie had.

  I grimaced, saddened that Aunt Lucy wasn’t here, that she wasn’t around to tell me what to do. Then shame washed over me.

  As if I need her to tell me what to do! I already know what she would have done. She wouldn’t have hesitated, not for a heartbeat.

  I backed away from Emilio. A few feet distant from him, I turned and sprinted back to my house.

  Ten minutes later I returned. A brown plastic grocery sack bulged under my shirt, but as far as I could tell, looking down, the sack was as invisible as I was.

  “Thanks,” I whispered, surprising myself. I wondered who I was thanking—the nanomites?

  The trick would be getting the sack to Emilio without revealing my, er, unique condition and/or causing the kid a mental collapse.

  He has enough problems as it is.

  I tiptoed past where I’d seen Emilio crouched in the bushes then turned back. The shrubs screened me as I slipped forward. When my eyes adjusted to the shadows I made him out, head down on his knees.

  Good. He isn’t looking up, I thought.

  I backed away a few yards and pulled the sack out from under my shirt, trying not to make any noise. Holding the bag by its plastic handles, I crept forward again. Emilio’s head was still down on his knees.

  Perfect.

  From a height of maybe four inches, I dropped the sack onto the sidewalk. As it landed on the cement, it made a soft “thunk.” I drew back, unseen and unheard. I circled one of the gang’s cars until I was between it and the next one.

  From between the two cars I had an unimpeded view of Emilio. His head was up. He remained unnaturally still.

  He had to have heard the sack hit the sidewalk.

  I could see the only part of him that did move—his eyes—jumping nervously back and forth, searching for the source of the unexpected noise.

  I saw the exact moment his eyes lit on the plastic sack. If possible, he drew farther back into his hiding place, making himself smaller. When a few minutes passed and no one had appeared to harass him, Emilio studied the sack. Mistrust radiated from him.

  I guessed that another ten minutes had gone by. My bare feet, unused to standing on the rough asphalt, were becoming a little tender. However, I wasn’t going to leave until I’d seen Emilio pick up that sack.

  I glanced toward Abe’s house. He usually sat and rocked within the shadows of his deep, covered porch. I couldn’t tell if he was there or not. When I turned my attention back to Emilio, the sack was gone.

  Wow. He’s quick! But then I’d already known that, the way he’d lit out my front door the afternoon I found him ransacking my kitchen.

  I could make hi
m out, back in his little hidey-hole, exploring the sack’s contents. When I heard the pop and fizz of a can opening, I smiled. I’d packed two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a baggie of celery and carrot sticks, an apple, and two cans of soda into the grocery bag. I hoped it would make a difference.

  I walked back home, a little lighter of heart.

  Though I’d slept part of the day away (almost dying in the process), I was feeling fatigued again, ready to sleep. I was a bit nervous about climbing back into bed, so I “fed” the nanomites from the light switch first. Then I decided to take a long, hot shower, thinking I’d “top off” the nanomites afterward.

  I hadn’t considered how they might feel about a shower.

  When the hot spray hit my body, the noise in my head exploded. The mites’ chipping, buzzing, and clicking rose to painful, deafening levels. Yeah, I don’t know what they thought, but I was furious.

  “Ow! Stop it!” I shouted.

  My demand went unheeded. I turned up the hot water and stuck my head under the shower nozzle, hoping I could wash them all away. No such luck. The hum-and-scree behind my eyes (like squealing chalk on a blackboard) intensified.

  I’m stubborn. I soaped myself down and shampooed, sponging off the layer of grime I’d picked up in the foothills. All while my head pounded like a jackhammer.

  I was rinsing conditioner from my hair when I remembered something. Something pretty important.

  Raise your voice just a little and say, “Nano, hello.”

  What—I’m supposed to talk to them?

  I’ve programmed them to recognize “Nano” as the signal of direct address. When they hear you say “Nano” they will pay attention to what you say directly after that.

  I pulled my head out from under the showerhead and shouted, “Nano! Stop it!”

  The dissonant squeal in my brain ground to a screeching halt.

  “Well!”

  I was jubilant! For about five seconds.

  The crazy-making cacophony kicked in again.

  Irked and near-blind with pain, I continued rinsing my hair, but my mind wasn’t on my task.

  Dr. Bickel said that he taught them some single words and some short commands. I know that they understand “hello” and “hide.” Maybe they don’t know “stop it.” Maybe I need to use a different word to make them shut up.

  Cheered, I called out, “Nano!”

  Again, the noise ceased.

  Ah ha! They are listening! Listening for the command!

  “Nano. Quiet.”

  They were attentive for a few seconds and then the reverberating racket resounding in my head recommenced.

  “Nano!”

  They listened.

  “Silence!”

  And silence reigned.

  My brows shot up. I waited a minute. I finished rinsing my hair. The noise did not return. I climbed out of the shower and toweled off.

  Oh, blessed peace and quiet!

  I pulled on a nightgown and turned on the hair dryer. The mites were quiet—until I turned the heated air on my head.

  They didn’t like that. Apparently, they really didn’t like that.

  “Ouch!” I dropped the dryer and pulled my injured hand to my chest. They had stung my hand!

  “You rotten little beasts!” I screeched.

  I couldn’t very well go to bed with wet hair. I picked up the dryer and turned it on again. “Nano! No!” I turned the hot air to my head. I looked into the mirror above the sink where the dryer was blowing on—supposedly—my invisible hair.

  They stung me again.

  “Nano! No, no, no!”

  I shouted. I scolded. I cajoled. I begged. I was a harassed mother engaged in battle with a three-year-old—and I was not about to let the three-year-old win.

  I turned the dryer on and held it away from my head while I considered word choices. “Nano. No hurt! No sting!”

  I waved the dryer over my head to emphasize my point.

  If I were to describe or characterize what happened next, I would call it verbal mutiny. Have you heard griping and complaining described as “chipping your teeth?” Well, that’s what they did.

  They chipped, they chittered, they chattered. At a dreadful, high-pitched level, they let me know how very much they disliked the dryer’s hot air directed at them. Except the hot air wasn’t directed at them, it was directed at me—and I refused to abdicate my own body to them—not now and not ever.

  It was a war of wills.

  A contest for control.

  You will lose, I vowed.

  I flipped the dryer’s switch on high and aimed the blast of warm air toward my hair. I clenched my teeth against the dissonance in my head. I set my jaw against the pain the mites’ protests were producing.

  I wielded the dryer and hairbrush until my hair was dry. Only when I was good and satisfied did I switch off the dryer and put it away.

  The mites’ griping petered to a close, leaving me dizzy and relieved.

  “Bad Nano!” I grumbled, weaving on unsteady feet into my bedroom. I popped two ibuprofen and rubbed my eyes.

  Tomorrow we are going to set a few ground rules around here. If Dr. Bickel could teach them simple commands, so can I.

  I slapped my hand (with more force than necessary) onto the light plate and let the nanomites jack up my electricity bill. When they were done, I fell into bed and into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Getting up early is a singular pleasure: I love watching the night give way to dawn and I like getting a jump on the new day. I usually set the pot on a timer each evening so the coffee will be ready when I get up the following morning—because the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee really is the best part of waking up.

  When I bounded out of bed the next morning, I exulted over how much better I felt. I hummed as I climbed out from under my covers. I placed my hand on the switch plate to give the nanomites their “breakfast” and skipped into the kitchen to grab my first cup of java.

  I sat at the old kitchen table sipping on my coffee and watching sunlight creep over Sandia Crest.

  No feverish, achy feeling, I realized. No drippy nose. It was undeniable: I was feeling better. I took another blissful sip. Is my body adjusting to the mites? Is it healing in spite of their presence?

  And I wasn’t fatigued. In fact . . . I actually seemed to have energy to burn.

  I plunked my mug onto the table; I almost spewed coffee.

  What is he doing up this early in the morning?

  Emilio, his skinny arms folded across his chest, glared into my window from the sidewalk. I glared back.

  The kid’s eyes flickered from window to window. The blinds were closed on all rooms but the dining room. His gaze swept over my car, still parked in the driveway, and then returned to my front window, uncertainty on his face.

  He doesn’t see me. Does. Not. See. Me.

  But did he see my magic, floating coffee mug again? I really have to stop sitting here in the open while I’m drinking my coffee or tea.

  He was wearing the same soiled clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. Had he slept in them? Had he slept in the bushes or had he snuck inside to sleep after his uncle’s drunken crew had passed out?

  Emilio’s stubbly shaved hair did him no favors, either—it accentuated the uneven shape of his head and left his ears sticking out. Worse, his shaved head made him look like a gangster-in-training, a chip off the old Uncle Mateo block. And that, for many reasons, was just wrong.

  What really did it, what especially marked him as a “mini-me” gangster, was Emilio’s hard, closed, expression—that “I’m tough; don’t mess with me” look.

  I’d seen more than that from him, though, hadn’t I? I’d seen Emilio puzzled, scared, maybe completely freaked out. And I’d heard him sob when he thought no one was listening.

  So we stared at each other, although I was certain he could not see me.

  He looked away for a few ticks, as though coming to a decision. When he looke
d back, he stared at me, directly at me. And gave a little bob of his chin. Like, “well, all right, then.”

  What?

  Emilio placed something on the sidewalk and turned on his heel. As he sauntered away, I tried to figure out what he’d left there, but I couldn’t make it out.

  Of course, it intrigued me. And it bugged me, because I couldn’t just go out and get it.

  Well played, kid, but no dice. Not gonna take the bait.

  I fetched Aunt Lucy’s old binoculars from the hall closet. Standing far enough back from the window where outside eyes could not penetrate, I pointed the binoculars to the sidewalk and dialed in the focus.

  A small cross, perhaps two inches in length, lay on the cement. Through the binoculars, I could see that it was carved from wood and had been rubbed until it glowed.

  A peace offering? A “thank you”? Had he decided that he knew who’d fed him last night? I couldn’t answer those questions, but I had to leave the cross where he’d left it, didn’t I?

  I went to put the binoculars back in the closet and thought better of it. I might need them again. I hung them over a kitchen chair, where they’d be within reach.

  I stayed indoors the next three days, not wanting to raise any suspicions or take the chance that someone might see a door opening on its own or a shimmering movement where one did not belong. Then my caution reversed course: Wouldn’t my neighbors get just as suspicious if they stopped seeing my normal routine?

  I was being paranoid—but with good reason, right? Yes, I was invisible, but I wasn’t confident in my new “skin,” so to speak, and my feelings flip-flopped all over the place.

  At least I used those three days well.

  Through experimentation, I found that I could hold an extension cord and the mites would feed from it as well as from a light switch. As soon as I picked the cord up (as long as it was plugged in), the mites would “fasten” to it and take what they needed.

  If the mites had been disconnected for a while, I could feel them drawing a lot from the cord. If they just needed to be “topped off,’ they fed slowly, and I felt something like a low, rumbly vibration moving through me.