“I love you, Earthling,” I said.
He pulled back the covers, not a bit surprised to see me totally naked—all my clothes were tumbled, plain as day, right at his feet. I’d been lying on my side but now I rolled over onto my back.
Touch started at the crown of my head. With soft, sueded fingers—lambskin, I think those gloves must’ve been—he traced every bone in my face. I kept my eyes open, staring at him. He let his fingers travel down my neck, across my collarbone, and down to my breasts. At that point it wasn’t just his fingers, his hands were completely involved, wide and spanning and touching me everywhere, just like I’d imagined in the sauna. Of course in my imagination it had been his skin, not some poor dead lamb’s. Still and all. It felt amazing. My breathing went crazy. It felt like nothing I’d experienced before.
“Say it again,” Touch ordered.
And I did. I said it over and over again. I said it loud like a scream and soft like a mantra. I said nothing else, just I love you, I love you, I love you. Finally I had to close my eyes. It felt so good, and at the same time I wanted so much more that I thought I might die.
Except I didn’t die. Not at all. I lived through what seemed like lovely and excruciating hours of it, until I fell asleep with Touch on the other side of the covers, wrapped around me. It was the longest, deepest, best sleep of my entire life. When I opened my eyes Touch was still sleeping. I put on those lambskin gloves myself, pulled back the covers, and woke him up with the same treatment.
After that Touch took one last sauna while I got the house in order. Then we piled on into the truck and set off on our last stretch before crossing the border into Mexico.
Touch pulled into the first gas station we saw. I reminded him we were out of money, as in zero dollars, but he just looked over at me and smiled. Then he got out of the truck, walked around to the pump, and took that screwdriver out of his pocket. He had worked on it for hours, doing something with the sockets and the crystals and the sun coming through the windowpanes, but it looked just exactly the same as when he’d stolen it from the Salvation Army store. He slipped the screwdriver into the credit card slot, put the nozzle into the gas tank, flipped up the pump switch, and sure enough the numbers started to roll and the gas started flowing.
Now, that, I thought, is one useful device.
Touch went into the convenience store, then came back with a couple bottles of water. He threw his backpack into the backseat and handed me a granola bar. He also handed me two twenty-dollar bills, so I figured the screwdriver worked on ATMs, too. I stuffed the money in my pocket and decided to ask him about that later. For some reason while he was in the store I’d started thinking on Alabaster, and how she looked just like her name—every bit of her white and glowing, except her eyes, that soft blue. And Touch.
I realized that in his time people must get named according to their main qualities. My face got a little hot, thinking of last night. But that wasn’t all, the only kind of touch he had. Look at the things he’d made, that little blue ball, and the translator, and the golden ring. Now he’d turned an ordinary screwdriver into something magical and useful. Talk about having a touch. He turned the key in the ignition. He was wearing a Red Sox baseball cap, with his hair in a ponytail. Anyone looking in the window of our car would see an ordinary man, on the young side, sure, and also way far on the handsome side. But I knew he wasn’t ordinary at all, that he had this specialness, this brilliance, this touch. My heart swelled with love and pride.
I didn’t have the heart to tell Touch that although it was warmer than most spots in North America, Mexico didn’t tend to get all the way to a hundred twenty-five degrees. Still it seemed true what he kept saying, that he was starting to get used to the temperatures here. He still wore his leather jacket, but just a T-shirt and a flannel shirt underneath it.
Truth was, I felt pretty excited about Mexico myself. Maybe when we got there, it would be like the Perfect House of countries. I was ready for a little peace. Peace and safety. Like a family would have. Maybe after rejuvenating ourselves in Mexico, we could head on into the future, where they’d teach me how to control my powers so I could touch people, and then Touch and I would come back here, to the present, avoiding the nasty war. Maybe we could even bring Cotton along, and then have more kids together. We’d go back to Mexico circa now and have our own family, our own little world together.
Now there was only one U.S. highway left, 85, a straight shot down to the border crossing at Lukeville and Sonoyta. Mary Ginsberg didn’t look a whole lot like me, but she was tall with brown hair and blue eyes. Close enough, I figured, for someone glancing at the picture and then at me. And anyway, I figured they weren’t as particular about people going into Mexico as they were about people coming out, which I planned on doing never.
“I got a question,” I said to Touch. “How come you didn’t just tell the people in charge of Arcadia about the rebels who want to take over? Couldn’t someone have helped you?”
“It doesn’t work that way where I come from. Not anymore, anyway. There really isn’t anyone in charge, the way you mean it.”
“No police? No president? No jail?”
He shook his head, like he knew what these words meant but found them sad and ridiculous. “So primitive,” he said.
“Yeah, primitive, maybe, but they sure do come in handy as far as foiling evil plots.”
Touch said, “We’re talking about a world where no crimes have been committed for hundreds of years. There’s no system in place to prevent them, because essentially they don’t exist. Probably what we’re headed toward is a world where jails and police will be needed again. But first there’ll be a war. And it’s going to be bad. Very bad.”
I sat quiet a minute, not thinking so much about that last part, but about a place where no crimes had been committed for so long. It sounded safe and very lovely. It also sounded like an excellent place to commit a crime.
“Are you hungry?” Touch said, trying to change the subject. We were approaching a little town called Gila Bend, and from the looks of the landscape there wouldn’t be a whole lot more options before we hit the border. So we pulled on into the parking lot of a place called Outer Limits Space Age Restaurant, this very nutty-looking building that appeared to be constructed out of scrap metal, with a little UFO kind of balanced on top of the whole thing. The sign said it served Mexican and American food, and I figured this was the last time in my life I’d have the chance to eat American food. As Touch and I slammed the doors of the truck, I decided I was going to order a big old chicken-fried steak with a side of fries and a Coca-Cola. Thinking on what Touch’s reaction to the sight of that heaping plate would be made me laugh out loud, and I reached over to take his hand, the feel of that lambskin through my cotton tea gloves making me shiver just the barest little bit.
Crack! Boom! Boom! Crackle!
Shit.
Out of nowhere, all of a sudden, there he stood, Touch Sr., right smack-dab in front of us.
I felt afraid. I truly did. But I also have to say that not for a moment did I think this was the end. At this point, people from Touch’s time had appeared and tried to capture us and they had failed. We got away. I sure did not want to deal with Touch’s daddy, not one little bit. But nowhere inside me did I really think that he would succeed in catching us, in taking us away or hurting us.
And it truly might’ve worked out that way—us escaping—if only Touch hadn’t let go of my hand. It must be hard to think straight is all I can say, when the people who are trying to run you down and ruin all you hold dear are members of your own family. It would make me mad enough if a police officer showed up to run me into jail. But if Aunt Carrie were trying to arrest me? I would have a thing or two to say to her, you can bet on that.
Touch reached into his coat, like he was maybe going to avoid all that—getting involved. But then his daddy said something in that musical language of theirs. And Touch let his hand fall to his side. He said something back,
real furtive. I took the opportunity to look at his dad, not quite as tall as Touch, with the same long hair but tinged with silver. The same blue eyes but not kind at all, just fierce and greedy.
“Touch,” I said. “Don’t get into it with him. Let’s just get out of here.”
I thought maybe we could time travel, or just run for it like we’d done in the caves. But Touch’s daddy reached out his arm toward me, with his fist closed tight and facing up. It must’ve been a gesture that meant something in his world, because Touch yelled out, not in English but his own language, although from the way he said it I understood perfectly.
“No!” Touch yelled.
Fear gripped me; it poured over me like a bucketful of water, on account of the terror in his voice. I expected Touch’s father to make a move, to grab him or attack me, but he didn’t have time. Because Touch ran at him. As he ran, he reached into his pocket. First he pulled out the golden ring, which didn’t make sense because he was headed in the wrong direction. He was headed away from me. I heard something else clatter to the ground, but I scarcely noticed it, because Touch didn’t hold that golden ring out toward me. He held it out toward his father.
“No!” I screamed. I started to run at wildebear speed, but it wasn’t fast enough. Touch pulled the golden ring up over his father’s hand. And before I even had a chance to blink, they vanished. Both of them. Gone. Completely gone.
Another crackle. Another boom. And I stood in the parking lot of the Outer Limits Space Age Restaurant, completely alone, the perfectly ordinary looking screwdriver resting quietly at my feet.
This had happened to me once before, the whole world changed forever in a split second. But you never do get used to that sort of thing. Standing in the parking lot, one slow car making its way around me, I felt emptied out, hollowed. Like a pumpkin getting ready to be a jack-o’-lantern, like someone had just reached in and scooped out all my seeds and innards. Somehow I managed to kneel down and pick up the screwdriver. In that moment I didn’t care about what all it could do. I only cared that he’d made it, Touch; it was magic he’d created. With my teeth I pulled off one filthy glove, then closed my hand around the flat end of the screwdriver. Was it my imagination, or was it warm? Could I feel his intelligence, his talent, his touch radiating from the metal onto my skin? I only knew that no matter what happened, he wanted to keep on taking care of me.
Touch was gone. He’d left in order to protect me, that was the only explanation. I knew deep down in my bones that the only thing that could have ever made him leave me here all alone was the desire to keep me safe. And what would he find, when he went back home? What had he risked to save me? Something as small as his whole world, or as large as his own child.
Maybe now—no, not now, ten thousand years from now—Touch regretted that impulse, that moment of weakness.
Another car pulled into the lot, this one not so patient. The red-faced man had a tired-looking wife and a car full of toddlers. He laid on his horn so that I jumped over to one side. The screwdriver pulsed, warm and comforting, next to my skin.
No, that pulse said to me. He doesn’t regret it. He never could. And another thing: he’s going to find his way back to you.
There had to be a place for Touch and me. A place and time. So you better bet I would stick to that plan, the one we’d made together, and get on in the truck and drive in the direction I’d told him I was going.
It was the least I could do, after he’d risked his life—his whole life and world—to save mine.
Needless to say I didn’t feel like eating a chicken-fried steak. In fact I didn’t feel like eating anything at all, ever again. I walked over to the blue Chevy truck, still feeling like a jack-o’-lantern ready to be carved. It was like someone had programmed me and now I could go through the motions like a robot. Walk across pavement. Open truck door. Climb behind wheel. Insert key in ignition.
But then when I closed the door, something came over me. For one thing, the whole cab, it smelled like cedar and eucalyptus, like cinnamon and ginger. It smelled like Touch, and not just him but the two of us, this whole journey we’d taken together.
I knew I needed to turn the key in the ignition. I needed to point my car south, toward Mexico, and get over the border and wait on Touch. He said electricity made it easier to track people, so I’d get to the biggest town I could find. Hell, I had a screwdriver that made gas pumps pump and ATMs part with cash. So maybe when I got to Mexico I’d treat myself to a big resort. I’d lie out by the pool drinking piña coladas, and suddenly Touch would appear, way overdressed, standing at the foot of my beach chair.
But what if he didn’t? Who knew what all they were doing to him, ten thousand years from now?
I couldn’t help it. Something rose in my throat that I hadn’t felt, not fully, in such a long time. And I did what I hadn’t done when Cody fell into his coma, or when Wendy Lee fired me from the bakery. I put my head on the steering wheel and cried and cried and cried.
Finally I heard a little tapping. I lifted my head. My eyes were so puffy I could barely see. I wiped them dry, took a big snuffly breath, and rolled down the window.
It was a lady, a mom-aged lady, with short dyed blond hair and crinkles around her eyes, the kind that come from lots of laughing. But right now she wasn’t laughing. She looked real sad. For a second I wondered what was wrong, and then I realized it was me—she was sad for me.
“You OK, honey?” she asked, real careful, and real concerned.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
She tilted her head to one side and smiled a little. “You sure now? I’m happy to buy you a cup of coffee if you need someone to talk to.”
I took a deep shuddery breath. Probably she was just some kind of Jesus freak, wanting to bring me over to God. Or else she was a sex trader, luring vulnerable young girls into a life of misery. She stood there, in her mom jeans and pink T-shirt, waiting on some kind of answer. And I knew she wasn’t either of those things, just a nice lady, probably with a daughter about my age.
“That’s real nice,” I said. “Honest, just the offer makes me feel better.”
“I’m glad, honey,” she said. “But the offer is sincere. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your kindness. But I have to go.”
“You sure?”
I nodded, and she said, real reluctant, “OK, honey. You drive carefully. OK?”
“I will,” I promised. And I drove out of the restaurant’s parking lot, but not out of Gila Bend. Because that nice lady, she’d reminded me. I still had one last thing to do before I left the States.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Robbins,
I sat in the Gila Bend Public Library, staring at the cursor. There were only five computers in the low, cool building. I thought how Touch should be here, shivering next to me. Before I started the letter to his parents, I searched on the Internet for news of Cody. And the truth was I didn’t need to search, because I knew in my heart that he still lay sleeping in his coma. I could feel it in my bones, like they were filled with Cody’s marrow along with his memories. It had been the Internet that told me Wendy Lee had woken up, not any special sense inside me. But Cody and I had been so much closer—and our contact had lasted so much longer. I felt sure I would know, right away, if ever he opened his eyes. No matter where I was.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Robbins,
It was a dangerous letter to write. By now probably some connection had been made, back in Mississippi, between what happened to Cody and what happened to Wendy Lee. I wondered what they said about me, back in Caldecott County. What kind of gossip went on, about what all I had done to him, and did Aunt Carrie believe it? Did she hang her head in church now, over her failure at beating the evil out of me? Had she ever gone looking for me? I remembered how she used to sneak into my room at night and brush the hair off my forehead when she thought I was sleeping. Maybe she still went in there some evenings, just to sit on my bed a
nd look at the big, square spot—whiter than the rest of the wall—where my map used to hang. But then, why should I think she’d leave the room the way it was? It could be she’d set up a little sewing room for herself, or some such thing.
Somehow, just like I knew Cody slept on in his hospital bed, I knew that my room sat waiting for me, exactly like I’d left it, if ever I chose to return. Which I didn’t. I couldn’t. After everything I’d become, everything I’d seen and done and been through, I knew there was no going back, not ever.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Robbins,
Cody sure was a good boy, but y’all know that already. He wasn’t much of a talker, though, so he might never have told you how much he liked those fishing trips he used to take with his daddy. He loved sitting in a boat with you on a sunny day, just all silent, knowing that it didn’t matter if any fish got caught. He just liked knowing you were close by, and that he had you all to himself.
Honest, though, the person who pops into his mind most often is his mama. He used to love sitting on the counter while you baked. He thinks you make the world’s best lemon squares. One thing he remembers real clear, and real fondly, is the time you two went to the zoo in Jackson on a class trip. The parents weren’t supposed to buy anything at the gift shop, but while the kids headed on back to the bus you snuck in and got him the stuffed giraffe he wanted. Do you know he still has that giraffe? Look on the shelf in his closet, underneath his baseball glove. Sometimes when he was feeling blue he’d take it out and hold it awhile. He might like it at the hospital, come to think of it.
This is the last of these letters. I hope they brought you comfort. If they didn’t, if they made you sad and sorry instead, I sure apologize. Mostly I just think it’s important that you know, Cody thought you were real good parents. He sure did have a happy childhood, and was real grateful for it.
Rogue Touch Page 20
