The Only Ones

by Aaron Starmer

  The wristband was set in the basin and Sigrid gave it a kiss for good luck. Then Martin went through the sequence again. The cranks and dials and levers and the pendulum. The light came, followed by the laughs, and soon Sigrid was at the door to the machine’s heart, waiting for a signal to go through.

  When she opened it, she found Christianna on the other side. As Christianna struggled to open her eyes, everyone pushed together in the doorway to get a closer look. Conjured out of thin air was this girl, like a younger version of Sigrid—blond and fit and angular.

  “She’s your kid sister?” Ryan whispered.

  “She is my older sister,” Sigrid whispered back. With her hand out, she stepped forward and said something in Norwegian. Christianna answered her in a soft but worried tone. Sigrid began to cry.

  Right away, the kids were running wild through Xibalba, digging through the remains of their former homes, trying to find anything to put in the machine. A bit of cloth from a T-shirt that Riley was sure her grandmother had once touched. The twenty-dollar bill Gabe kept in his pocket as a guilty reminder that he had swiped it from his mother’s desk on the eve of the Day. Even some melted and balled-up wire that was the braces Vincent had removed from his teeth nearly three years before. His father had paid for them, so it seemed they might do the trick.

  None of these things worked. The kids tested the machine over and over, all through the night, but Martin’s hunch appeared to be correct. The objects needed to be gifts, things one person had given to another, physical expressions of generosity, not objects passed on by necessity or reciprocity. When they were too exhausted to keep at it, the kids retreated to their beds with a common goal: Rest up. Try again in the morning.

  Martin was the last to leave. The sun was teasing the horizon, and the grass was standing a little higher, encouraged by the dew. Mornings of frost were most likely behind them now. Martin’s body ached, but it was a good ache, a finally ache. Sleep would have to wait, though. Someone was standing at the door to the library. It was Henry’s father. It was Keith.

  “Are you their leader?” Keith asked.

  “I don’t know about that,” Martin said.

  “You’re their leader a’right,” he said firmly. “Henry told me you boss folks around. Make big decisions.”

  “I do what I think is right,” Martin answered.

  “So do I.” Keith was not a tall man. He stood only an inch or two higher than Martin. Yet his voice, raspy and ragged, had height. It had a frightening power.

  “Is everything okay?” Martin asked. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

  “I’m takin’ him,” Keith said. “We’re leavin’.”

  “Oh.”

  “Henry tells me there ain’t no one else in the world. You kids are the last of the Mohicans. That sounds like a load of bull to me. Somethin’ that someone makes up to keep folks from goin’ out and findin’ the real truth.”

  “I can see how you might think that,” Martin said.

  “You can’t see nothin’ in me,” Keith snarled. “You built somethin’ powerful there. More powerful than you know. I’m taking my kid away from you. We’re gonna find his brother, his momma.”

  Martin understood what he needed, but he also knew what such a quest would require. “Your wife,” he asked, “has she ever given you any gifts? Just out of the blue, ’cause she cared about you?”

  “What kinda question is that?” Keith snapped. “My wife is a fine woman. And we’re gonna find her. We’re goin’ home.”

  “Now?”

  “Tomorrow. Henry, he’s a bit attached to you folks. We’re goin’ huntin’ this morning. Gonna bag us a few turkeys. He’d like us to have a goodbye dinner.”

  —— 38 ——

  The Kazoo

  Thanksgiving had come and gone when the machine was still living at Impossible Island. No one really cared then. They would make up for it now, preparing the grandest of feasts to send Henry off. There were, of course, the turkeys. They also had some potatoes and squash left over from Chet’s greenhouse. Wendy baked bread, and there were mushrooms to gather for stuffing. Gnarly crab apples and canned pumpkin were good enough for pie.

  They cooked it all on giant charcoal grills they lugged into Town Square. Everyone pitched in, and by the afternoon they had a line of tables set with china and crystal. They giddily filled their plates, picked their seats, and toasted new beginnings.

  Forgiving Martin and Henry wasn’t an issue at this point. The world had opened up and all the kids could talk about was how they were going to bring their friends and families back. As they gorged themselves, they made gift lists, annotated with addresses. The plan was they would fuel up Kid Godzilla, and Darla would drive to their old homes and bring back the magical loot. On her way, she would drop Henry and Keith wherever they wanted to go.

  Keith hardly said a word during the meal. He passed the food and passed judgment with disapproving sneers and squints. The only time he spoke was when he chided Darla for trying to open up some champagne.

  “You’re a little girl,” he said, grabbing the bottle from her.

  “A little girl who’s driving you home,” she said, angling over to grab it back.

  Keith tucked it safely under his arm. “Not so sure about that, sweetie.”

  “You ever driven a monster truck before, mister?” she asked.

  “I’ve driven pickups.”

  “Totally different, old man,” she said. “Pickup ain’t gonna do squat on those crowded roads. And driving the Kid requires skill. You know how to take a hill without flipping? How about the difference between rolling over a minivan and an SUV? ’Cause there’s a difference, you know?”

  “So where’d you learn how to drive it?” Keith asked.

  “My dad.”

  “Wait a sec,” Henry said. “You told us you taught yourself how to drive it.”

  “That was a lil’ fib, Henry,” Darla said. “Made for a better story.”

  “I’ll let you drive, ’cause my son says you can handle it,” Keith said. “But if I get to feelin’ you’re nancy-footin’ the pedals, then I’m takin’ the wheel.”

  At the other end of the table sat Christianna. Sigrid did her best to introduce her sister to all the kids, but Christianna would hardly raise her head to look at anyone, let alone to say hello. The entire scene must have been terrifying for the girl, and Martin couldn’t help studying her, searching her face for an explanation for why she was who she was.

  What worried him most was that she hadn’t aged at all. She had gone from being Sigrid’s older sister to being her younger one. Christianna told Sigrid that she had no memory of traveling into space or anywhere else. So again, if the theory of relativity wasn’t the answer, then what was? Martin could imagine all sorts of scenarios, but all were drawn from science fiction and fantasy books. Suspended animation. Cryogenics. Fountains of youth.

  The answer couldn’t be as complicated as all that. On the island, Martin had taken apart the machine multiple times. He had examined every gear and bolt, every pedal, every piston. He understood the basic mechanics. What he had never questioned, however, was the procedure. The procedure was gospel. He and his father had practiced it so many times that it had never occurred to him to ask, “Why do we turn the crank? Why do we drop the pendulum?” And most of all, “Why do we set the Birthday Dials?” They hadn’t been moved since that morning Trent had pointed them out and Martin had set them to the Day.

  Martin looked into the sky to see the first star of the evening revealing its face. The stars were the calendar of ancient man. The stars were their map. He did calculations in his head.

  “No moon tonight,” Trent told him.

  “What’s that?” Martin was so wrapped up in thought that he had forgotten where he was. Tiberia had been sitting next to him, but she had left to bring food to Marjorie, and in the meantime, Trent had snagged her seat.

  “You pay attention to the moon and stars, so you probably already know,
” Trent said as he handed him a bowl of stuffing.

  “Thank you,” Martin said. “Don’t you want some first?”

  “I don’t eat stuffing,” Trent explained. “Too gooey.”

  “Know what you mean,” Martin said as he took another spoonful. “But I like that about it. I like that there’s always new foods for me to try.”

  Trent nodded at this, then slipped in a confession. “Don’t be mad at me, but you probably already figured out that I didn’t have any luck with Lane.”

  “I’m not mad,” Martin said, “but I’m sorry to hear it.” Martin had really wanted Lane to see the machine in action, if only to prove to her that all their sacrifices were finally paying off.

  “I went to the school,” Trent explained. “She’s still there. She’s locked herself behind a door. Room seventeen. I talked to her, and I told her that we could bring her parents back. She said she didn’t care.”

  “We can’t force her to do anything, I suppose,” Martin said.

  “I care,” Trent said bluntly. “And when I was talking to her, I realized that I have something. For the machine, I mean.”

  “You do?”

  “My kazoo. It’s a silly thing, but it was metal and it wasn’t completely destroyed in the fire. I forgot, but Mom gave it to me when I was just a kid. Can we try it after dinner?” Trent asked.

  “Darla wants to continue the party over at the movie theater. Besides, it’s getting dark and it’s probably best to wait for morning.”

  “It’s my mom,” Trent said. “I’d rather see her now. She’s a doctor, you know? She might be able to help Marjorie. I can probably run the machine myself if you’re too busy. I’ve seen you do it.”

  It would be cruel to make Trent wait, and Martin realized his mistake. “Not necessary,” he said. “Let’s meet at the machine around eleven. I should at least say goodbye to Henry first.”

  —— 39 ——

  The Luau

  As soon as dinner was over, Keith declined the invitation to Darla’s after-party, opting to catch up on sleep in the bowling alley instead. His son was his only concern, and as he left him outside the theater, Keith whispered into Henry’s ear. Henry didn’t whisper back, but he hugged his father and then they shook hands, like they were entering into an agreement.

  Envy found a harbor in Martin’s chest as he watched from a distance, but he couldn’t begrudge them their reunion. Was this the way the men on the lobster trawlers had once looked at Martin and his father? Possibly.

  When Martin walked through the door to the theater, he was handed a floral-print shirt and a pastel polyester lei. Darla must have raided a party supply store at some point and stockpiled for a luau. Ukulele music filled the room as Cameron strummed cheerfully, and kids gathered around inflatable palm trees and buttoned up their new shirts to get in the mood.

  For the next few hours, the party seized the energy from the dinner and amplified it. Chatting evolved into flirting, and flirting gave way to dancing. No one was particularly good, but it offered them a chance to put their hands on hips and lock eyes and see things they had failed to see in their more than two and a half years together as neighbors.

  The boys seemed broader in the shoulders and quicker with compliments than ever. The girls’ faces were starting to sprout cheekbones that evened out their dimples. They didn’t seem the least bit afraid to ask a guy to dance. But Martin turned down their offers and just sat on a wicker sofa and watched. It was the right choice. The food had been so rich at dinner that he could feel it swirling and bubbling as it descended into his intestines. Punishment for indulgence, he figured.

  “You can build other machines, can’t you?” Henry asked as he flopped down into the seat next to Martin. “Ya know, types that do the same junk as this one?”

  “I suppose so, given time,” Martin said. “I guess we’ll want more, eventually.”

  “That’s cool,” Henry said, but he didn’t look at Martin when he said it. He couldn’t take his eyes off Darla, who was dancing in a circle of girls in the middle of the room. “What are you havin’ Darla bring back for you? To put in the machine, I mean.”

  “Nothing,” Martin admitted. “I don’t have anything that would work.” It was true. The only gifts his father had given him were gone. And really, what else was there?

  “You got this now,” Henry said. Flicking with his thumb and finger, Henry sailed a folded piece of paper into Martin’s lap.

  Martin opened it over his thigh and flattened the creases out with his hands. It was the paper with his father’s address on it.

  “How did you …?”

  “I took it from that stupid book that burned, and I’ve been holding on to it for, I don’t know, angry reasons,” Henry explained with a shrug.

  Martin was speechless. Of course he’d memorized the address, but he’d been certain that the paper had been relegated to ash. It was the paper that meant something. Its potential was huge, and Martin felt the itch to get right up and head straight to the machine. But first—

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” he said. “I treated you badly.”

  “People do bad things,” Henry said. “I done plenty of bad things.”

  “No you haven’t. You acted far better than I did.”

  Henry’s eyes were still on Darla when he said, “I used to steal things for Nigel sometimes. Felix thought I was stealin’ something the night of the fire. But I wasn’t. Not that night. That night I was just lookin’. I wanted to learn. Thought maybe there was somethin’ in your personal page that would teach me. That’s why I broke into it.”

  “What did you want to learn?” Martin asked.

  “You know about her. You know what she’s into and all that. Or you know somethin’ about what it takes to make her love … to make her like a guy.”

  Hopping in place and letting her head rock back and forth, Darla might have heard them, but she paid the two boys no mind. She continued to shake and whoo and whinny. It was only ukulele music, but to her it was bliss.

  “Darla likes whatever Darla likes,” Martin said. “That’s all I know.”

  “I’m gonna miss her.”

  “I’m thinking you’ll miss everybody,” Martin said.

  “Maybe,” Henry grunted. “I guess it don’t matter much. I’m taking off in a few minutes, anyway. Promised my dad I wouldn’t stay long.”

  “It was … good. Very good to know you, Henry,” Martin said.

  “Yeah, well, same to you.”

  Without another word, Henry got up from the sofa. He maneuvered through the crowd unnoticed and stopped by a table of snacks, where he munched alone, facing the wall. This probably wasn’t the way Henry had imagined the evening would play out, and Martin decided to flag down Darla, to suggest she shift the focus of the party back to its guest of honor. But as he rose from his seat, he felt the flood and the tension, the twist and the fear.

  He needed a toilet.

  Plumbing had always been an issue in Xibalba. Rather than figure out a way to make the porcelain toilets work, a boy named Rex had cut holes in the center of armchairs and retrofitted the bottoms with removable buckets. Each kid was responsible for the maintenance and cleaning of his or her own “throne.” After the fire, almost everyone was in need of a new model, and at the suggestion of more than one kid, wheels were added. This meant the toilets were mobile.

  Martin kept his toilet in a gazebo behind the library. It was for the view, but also for the fresh air and the privacy. No one could see him back there and he could look into the woods and up into the mountains, and even in the dead of winter, he could feel completely at peace.

  Peace was far off now. Martin couldn’t possibly make it to the library. The best he could do was grab an empty popcorn tub from a closet and hurry up the back stairs of the theater to a hanging iron ladder that led to the roof. On the roof, he hid behind a ventilation duct, set the tub on the tar floor, and thrust his pants to his ankles.

  Hovering over the tub, head in
hands, Martin surrendered to the convulsions of pain that pillaged his body. The sound and smell were utterly repulsive and allowed nausea to join in. Soon he was vomiting too. It had all come on much faster than he had feared. He was scheduled to meet Trent in thirty minutes, but he couldn’t see that happening now. The only future he could imagine was one in bed.

  False finishes kept tricking him. Every moment he thought he was ready to stand, he was forced back down with the rush of sick. Maintaining his balance was near impossible, so he decided to lie on his side and close his eyes. He hummed to himself, hoping the vibrations would soothe his body. All they did was muffle screams from inside the theater and a hoarse voice calling out from the direction of Town Square.

  “Martin Maple. Come quick. He’s tying it up. Martin Maple. Martin Maple.”

  A strange buzz was in the air, like the desperate call of a dying goose. And tangled in with it all was the rattle of chains. Dizziness made hallucination the main suspect, and Martin hummed even louder to force it all away.

  Only after a bout of dry heaves did he have the confidence to think his body was empty and it was safe to get up. Aching, he found his feet, pulled his pants to his waist, and dragged himself—rigid, crustacean-like—to the ladder.

  Weak knees were merely the beginning. Climbing down, he lost his ability to grip and fell hard onto the concrete landing below. It injured his ankle enough that he didn’t bother standing up, but even crawling his way down the stairs took every bit of concentration. He could focus on one movement at a time. Right hand forward. Right hand down. Right knee forward. Right knee down. It was two flights of stairs, but it might as well have been twenty.

  The screams were dissipating, but odors had muscled into their place. Downstairs, it was a nightmare of the rancid, and as Martin reached the hallway to the lobby, he began to understand why.

  Sigrid and Christianna were bent double on the floor, their hands on each other’s cheeks. They were pale-skinned to begin with, but their faces were as white as dead coral now. When he came to their sides, he could see that Sigrid wasn’t moving. Christianna was whispering into her sister’s ear, then mumbling in Norwegian.