by Paul Ruoitis
The six-year-old version of Kyle was throwing a baseball into the air and catching it as it came back down. «I don't know," he said as the ball went up into the air.
«Are you afraid of something?» She sat beside him on the bed, taking random guesses to try to figure out the problem.
The ball continued, up and down.
«Is it Tess?» she carefully pushed. «Are you afraid of Tess?»
The ball continued its repetitive journey.
«Is it someone else?» She tried a new track, with frustration creeping into her voice. «Did someone hurt you?»
Kyle missed the ball as it came down. It rolled across
the floor and under his dresser. The boy looked like he was about to tear up.
«I'll get it," Isabel offered. «Don't cry. It's just under the-"
«Big boys don't cry," he said firmly.
Hearing a response, she ignored the ball and focused on the boy. «And you're a big boy?»
«Yes," he said.
«But sometimes big boys do cry," she said. «If something really hurts-"
«No.»
«Why do you say that?»
«Big boys don't cry.»
«Okay, fine.» Isabel gave up on trying to change his mind, and bent to the floor to get the ball. Reaching under the dresser, she slid her arm from left to right, but couldn't find it. The piece of furniture was small enough that she was able to touch the back wall, but she found nothing. The ball was gone. But, then again, it was never really there in the first place.
She thought about telling him that the ball was missing, but figured he probably knew, since this was his world and she was just a guest in it.
Giving up, she resumed her place beside little Kyle on the bed. «So are we going to sit here forever, or do you have something else in mind?»
Wordlessly, the boy finally got off the bed. Taking deliberate steps, he opened the bedroom door, waiting for her to follow.
Intrigued, she got up and went for the door. «So are you the ghost of Christmas past, present, or future?»
Little Kyle ignored her comment as they walked through the Valenti home and right into the police station. This time, however, it was empty. Making their way through a maze of twisting corridors that didn't exist in the real Roswell Police Station, Isabel followed the child right up to the sheriffs door.
He stopped there, waiting for her.
Assuming that it was her job to open the door, Isabel stepped up to turn the knob. «It's locked," she said after meeting resistance. Listening at the door, she had expected to hear someone crying again, but she heard nothing. «What is it, Kyle? What are you trying to tell me?»
«You're not supposed to go in there," he replied.
«Then why are we here?» She was trying to figure out this puzzle, but their trip was not a great example of linear thought. «What am I supposed to see?»
The world shifted around her as the fluorescents melted into the bright light of the sun, and the walls and floor fell away. They were back in the desert, at the same spot where Isabel had first entered into Kyle's nightmare. Little Kyle dropped to the ground and started digging.
The vulture or buzzard or whatever it was circled overhead while it either chased or was being chased by another one of its kind.
«What are you looking for?» Isabel asked, bending over the youngster and peering into the hole.
«Treasure," was his cryptic response.
«What kind of treasure?» She knelt beside him.
«Buried treasure.»
Should have seen that one coming.
«Here, let me help.» She dug into the ground with her
hands, thinking of the three-day-old manicure on her fingers as she clawed into the dirt with the pleasant knowledge that at least she was doing no real harm to her physical body. She figured that they would find whatever it was they were looking for much faster if she joined in. «How far do we have to dig?»
«Until we find what we're looking for," came yet another cryptic reply.
She could feel that something new had come into the dream.
Ignoring the digging for a moment, she saw an object glowing in the distance. Assuming that little Kyle would be okay on his own in his dream world, Isabel stood up and started walking to the strange object.
As she got closer, Isabel could see that it was some kind of huge iridescent orb hovering about three feet above the ground. Translucent colors swirled around the surface of the orb, and as Isabel approached it she could make out the shadow of an image inside.
She was so focused on the orb that she did not notice little Kyle had disappeared behind her and the birds were no longer in the sky above.
Stepping up to the strange sight, Isabel held her hand up to block the sun as she peered inside and saw the teenage version of Kyle that she was familiar with sitting in the center of the globe with his back to her. He was floating in what she recognized as the lotus position.
«Kyle!» she yelled, banging on the orb, wondering if this new version of her friend was there to answer some of her questions if only she could get through to him inside the sphere.
But he did not turn to her.
Assuming that he simply could not hear her while he was inside the orb, Isabel went around to face him. «Kyle!» She banged on the surface of the orb again while standing right in front of him.
His closed eyes did not open.
The orb began to radiate a bright light, replacing that of the now missing sun. Isabel stepped back as the orb expanded in size. For the first time, she noticed that parts of the desert image were disappearing, being replaced by blackness. Pieces of sky and earth had fallen away leaving nothingness behind as the place reorganized itself.
This is so not good, she thought as she began banging on the orb once again.
Energy flew from the orb, knocking her to the ground. A section of dirt disappeared beneath her hands as she nearly fell into the nothingness left in its place.
«Kyle!» She threw herself against the orb, fearing what would happen if she got trapped in the void that was enveloping the dream world. «Kyle!» She kicked at the expanding globe.
The darkness spread in pieces around her as Kyle was trying to organize his thoughts and remove the harmful imagery without realizing that he could be removing Isabel from existence. She had to take several steps to the left to keep from falling into the void as she saw the swirling colors of the sphere begin to fade. The surface of the orb began to clear, and she could see Kyle much more easily now, but his eyes were still closed to her. «Kyle!»
From within his meditative state, Kyle could hear a voice calling out to him. It was familiar to him. Using the
techniques he had been self-taught, Kyle methodically tried to clear his mind, removing the offending images piece by piece as he reached out to the voice. More of the confusion fell away as he concentrated on the voice.
«Kyle, open your eyes!» she screamed. Knowing she had little time to act because the blackness was taking over, Isabel held out her hands and focused her concentration. She had no reason to believe that her alien powers would work in this dream world, but she was out of options.
Kyle heard Isabel that time. She was reaching out to him, calling for him. He tried to do whatever he could to answer her back.
Taking strength from her powerful fear, Isabel shot her hands out. Screaming Kyle's name, she forced the orb to burst in an explosion of light.
16
Michael pulled Kyle's car into an empty space right in front of Garrisons Hardware store and passed his hand over the dashboard to stop the engine. Double-checking to confirm that the sack he had previously picked up was tucked safely under the seat, he got out of the car.
Afraid to risk the important hidden items from being stolen, he fused the car locks with his hand. Now if anyone tried to break into the flashy car, they would have to do it by smashing the window or cutting through the cloth roof. And let's assume the people strolling on the streets of Roswel
l would be Good Samaritans and stop the thief before he got in.
Leaving the car behind, Michael went into Garrison's.
«Where do you keep your rope?» he asked, grabbing the first employee he saw as he stepped into the store.
Naturally, it was the only store employee, since the place was both owned and run by the somewhat Elderly Old Man Garrison. The nickname wasn't an insult, as the man wore it like a badge of honor, preferring to go by the
title Elderly Old Man without believing the phrase to be even remotely redundant.
He was one of the oldest living residents of Roswell, and as such acted even older than his true age out of a desire to be treated like the oldest living resident in Roswell. It was rather unfortunate for Michael that Elderly Old Man Garrison was in one of his more eccentric moods when he woke up that morning and was apparently planning to stay that way for the rest of the day.
«What kind of rope?» Garrison asked.
«Rope," Michael said, wondering why he had even bothered to ask. The place was one of the smaller stores on Roswell's main drag. It wasn't like it would have taken him hours to find the item he was looking for on his own.
«Well, what do you want to do with the rope?» Elderly Old Man Garrison asked. «Different kinds of jobs take different kinds of ropes.»
«Right now, I'm thinking of a hanging," Michael suggested.
Elderly Old Man Garrison's laughter turned into a wheezing attack. Granted, he wasn't actually having a real breathing problem, it was all just part of the act.
I hate these quaint colorful small-town characters, Michael thought. Why couldn't ours have been the set of pods that was transported to New York? At least there the crazies are actually crazy-Garrison recovered from his false asthma attack and set into his routine. «Now, for small jobs, you can use some twine or maybe even some fishing line. Fishing line is good because it's strong but lightweight. Now, we don't actually carry fishing line, but we do have twine-"
«Listen, Old Man-"
«That's Elderly Old Man, sonny.» He was having the most fun he had had in a long time. His favorite playmates were the kids who never seemed to have any interest in playing along.
Michael lamented the fact that he had not brought Maria along, because she was much better suited to handle these types of characters. In many ways, she is one of these types of characters, he thought.
«Sir," Michael stressed the word, which apparently impressed the Elderly Old Man. «I'm in a bit of a hurry, so please either tell me where the rope is or I will have to take my business elsewhere.»
Never one to let his fun get in the way of turning a profit, Garrison pointed Michael in the right direction. «Aisle three, sonny. And you let me know if you need any help.»
«Sure," Michael said, having absolutely no intention to ask even if he had to climb the shelves himself to reach, what he was looking for.
Hurrying down aisle three, Michael found a huge collection of rope of all different varieties. Good thing I cut the old man off, he thought, or we'd be here all afternoon.
Grabbing a bag of fifty-foot-long, one-inch-wide rope off the shelf, Michael hurried back to make his purchase. He had taken too much time in getting the first items on his list and he could already hear Maria complaining about his disappearance. He didn't need to take any longer.
For once the delay wasn't Michael's fault. If Kyle could learn to fill his car with gas once in a while, he cursed his friend one more time. Michael had considered just driving
along without any gas in the car. It was possible to do that with his powers, but it didn't really do nice things to the engine. Instead, Michael had to use his powers to push the car to a gas station for a fill-up.
Luckily, he only had one more stop on the list before he could head back to Isabel's side. Of course, he still had to have another run-in with Elderly Old Man Garrison at the checkout.
«Found that rope?» Elderly asked the obvious as Michael dropped his purchase on the counter in front of him.
«Yes.» Michael decided to keep his answers short and sweet.
Apparently where money was concerned, Elderly Old Man Garrison was just as happy to keep the transaction quick and efficient, and Michael easily paid for the items and rushed out of the store.
«Come back soon," the store owner hollered with a wave.
Ignoring the man, Michael continued walking down the Roswell main shopping district to a store called The Pottery Place. The store window was full of more knick-knacks and dust collectors than he ever imagined anyone could possibly need. Quite frankly, he had never expected to see the inside of the store in his lifetime in Roswell, but he had certainly done stranger things in the unending quest to combat strange alien phenomena.
Bracing himself for the smell of potpourri and the sounds of wind chimes, Michael entered the curiosity shop. The things I do for my friends, was the last thing he thought before the kitsch overwhelmed him.
If Michael had taken just a few more seconds to prepare himself before entering the store, he would have run into Jim Valenti coming out of Moby Disc, the music store attached to The Pottery Place. Valenti was carrying a bag full of sheet music and a hastily purchased guitar, still humming the same happy tune that had been stuck in his head all day.
Loading the items into his SUV, Valenti checked to confirm that his earlier purchases were still on the front seat, then pulled out onto the street. He drove his car through town, passing the Evanses' home, entirely unaware of the drama going on inside involving his son and his friends. Continuing several blocks over, he pulled up in front of a house with the garage wide open.
As he got out of his SUV, Valenti heard familiar music coming from the garage that, not so coincidentally, happened to be the very same tune he had been humming for the better part of the morning. Good, they started without me, he thought as he pulled his bags and his new guitar out of the vehicle.
From the open garage, the band saw him walking up the drive and stopped playing their song. The three remaining members of the group formerly known as The Whits looked at one another with a growing sense of anticipation.
«Sorry I'm late, fellas.» Valenti entered the garage, carefully setting down his guitar. «I rode out to a music store in Hondo first thing this morning. Had to pick up some sheet music I'd special ordered. There are some really great rockabilly tunes in here.» He held up one of his bags.
«Rockabilly?» the drummer, Chris, sounded skeptical.
«We're really more of an alternative band," Marcus, the rhythm guy, added. «Kind of a younger sound.» He had stressed the word younger when he said it.
«I know, I know," Valenti said. «But you have to try these songs. I promise you, it will be a great new sound for us.»
Chris and Marcus looked to their new leader, Mickey, silently willing him to have the conversation they had previously talked about that morning. Being trained in detective work, Valenti caught the glares and started putting things together. It wasn't a difficult case to crack.
«Is something wrong, Mickey?» he asked.
«Can you guys give us a second?» the lead guitarist asked his other band members.
Without another word, Chris and Marcus fled the garage.
«Let me guess.» Valenti saved the teen from the difficult job he had been left to do. «It's not working out.»
«Look, Sheriff-"
«Jim," he corrected the boy. «I haven't been a sheriff for over five months now.»
Mickey was uncomfortable calling him by his first name. «Mr. Valenti, the guys and I have been having a great time the past few days. I mean, all the jamming we've been doing has really been fun.»
«But starting a band with someone my age doesn't fit into your plans," Valenti finished the thought for him, hoping to save the boy from the embarrassment of having to say it to him.
«That's not it.» Mickey sat on the ratty old couch that
his parents had thrown into the garage for him and his friends. An unnoticed plume of dust r
ose from the cushion. «The whole band thing isn't really in our plans. You see, Alex was really the driving force behind The Whits.»
«I know.» Valenti thought about Alex. «It was the one part of his life where he really came out of his shell.»
«And without him, there is no band," Mickey added. «When you came up to us at the memorial, we were all excited to have the chance to go on with the group, but-"
«It's not the same," he guessed.
«Not really," the teen admitted. «It has nothing to do with you. It's just that none of us is all that interested anymore. With senior year approaching and colleges to look at-"
«No, no, I understand. And I've got to tell you, Mickey, it takes a good man to know what he wants in life and not be afraid to say it.»
«Thanks, sir," Mickey replied, getting off the old couch.
«Please, knock off the sir stuff.»
«Okay… Jim.» He held out his hand for Valenti to shake. «Kyle's really lucky to have an understanding father like you.»
«Thanks.» Valenti beamed at the compliment. «But about Kyle… can you and the guys keep this whole band thing just between us? I think it would embarrass him to know that his dad's been hanging out with his classmates.»
«It'll be our secret.»
«See you around," Valenti said, grabbing his guitar and making his way out of the garage. As he walked down the drive, he nodded his good-bye to the other band members who were hanging out on the porch. They waved and
smiled in response. Roswell's got some good kids in it, he thought.
Back in his SUV, Valenti paused after placing the key in the ignition. Singing with the band had been the first recreational thing he had done in months, and he was going to miss it. It was nice to take a break from the responsibilities inherent in his more «alien» endeavors. He did understand where the kids were coming from, but that didn't necessarily mean that he couldn't continue with his plans.
Starting up the engine, Valenti's mind started working on an idea. He looked over to the passenger seat and saw the bags full of sheet music he had spent the morning collecting. It would be a shame to let all that music go to waste, he thought as he pulled away from the curb. And maybe it is time I started doing things with people my own age. I do tend to spend most of my time with friends who are young enough to be my children.
