by Jill Smith
“I don’t want to be alone anymore. It sucked. The big one.”
Bridique laughs. “Next time’ll be better. How about some gutter-clearing to get your mind off it?”
Imms likes the work. He scoops handfuls of wet leaves, enjoying their slickness, their smell. He wonders how it must feel to be washed from place to place by rain. When it rains, Imms always stands outside. He knows B wants to tell him not to, but B keeps quiet, letting Imms soak.
Mary and Bridique’s neighbor helps, too. His name is Don Welbert, and Imms likes him. He doesn’t stare at Imms’s skin or ask questions about the Silver Planet. He mostly talks about sports, and when they all go in for a break, Don turns on the TV and explains the rules of baseball to Imms, Mary correcting him now and then. She knows more about the game than Don.
Mary serves blueberry pie, and Imms tells her about the book he’s reading—Tom’s Midnight Garden.
“You ought to meet my son,” Don says to Imms around a mouthful of pie. “You two would get along. He likes books.”
“You’re son’s half-wild,” Brid says.
“Better half-wild than half-witted,” Don says. “He’ll be home from school at Thanksgiving. I’ll have him give you a call.”
“Okay.” Imms is pleased that Don’s son will call just for him, not B He looks around the table and wonders if humans’ capacity for cruelty gives weight to their kindness. They carry each other. They make each other laugh. They are not even as insignificant to their ecosystem as Imms once thought. They don’t pollinate, but Mary has shown Imms her garden, and the compost heap. She keeps containers in the house where he throws cans and bottles so they can be recycled.
“Earth to Imms?”
Imms looks up. Don waves at him. “I asked if anyone’s taught you to play poker yet.”
They play for M&Ms, and soon Imms has a huge rainbow pile in front of him. He doesn’t like chocolate, so he divides the candy between Don and Brid and Mary gives him two gala apples instead.
“A health nut,” announces Don, who’s working on his third beer. “A born poker player, but a goddamn hippie.”
“Don,” Mary says gently.
Imms isn’t sure about Don anymore. The white parts of his eyes have pink spots.
“You’re throat’s shiny.” Don says to Imms, taking a last swig of beer.
“That’s his heart,” Brid says. “It moves around his body.”
“That’s nuts.” Don turns to Mary. “You got any more of this stout? Or’d I drink it all?”
“There’s more,” Brid says. “You know where the fridge is.”
“I’ll get it,” Mary says.
“No, Mom. You’ve been on your feet all day. Let Don get it.”
“Least you haven’t been climbing roofs and digging rotten”—Don burps—“leafs outta gutters,” he says to Mary.
“Geez, Don, how about a glass of water instead?” Brid says.
“What I wanna know”—Don wobbles to the fridge and removes another beer, popping the cap on the counter—“is why you”—he points at Imms—“came here. If the captain’s anything like these ladies, he could probl’y talk you into goddamn anything.” Don switches to a high falsetto. “‘Oh, Don, please come help us clean the gutters. It’ll be fun. Oh Donny, there’s a couch we can’t lift.’ They got these charming little smiles. What wouldn’t a man do for smiles?”
Bridique shoves a bottled water toward him. “Don, shut up.”
“What about the captain? Did he smile and say, ‘Please come to Earth with me, Imms. It’ll be fun?’ Did he say, ‘What would I do without you?’”
“Ignore him, Imms,” Brid says.
Mary is silent, staring at the blueberry tracks on her plate.
“That’s right, ignore me. Ignore me until you need something.”
“Don,” Mary says. “We have a guest.”
“Yeah,” says Don. He stares at Imms until Imms looks away. “I see that.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’ve been working on a new trick with Chess. It’d be nice for her to practice in front of an audience.” Bridique knocks Imms’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “How about it? Want to watch?”
They go to the Rose Sanctuary. Brid has Imms sit on a metal bench outside a round enclosure with a small platform in the center and round stools spaced evenly around the circle. Bridique stands on the center platform, holding a long, thin whip. She explained to Imms that she doesn’t use the whip to hit the animals, just to give cues. Margret Rose, who runs the sanctuary, lets Chess into the enclosure and shuts her in with Brid.
“Chess, circle.” Brid holds the whip straight in front of her. Chess runs around the perimeter of the enclosure, her movements powerful and effortless. Brid rotates in the center with the whip out straight, like a clock hand. “Take your seat,” Brid says. Chess leaps onto one of the stools and sits. It seems too tiny for her, and Imms laughs. Chess looks over at him, and he thinks maybe she laughs, too. “Okay,” Brid says to Imms. “This is the one I’ve been teaching her.” Brid stands in front of Chess but not too close, and flicks the whip upward three times quickly. Chess doesn’t move. Brid repeats the gesture. Chess yawns.
“Chess,” Brid says. Her voice is loud, but she’s not angry. Chess turns her focus back to Brid. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s give Imms a good show.” Bridique flicks the whip up again, and this time Chess rises onto her hind legs, her enormous front paws swatting the air. “Smile,” Brid says, and Chess shows her long yellow teeth, then sinks back onto the stool. Brid tosses her a hunk of something—Imms would rather not know what. “Good girl.”
“She’s about got it,” Margret Rose says.
Brid rejoins Imms outside the enclosure. “The crowds like that one. They want to see teeth and claws. They’d probably like it even better if the cats actually used them on us.”
“She listens to you,” Imms says.
“Sometimes.”
“Always,” Imms says. “Even when she didn’t do the trick right away, she was listening.”
Brid looks surprised. She nods.
They leave Rose and drive downtown. “Hungry?” Brid asks.
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m starving. Prepare to watch me eat.” She parks in a public lot, and they walk to Main Street.
They spot a group of protestors outside the County Annex. The protestors have signs about Imms, and sometimes they shout in unison. Protestors can generally be divided into two groups: those who are concerned for Imms, who believe NRCSE is mistreating him, experimenting on him—and those who fear him, who want him sent back to the Silver Planet or killed. Imms is not sure which group this is, and Brid only glances at them a moment before shaking her head and hurrying along. “Assholes,” she mutters. So maybe it’s the second group.
Brid takes him to a restaurant called Past the Gums. The tablecloths are checkered red and white, and each table has a candle in a round glass jar. Imms tries not to look at the candle.
The waiter asks what they want to drink. Imms says Kool-Aid. He knows this is wrong as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but it’s too late. The waiter looks at him, and Imms sees the flash of surprise, the quick, nervous swallow.
“Um, we don’t have Kool-Aid. Just Pepsi products. And iced tea and lemonade.”
Imms keeps his head down, wishing his hat covered his whole face, like the black masks robbers wear in movies. Now the waiter knows who he is. And maybe the waiter, like the protestors, wants him gone from Earth. “Lemonade. Please.”
“For you, ma’am?”
“I’ll have Coke,” Brid says.
“Pepsi all right?”
“Sure.”
The waiter retreats to the kitchen.
Brid sticks her finger in the glass jar and moves it back and forth through the candle flame. For a second, Imms is too stunned to react. Brid pinches the flame between her thumb and forefinger and draws it up, out of the jar, then releases it. She starts to do it again.
&nbs
p; “Don’t,” Imms says.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
B teases him like this sometimes, when Imms worries that B’s doing something dangerous. B will do the dangerous thing again and laugh, and Imms will feel embarrassed because it is not very Silver of him to be cautious, to worry on someone else’s behalf. Earth has made him this way with its countless dangers and the way those dangers camouflage themselves as ordinary. Right now Brid looks like she might laugh and pinch the flame again, just to tease him.
“The trick is to grab the flame by the top, not the center. Here, I’ll show you.” She reaches for his hand. He pulls away, knocking the table with his wrist. The wax in the candle jar sloshes, dousing the flame. The candle goes out.
Now Brid stares at him with those eyes that are like the cats’ eyes and lets out a very soft breath that might also be the word “oh.”
He holds his wrist under the table. It doesn’t hurt, but for a second he wishes it would. Sometimes pain makes things just a little bit clearer to him, jars him from the torpor of his Silver mind, which never knew pain or fear, was never prepared for danger.
Brid glances at the menu. “You want Cheez Stix? We could split an order. The fact that Stix is spelled with an X makes me think we need to.”
“Yes,” he says, wanting to go along with her. This is how the cats must feel about Bridique. She has a loud voice, but inside, she is kind. Inside, she understands you and where you hurt and uses her stronger self to draw the pain out. You do as she asks because you want to, not because you fear her.
Imms would not be surprised if fire doesn’t burn her, the same way big cats don’t bite her.
“Chess’s trick is good,” he says.
“She’s a smart girl. She’ll be ready to do it in the show this spring.”
“You said you don’t like the shows.”
“It’s not totally exploitative like a circus. The cats don’t do anything they don’t want to do. We don’t ask them to do anything unsafe. It’s…kind of silly, but overall, I think it’s a good thing. It’s a chance for us to teach people about the cats. And it gives the cats something to do besides lie around and wait to be fed. Still, if I could, I’d release every one of them into the wild. It sucks that they’re in cages. Even fancy-ass boutique cages.”
“They feel safe,” Imms says.
Bridique looks at him. “What?”
Imms wonders if he should keep his mouth shut about something he doesn’t really know. But what he’s about to say is true. He knew it when Chess looked at him today.
“They don’t always mind being in cages. Because they’re safe. You keep them safe.”
“Yeah. I mean, they wouldn’t have a clue how to survive on their own in the wild.”
The waiter brings their drinks, and Brid orders the Cheez Stix.
“Stop jumping every time he comes over,” Brid says when the waiter’s gone. “And take your hat off.”
“But people will—”
“Recognize you? Yes. And they’ll deal with it.”
Imms takes his hat off. One of the entourage shifts slightly, watching him. Bridique laughs. “Poor goons. Drinking bad coffee and waiting for our next move. We should offer them some Stix”
“B says they’re used to stuff like this.”
“You’re a celebrity,” Brid says, pushing ice cubes down in her glass with the straw. “Gotta protect you from the paparazzi.” She frowns.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She sighs. “I don’t like that you have to pretend not to exist.” She picks up his hat, shakes it. “This.” She motions to the entourage. “Them. How long is the world supposed to pretend you’re not here? You saved B’s life. Everyone knows who you are, but they’re scared shitless to know more than that.”
“B says—”
“I don’t care what he says. How do you feel? Safe in your cage?”
The waiter brings the Cheez Stix. “Do you know who this is?” Brid asks him.
The waiter glances at Imms then looks at the floor. “Yeah. Why, you want free stuff? I’m not supposed to give out free stuff unless it’s someone’s birthday.”
“We don’t want free stuff. I just wanted to introduce you. You’re—” Bridique looks at his nametag. “Jeff. Jeff, this is Imms. Imms, Jeff.”
“Nice to meet you,” Imms says.
“Uh, yeah, you, too,” Jeff says.
“Now shake hands,” Brid says. “Like gentlemen.”
Jeff thrusts out his hand. Imms takes it. Jeff’s skin is warm and damp. They shake.
“Am I gonna get arrested now?” Jeff asks, only half-joking.
“I don’t know, Jeff. A polite introduction is some pretty heavy shit. But I’d say since our secret service hasn’t opened fire yet, you’re probably okay.”
“The news says we’re not supposed to talk to it.”
“‘He,’ not ‘it.’ And no, you shouldn’t go up to Imms on the street and hound him. But a little consensual conversation never hurt anyone.”
Jeff nods. He looks directly at Imms. “Our salad dressings are listed with the drinks. It’s weird how they don’t put them with the salads. Do you know what you want, or do you need a few minutes?”
“A few more minutes, please,” Imms says.
“Sure.” Jeff hurries away.
“Look at that,” Brid says. “You made a new friend.”
“I don’t think he wants to be my friend.”
“I don’t think he’s a very interesting person. You can do better.”
The door to the kitchen swings open and from the kitchen they hear someone say, “It talked to you?”
Imms is uncertain about Cheez Stix. They are greasy, messy—and delicious, he decides after the second one. He won’t dip them in the sauce, though. It looks like blood.
When Bridique is done with her steakhouse salad, Jeff brings them two thin slices of chocolate cake. “On the house,” he says. Then, to Imms, “Thanks for dining with us. Come back soon.” He looks to Bridique as if for approval.
Imms thinks Brid will probably say something to Jeff that will embarrass him. But she just says, “Thank you.”
He leaves them their check.
The manager comes out a minute later and thanks them for dining here. He looks right at Imms.
“I’ll pay for my lemonade and half the Cheez Stix,” Imms says when the manager is gone. Brid sets her credit card on the black plastic tray. “I have some money.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve got it.”
“You should let me pay for what’s mine.”
She shakes her head. “You owe what, like three dollars?”
Imms gives her four as Jeff picks up the plastic tray. “For tax and tip.”
“Listen to you.”
“Why?”
“Arguing money. Eating Cheez Stix. Chatting with the waiter. You fit right in.”
He feels warm pleasure, but it fades quickly. Maybe Bridique is just teaching him tricks. Things he can do to charm an audience, like shake hands with a waiter or offer to split the bill, to pass the time so he doesn’t just lie around and wait to be fed. Maybe this show is silly, undignified. That’s a bad thought, because he likes so much about being on Earth, about learning to be human. He makes choices, he reminds himself. Just as Chess doesn’t always do what Brid says—though she always listens—Imms can act independently, refuse orders.
He takes out two more dollars and slides them to Bridique. “Jeff should get a big tip,” he says. And just like that, he’s done it. He’s decided that one human being’s behavior is especially commendable compared to others’. He has passed judgment.
He loves Cheez Stix but hates the candle. Loves Bridique and hates protestors.
Loves and hates Earth at the same time.
He thinks Chess is more beautiful than the other cats. That Jeff’s hair could use a wash. That the paintings on the wall are ugly but fun to look at.
“The free cake was nice.” Bridique looks at Imms
like it’s him she’s pleased with, not Jeff.
When they get home, Bridique comes in with him. Imms tells B about the restaurant. B pretends to be happy, but he and Brid go into the den to fight. The door is shut, but Imms can still hear them. B calls Brid irresponsible and selfish. She calls him a controlling dick. B brings up the park and NRCSE and regulations. Brid laughs and asks if he hears himself.
“You are holding him prisoner,” she shouts. She opens the door and storms out. Imms thinks he should do something to make it seem like he wasn’t listening, but Brid doesn’t even glance at him as she leaves the house. B comes out a minute later. He does look at Imms, but he doesn’t say anything either. His face is red, and he’s breathing hard. He turns and goes back into the den and shuts the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“—has the right to dictate what we can and can’t do,” a man with short gold hair is saying when Imms turns on the news. “It is an absolute violation of our freedom to say, ‘No one can approach this extraterrestrial. No one can speak to it. No one can take its picture.’ What is this thing, Muhammad?”
The screen splits, and a woman with a heart-shaped face says, “Jim, I think more disturbing is the government’s unwillingness to share what it knows about the Silver’s intentions. How do we know that it hasn’t come to Earth with an agenda? They tell us there’s humanlike beings on the Silver Planet, and one has been brought to Earth, and then—nothing. We know there are armed guards at the house where it lives. There’s obviously some fear it might—might—”
“You’re saying you don’t feel safe with this thing around?”
“Not really, no. How can anyone, unless the government comes clean about what’s going on?”
“So how do you feel about this whole story where it saved the captain’s life?”
“I think there’s a lot of possibilities, and not all of them are savory. What if it’s trying to build our trust, so it can—?”
“And you know,” says the man. “It’s not just a matter of our rights as citizens, but—forgive me for going a little hippie here—this—this creature’s rights. I mean, they say it’s got a basically human brain. How do we know they’re not experimenting on it?”
