by Jill Smith
If Imms has any hope of living a normal life on this planet, he’s got to dedicate himself completely to being human. Maybe it bothers B on a personal level, too, that he can’t understand Imms when he speaks his old language. That it is a way of shutting B out, excluding him.
Imms looks at B uncertainly, as though he wants to protest. Imms is doing more of that lately, arguing with B over little things: the television volume, how long to cook pasta—Imms likes it almost a mush—what color lawnmower to buy. B documents these incidents in the weekly reports he turns in to NRCSE. But now he doesn’t argue, just stops talking to the dog. He scratches her ears and sits with her for a silent half hour, until B kisses him and suggests they go to the park, Lady, too. Imms says he’s tired.
They buy plants—an indoor herb garden, a Bonsai tree, three succulents in fancy pots. They make plans to do an outdoor garden in the spring, vegetables in the backyard, and some flowers in the front. B knows Imms will like that. Imms gets into music—heavy metal, classical, R&B. His tastes are eclectic, and he and B sometimes pass entire evenings cooking and singing at the tops of their lungs or curled up on the couch, Imms reading and B dozing or working on his laptop. B doesn’t ask Imms many questions about the Silver Planet, afraid of making Imms homesick. He likes that they are here now. He likes that the past fades.
Sometimes he puts an arm too tightly around Imms, and Imms expels a short breath, almost a whimper. But he’ll grab B’s imprisoning arm and squeeze right back. B wonders if there’s any miracle as fucked up and fantastic as loving someone who doesn’t have an ounce of bad in him. Someone whose adoration isn’t soured by anger or jealousy. B’s never had love like that before. Such a big part of being with Matty was feeling the barbs of Matty’s disgust with him. Their mutual disappointment in each other, and how it hurt at first but then became as natural and unremarkable as the slightly egg-ish smell of their home.
Dr. Hwong calls one morning while Imms is in the shower.
“Have you thought any more about my offer?” the doctor asks.
“You’re not cutting him open.”
“Have you asked Imms?”
“I don’t need to. It’s not necessary, and it’s not safe.” B grips his phone hard.
“Tracking his heart will help provide a better understanding of it, which may aid in future medical treatment, should it ever be necessary.”
“I’ll talk to him. He needs to know he has a choice.”
“Do hurry,” Dr. Hwong says. “Or I’m afraid I’ll have to ask NRCSE’s permission, not yours.”
“It’s his choice,” B repeats. “Not mine, not NRCSE’s.”
B hangs up, heat moist on his face, like he’s leaned over a pot of boiling water. He watches Imms emerge from the bathroom, towel draped over his shoulders instead of wrapped around his waist, his silver skin glistening. B studies Imms’s smooth groin. His cock tucked up inside him. Hairless. Sexless. Yet still so beautiful that B’s nerves bristle. B’s gaze travels down Imms’s legs, to those strange ankles. Then up to the wet, dark hair that Imms is toweling. B meets the cracked-glass eyes. They used to repulse him. Now they are like looking at a wonderful accident.
“What?” Imms asks.
“Nothing. You look good, that’s all.”
Imms grins. “What’s my best feature?”
B shakes his head slowly. He’s not in a mood to play or to explain. “I don’t know. You just…look good.”
Imms sits on the bed beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“Dr. Hwong wants to do an operation.”
“What kind?”
B explains about the tracking device.
“Okay,” Imms says immediately.
B shakes his head. “We’re not going to do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s your heart. Nobody has the right to mess with your insides. Not unless you say so.”
Imms tilts his head. “But I said it’s okay.”
“I don’t think you should let him.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“It could be. For humans who undergo surgery, the risk is small, but it’s there. For you, who knows?”
Imms puts a hand over B’s. “If I didn’t want to do it, I’d say no. I’d like to see where my heart goes.”
“That’s a stupid reason to let him have his way.” B’s not sure where the anger is coming from. It’s probably directed more at Dr. Hwong than Imms, but he’s in no mood to be precise. “You said you don’t like him.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you on his side?”
“I’m not. I just—”
“That’s what my team did. Cut you guys open, tried to track your hearts. And you know what happened to those Silvers, don’t you?” B is pleased to see Imms flinch. “I try to do a decent thing for you—”
“I appreciate that,” Imms says.
“You appreciate that. Good. I’m glad you appreciate that.” B leaves the room, a gust sweeping his mind, flattening his thoughts. When they spring back up, B knows this is not about doing the right thing, protecting Imms. It is about how fiercely he wants Imms’s heart for himself. It is what makes him a hero, not the captain of a fumbled mission. The man who brought the first Silver to Earth. Who bonded with a wild creature.
Who kept that creature.
In the kitchen, he punches the coffee maker on. He ignores Lady, who wanders near his feet. No, he thinks. That’s who I’m afraid of becoming. A captor. A possessor. If he’s mine, it’s because he wants to be.
And I want him, too.
The nuances of a language may be lost in translation, he thinks. Doesn’t it stand to reason that the nuances of love are lost when it is forced through two atmospheres? When it hangs in space for days, weeks on end? When it arrives at last on a planet that jangles and screams and is crushed in color?
Imms comes in and slinks around him, grabs an apple. Imms is missing the pieces necessary to make this a true tragedy. They cannot battle one another. B rages and Imms dodges. In the end, they will have an epic avoidance, a wailing Greek chorus of across-the-room silence. The two of them will die, not with knives in their breasts, but shivering, each trapped beneath the ice of the other. For just a moment, B sees this. It stops him from going to Imms, from putting his arms around him, from saying he’s sorry. It drives him through the door, to work, and at lunchtime, spurs him to take out his phone and call Dr. Hwong.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Don Welbert’s son, Dave, arrives home at the end of November. Bridique is right. He is half-wild, and Don is right. He and Imms get along well.
“You on Earth for good, man, or just a little while?” Dave asks.
“For good, I guess.”
“So what have you done so far?”
Imms tells him about the big cats, books, learning to cook a little, gardening, and clearing the gutters.
“Dude, okay,” says Dave. “That’s cool. Here’s what’s cooler. Beer. Video games. The cliffs. Say it with me.”
Imms says it with him.
Beer is horrible. Video games are fun, especially the ones that involve singing and playing fake instruments. Imms hates the ones about wars. Two of Dave’s friends come over, and they all hang out in the Welberts’ basement.
The cliffs are the best. Dave, his friends, and Imms leave the city and drive to the state forest, where they hike a long, inclined trail until they reach a section of the mountain face with several uneven ledges leading up to a plateau. They race to see who can climb to the top the fastest. Dave wins. Then the boys show Imms the correct sequence for jumping down the ledges. One particularly steep jump makes Imms’s heart hold still. They dare each other to try different things on the way down—spinning as they jump, slapping each ledge with their hands as they land. They do the cliffs until they are exhausted.
B seems happy about Imms’s new friendship, though he reminds Imms he doesn’t want to get stuck walking Lady while Imms is off playing video games. Imms h
as tried to stay on B’s good side since the argument about the tracking device. Especially after how nice B was when Imms got scared in the MRI tube last week. It reminded Imms of being tied to the table on the Byzantine, and for a moment he thought he’d lose control, tear the tube apart to get out. But B’s voice through the intercom was gentle, and soon Imms was so relaxed he could have fallen asleep. Imms thinks B likes him best—maybe only likes him—when he is helpless.
Imms also thinks he sometimes likes to make B just a little angry because he enjoys the contrast when B is kind later.
Imms hasn’t told B that the real reason he said yes to the MRI and CT scans wasn’t that he likes the idea of pictures of his brain and heart, or that he wants to defy B. He simply knows they shouldn’t make Dr. Hwong mad. The doctor is not a good man. He told Imms during an early visit, when B had to leave the room to take a call, that if Imms didn’t cooperate during these exams, he wouldn’t be allowed to stay with B. He’d have to come live at NRCSE. Imms isn’t sure if Dr. Hwong really has the power to make that happen, but he won’t take the chance. He would rather they stay on decent terms with the doctor.
“That’s cool, man. Just bring your dog here,” Dave says, when Imms explains about Lady. So Lady becomes the official basement mascot, finishing off their pizza crusts and whining along to classic rock songs. Imms works on liking beer and saying things like “man,” and “cool.” One night, after a few beers, the boys ask Imms questions about his planet. Questions like Bridique asks, about alien sex. They laugh, and Imms laughs, too. Imms says the Silver Planet should be more like Earth. He says this is what life is all about, right here, and he gestures to the basement, spilling his half-finished beer. Lady comes over and licks the fizzing carpet. The boys clink their bottles in agreement, and Imms slumps against the couch, a cheering crowd paused on the TV screen, and closes his eyes.
*
He wakes in the guest room at Mary and Bridique’s, a large silver bowl by the bed. Bridique sits in a chair in the corner, reading. She looks up when Imms shifts.
“He’s awake,” she calls.
The sound of her voice is like Joele’s belt falling against Imms’s brain.
Bridique says to him, “You were drunk off your ass.”
“Nonsense.” Mary comes in, carrying a stack of towels, which she sets on the dresser. She moves to the bed. “David said he had less than half a beer. Honestly, those boys. Do they even think? Obviously he won’t have had anything like that in his system before.”
“Alcohol’s a natural element, Mom. They probably have it on his planet.”
Mary brushes back Imms’s hair. “How are you feeling?”
Imms opens his mouth and suddenly his stomach wants to erupt.
“Bowl,” Brid says, and Mary steps back as Imms leans over the edge of the bed and vomits. “I can’t believe you have anything left to puke up. You hurled twice last night.”
Imms waits miserably for the last strings of liquid to fall from his mouth.
Mary whisks the bowl away, and Imms is ashamed that she is cleaning up after him. Bridique says nothing, but Imms feels her looking at him. He tries to concentrate on the ceiling. Mary comes back with a new bowl.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
She hands him a glass of water. He drinks, even though it doesn’t seem like a good idea to put anything else in his stomach. She passes a hand over his forehead.
“Jeez, Mom, relax,” Brid says. “It’s his first hangover. It’s a rite of passage.”
“He’s running a fever. You rest now,” she says to Imms. “You sleep all you want. No one’ll bother you.”
“B?” he asks.
“At work. I called him last night to let him know you’re here.”
“Where’s Lady?”
“I’ll bring her up. She’s been lying on the kitchen floor, won’t move. She’s worried about you.”
Mary brings Lady to Imms, and the dog wriggles with delight as Mary sets her on the bed. She cleans around Imms’s mouth with her tongue then curls up next to him.
“If that isn’t the cutest thing I’ve seen in a while,” Mary says.
“Put it on your Christmas cards,” Bridique mutters. Mary leaves the room and Brid says, “If you wanted to get drunk, you should’ve come to me. There’s an art to it. I would’ve done it better than those losers.”
Imms can’t make himself answer. He’s glad when Bridique leaves. She is especially sharp today, and the way his head throbs and his stomach churns, he can’t take sharp.
He wakes in the late afternoon, the sun watery and gray behind the trees. He hears voices down the hall—Mary’s, and a man’s. It takes Imms a second to realize the man is Don Welbert.
“—not something I want to discuss right now,” Mary says.
“When will you want to discuss it?”
“You need to stop coming around when you’re not invited.”
“So it’s fine when you need my help—”
“We don’t need your help. You offer it, and we appreciate it, but if this is going to turn into—”
“Hey, no, no you got it. I’m out. I’m goin’.”
There is a pause. “You said you were leaving.”
“You want my help. You want my help now, I know. You want me to bring her home. Tell me where you think she is. I’ll go get her.”
“You’re drunk, Don. And when you’re drunk, I don’t want your help. I don’t want your company.”
“You think she’s snorting up in a bathroom somewhere? You think she’s back on that road?”
“Please go.”
“I could stand here all night. What would you do about it?”
“I’ll call the police.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“No,” Don agrees. “It’s not funny. We’re neighbors. Neighbors don’t kick neighbors out.”
With effort, Imms gets out of bed. The room tilts and spins. When it stops, he walks down the hall to the kitchen.
Don laughs. “Lookie here. My son got the alien wasted. How was it?”
Imms doesn’t need to start the flame in his mind, because it’s already burning. Don’s laughter pops in his ears.
“How are you feeling?” Mary asks Imms.
Imms keeps his eyes on Don. His scars pour heat like blood. “Go,” he says to Don.
Don laughs again. “Golly, but don’t you look wrecked.”
“Imms,” Mary says. “You shouldn’t be up.” She moves to help him.
Imms lurches forward, away from her hands. He’s propelled, not by anger, but by purpose. He wants to physically alter this situation, wants to change where Don Welbert is. He goes to Don, who looks mildly surprised. “She wants you to leave,” Imms says.
Don holds up his hands, as though in surrender. Imms catches his wrist.
“Go,” Imms repeats. He squeezes Don’s wrist. Nerves tremble there, little vessels skitter beneath the skin. It is a powerful feeling, to have hold of someone.
Don yanks his wrist from Imms’s grasp, so hard that Imms staggers backward. Don crumples his beer can, tosses it into the sink. “Good for you, Mary. Got yourself a new man of the house. Or a—something of the house.” To Imms he says, “You ask her sometime ’bout the shoes you gotta fill to be the man of this house.” He turns and lumbers toward the door.
Imms shuts his eyes against a spike of pain. He can still feel Don Welbert's wrist in his grip. The bones delicate even in a big man. The scars on his chest have cooled. He doesn’t know why he’s standing here except that Mary has been so kind to him, and she wanted Don out of her kitchen.
Mary helps him back to bed. “I’ll put it down to the fever,” she says brusquely. “I’ve never known you to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Imms.”
The heat of shame mixes with the sweat of fever. She sounds unhappy with him.
“Who did he want to find?” Imms asks.
“Sleep,” Mary says once the cove
rs are pulled up to his chin. He does.
B comes in the evening. Imms is glad to see him. B kisses his forehead, says, “You stink,” and helps him sit up. Imms is dizzy, and the dizziness doesn’t go away. He’s scared he’ll vomit again and lies back down.
“Let him stay here,” Mary says. “He’s in no shape to move.”
“What sucks most?” B asks.
“My stomach,” Imms says. “I keep puking.”
“He’s burning up,” Mary says.
Imms hates when she says that. He is not burning.
“You want to stay here?” B asks.
Imms nods.
“If you stay, you have to try to eat,” Mary says. “I have plenty of apples.”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow morning before work,” B promises.
Mary leaves the room with him, and Imms hears their voices getting farther away.
The next day is worse. Imms can barely open his eyes when B comes. He sleeps, aches, does whatever he’s told. Sit up, drink this, sleep now. He’s dragged to the toilet, then back to bed. When he wakes, he feels Lady beside him and strokes her. “Don’t let me fall back asleep,” he mumbles to her as he drifts off again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gray light slips into the room, and he is alert, on edge. He wants to get up, wants to talk to Mary and Bridique. He wants to smell better and eat apples, and maybe even run. Something is wrong, though. Lady isn’t on the bed with him. His heart speeds up. B might have taken her home. Mary or Bridique might have gotten up early and taken her for a walk. Still, he’s restless and doesn’t like not knowing, so he rises and takes a few steps. He is weak, but his skin doesn’t burn, and his head doesn’t throb. He goes down the hall to the kitchen. No one there, but he finds a tea bag on the counter sitting in a small greenish pool, and a packet of sugar ripped open and empty. He checks the living room and finally looks outside. Then he hears a murmur below the floor. Someone is in the basement.
He has never been to this basement before. Somewhere he’s been thinking it might be too much like the lab on the Byzantine. He doesn’t know why the Welbert’s basement doesn’t bother him. Maybe because it has a TV and carpet. This basement has always seemed colder, darker. It is dark, but it is also tidy, with curtains on the windows. A couch and an armchair.
