Win Some, Lose Some

by Mike Resnick

  “I don’t know what’s up there,” I said, “but how different can it be? What makes our mountains and deserts and rivers so boring for you?”

  He sighed, a delicate high-pitched tinkling sound. “I tried to explain that to you eleven years ago,” he answered at last. “You didn’t understand then. You don’t understand now.” He paused. “Maybe you just can’t.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. I walked to the cabinet with the missing knob, and opened the door with my fingernails the way I always do.

  “You still haven’t replaced the knob,” he observed. “I remember the day I pulled it off. I expected to be punished. You just laughed, like I’d done something cute.”

  “You should have seen the expression on your face when it came away in your hand, like you expected me to send you off to prison.” I felt a smile fighting to reach my mouth, and I pushed it back. “Anyway, it still opens.” I reached in, pulled down a couple of small bottles, and put them in my pocket.

  “Mother’s medication?”

  I nodded, holding them up. “She gets four different kinds in the morning, and two at night. I’ll give them to her a little later.” I pulled out another bottle.

  “I thought you just said she only got two pills at night.”

  “She does,” I said. I held up the third bottle. “These are sugar pills. I leave them on the dresser for her.”

  “Sugar pills?” he repeated with what I assume passed for a puzzled frown.

  “She thinks she can still medicate herself. She can’t, of course, but this gives her the illusion that she can. And if she takes six one day and forgets to take any the next, it doesn’t make any difference.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “I’ve loved her for close to half a century,” I answered. “I could have put her in a home and just visited her every day—or every tenth day. She probably wouldn’t know the difference. But I do this because I love her. Even if she doesn’t know it she has to be more comfortable in her own home, surrounded by the bits and pieces of her life. That’s why I moved her to your room instead of the guest room; the photos, the trophies, even that old catcher’s mitt in the closet, that’s all she has left of you.” I glared at him. “I didn’t walk out of her life for eleven years and come back only when she was past remembering me.”

  He just looked at me but made no reply.

  “Damn it!” I snapped. “Couldn’t you have said it was a secret mission for the military, even if it was a lie?”

  “You’d have found out soon enough that I was lying.”

  “I wouldn’t have tried to! We’d have been proud that you were serving your country, or your planet, or whatever the hell you were serving.”

  “Is that it?” he demanded, suddenly angry. “You could lose a son to another world as long he didn’t enjoy it, as long as someone might be shooting at him?”

  “That’s not what I said,” I replied defensively.

  “That’s precisely what you said.” He stared at me with those insect eyes for a long minute. “You would never have understood. She might have, but you wouldn’t.”

  “Then why did you never tell her?”

  “I tried.”

  “Well, you sure as hell didn’t succeed,” I said bitterly. “And it’s too late to try again.”

  “She’s not the one who hates me,” he said. “I had already moved out and started my own life when this opportunity arose. You make it sound like I was your support network. I was an independent adult, living six states away.” He paused. “I still don’t know which bothers you more: that I left the planet at all, or that I left it looking like this.”

  “One day you were a member of our family. Four months later you weren’t even a member of the human race.”

  “I still am,” he insisted.

  “Look in a mirror.”

  He placed a twelve-inch-long forefinger to his head. “It’s what’s in here that counts.”

  “They say the eyes are the windows to the soul,” I replied. “Yours belong on an insect.”

  “Just what the hell did you want from me?” he demanded. “Did you want me to go into business with you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Would you have disowned me if I’d been sterile and couldn’t give you any grandchildren?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “What if I’d moved halfway around the world? I might not have seen you more than once a decade if I had. Would you have disowned me as you did eleven years ago?”

  “Nobody disowned you,” I pointed out, trying to keep my temper. “You disowned us.”

  He sighed deeply. At least I think he did. With those chimes I couldn’t be sure.

  “Did you ever think to ask me why?” he said at last.

  “No.”

  “If it bothered you that much, why didn’t you?”

  “Because it was your choice.”

  I think he frowned. I couldn’t tell for sure, not with that face. “I don’t understand.”

  “If it was a necessity, something you had to do to save your life or something like that, I’d have asked. But since it was a freely-made choice, no, I didn’t care why you did it, only that you did it.”

  He looked long and hard at me. “All those years that I lived here, and even after I left, I thought you loved me for me.”

  “I loved Philip,” I said, and then grimaced. “I don’t know you.”

  Suddenly I heard Julia knocking weakly at her door, and walked down the shopworn hallway to unlock it. I hadn’t noticed how threadbare the carpet had become, or the crack in the plaster, but I saw him looking at it so I looked too, and made up my mind to do something about it one of these days.

  I uttered the code word, softly enough that she couldn’t hear it on her side of the door, and a moment later it swung open. She was standing there barefoot in her nightgown, thin and frail, her arms and legs like toothpicks with withered flesh on them, looking mildly puzzled.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I thought I heard you arguing with someone.” Her gaze fell on Philip. “Hello,” she said. “Have we met before?”

  He took her hand very gently and gave her what seemed like a wistful smile, though I couldn’t be sure. “A long time ago.”

  “My name is Julia.” She extended a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand.

  “And mine is Philip.”

  A frown crossed her once-beautiful face. “I think I knew someone called Philip once.” She paused, then smiled. “That’s a very pretty costume you’re wearing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I love your voice,” she continued. “It sounds like the wind chimes on our porch when a summer breeze blows through them.”

  “I’m glad it pleases you,” said the creature that used to be our son.

  “Can you sing?”

  He shrugged, and his whole body seemed to sparkle as the light reflected off it. “I really don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never tried.”

  “You look hungry,” she said. “Can I make you something to eat?”

  I prodded him and when he looked at me, I very briefly shook my head No. She’d already set the kitchen on fire twice before I started ordering all our meals delivered.

  He picked up on it instantly. “No, thank you. I ate just before I arrived.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said. “I’m a good cook.”

  “I’ll bet you make a wonderful Denver pudding.” That had always been his favorite dessert.

  “The best,” she answered, glowing with pride. “I like you, young man.” Then a puzzled frown. “You are a man, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is it Halloween?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why are you wearing that costume, then?”

  “Would you really like to know about it?”

  “Very much,” she said. Suddenly she shivered. “But it’s chilly standing here barefoot in the doorway. Would you mi
nd very much if I got under the covers while we chatted? You can sit right next to the bed, and we can be nice and cozy. Jordan, could you make me some hot chocolate? And maybe some for…I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Philip,” he said.

  “Philip,” she repeated, frowning. “Philip. I’m sure I knew a Philip once, a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure you did too,” he said softly.

  “Well, come along.” Julia turned, walked back into her room, and climbed into the bed that had once belonged to Philip, propping herself up with some pillows and pulling the blanket and comforter up to her armpits. He followed her and stood next to the bed. “There’s no need to stand, young man,” she told him. “Pull up a chair.”

  “Thank you,” he said, getting the chair he’d used while writing his masters’ thesis on his computer and carrying it over so that he was sitting right next to her.

  “Jordan, I think we’d like some hot chocolate.”

  “I don’t know if he drinks it,” I replied.

  “I’d very much like some,” he said.

  “Good!” said Julia. “You can bring two cups on a tray, one for me and one for…Excuse me, but I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Philip.”

  “And you must call me Julia.”

  “Why don’t I just call you Mother?” he suggested.

  She frowned in puzzlement. “Why would you do that?”

  He reached out and very gently held her hand. “No reason, Julia.”

  “Jordan,” she said, “I think I’d like some hot chocolate.” She turned to Philip. “Would you like some too, young man? You are a man, aren’t you?”

  “I am, and I would.”

  I left to get the hot chocolate before she asked again. I went out to the kitchen, mixed up a fair-sized pan—I don’t know why; there were only two of them, and I don’t drink the stuff myself—and was about to pour a pair of cups. Then I remembered the shape of his hands and fingers, and decided he was less likely to spill a mug, so I got the old chipped Pythons mug he’d given me for my birthday when he was nine or ten years old. I think he’d saved up a month’s allowance to buy it. I looked at it fondly for a moment, and wondered if he’d recognize it. Then I remembered who—or rather what—I was pouring it for, and got on with it. The whole process took maybe three or four minutes, start to finish. I put the cup and the mug on a tray, added a spoon for Julia since she liked to stir everything whether it needed it or not, and folded a pair of napkins. Then I picked up the tray and carried it back to the bedroom.

  “Just put it on the table, please, Jordan,” she said, and I placed it on her nightstand.

  She turned back eagerly to Philip. “What were they like?”

  To this day I don’t know how a face like his could look wistful, but it did. “They are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice chiming delicately. “I want to say they’re transparent, but that’s not exactly right. Their bodies are actually prisms, separating the rays of the sun and casting a hundred colors on the ground beneath them as they fly.”

  “They sound wonderful!” said Julia, her face more alive than I’d seen it in months.

  “They swarm by the tens of thousands. It’s as if a miles-long kaleidoscope has taken wing, and the ever-changing colors cover an area the size of a small city.”

  “How fascinating!” she said enthusiastically. “What do they eat?”

  A shrug. “No one knows.”

  “No one?”

  “There are only about forty men and women on the planet, and none of us has yet climbed the crystal mountains where they nest.”

  “Crystal mountains!” she repeated. “What a pretty picture!”

  “It’s not a world like any you have ever imagined, Julia,” he said. “There are plants and animals no one’s ever even dreamed of.”

  “Plants?” she asked. “How different can a plant be?”

  “I saw some potted plants in your living room, right by that old piano that’s probably still out of tune,” he said. “Do you ever talk to them?”

  “Of course,” said Julia. She flashed him a smile. “But they never answer.”

  He returned her smile. “Mine do.”

  She clutched his hand with both of hers, as if she was afraid he might leave before telling her about his plants.

  “What do they say?” she asked. “I’ll bet they talk about the weather.”

  He shook his head. “Mostly they talk about mathematics, and once in a while about philosophy.”

  “I knew about those things once,” she said, and then added hazily: “I think.”

  “They have no sense of self-preservation, so they’re not concerned with rain or fertilizer,” continued Philip. “They don’t care if they’re eaten or not. They use their intelligence to solve abstract problems, because to them all problems are abstract.”

  I couldn’t help but speak up. “They really exist?”

  “They really exist.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Not like any plant on Earth. Most of them have translucent flowers, and almost all of them have rigid protrusions, like, I don’t know, tiny branches that rub together. That’s how they communicate.”

  “So you speak in chimes and they speak in little clicks?” asked Julia. “How do you understand each other?”

  “The first few men to study them spent half a century learning the meanings behind their clicking and rubbing. Now we both speak to my computer, and it translates each of our languages into the other’s.”

  “What do you say to a plant?” I asked.

  “Not much,” he admitted. “They’re very different. But after you speak to them for any length of time, you know why Men fight so hard to stay alive. Nothing matters to them. They accomplish nothing and they care about nothing, not even their mathematics. They have no hopes, no dreams, and no goals.” He paused. “But they are unique.”

  “I’d—” I began, and then stopped. I’d been about to say I’d like to see one of those plants, but I didn’t want him to think he’d said anything of interest to me.

  Just then Julia reached for her cup, but either her vision wasn’t working right or her hand was shaking—they both fail a lot these days, her eyes and her hands—and it began tottering, about to spill over. Philip moved his fingers so fast my eyes couldn’t follow it, and he righted the cup before three drops had fallen to the tray.

  “Thank you, young man,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” He glanced at me, and his expression said: Whatever you think of what I’ve become, that’s something I couldn’t have done twelve years ago.

  There was a momentary silence. Then Julia spoke up again. “Is it Halloween?”

  “Not for a while yet.”

  “Oh, that’s right! You wore your costume on some other world. Tell me more about the animals.”

  “Some of them are beautiful, some of them are huge and awesome, some are petite and delicate, and all of them are different from anything you’ve ever seen or even imagined.”

  “Do they have…?” she frowned. “I can’t remember the word.”

  “Take your time,” he said, holding her hand in one of his and patting it gently with the other to comfort her. “I’ve got all night.”

  “I can’t remember,” she said, close to tears. Her whole body tensed as she reached for a word that might forever elude her. “Big,” she said at last. “It was big.”

  “A big word?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Big!”

  He looked puzzled. “Do you mean dinosaurs?”

  “Yes!” she shouted, an expression of relief on her face as the missing word finally appeared.

  “We don’t have dinosaurs,” he said. “They’re unique to Earth. But we have animals that are bigger than the biggest dinosaur that ever lived. One of them is so big, so huge, that he has no natural predators—and because nothing can hurt him, and he has no reason to hide, he glows in
the dark.”

  “All night long?” she asked with a giggle. “Can’t he turn off the glow so he can sleep?”

  “He doesn’t have to,” said Philip as if speaking to a child, which in a way she was. “Since he’s glowed all his life it doesn’t bother him or keep him awake.”

  “What color is he?” asked Julia.

  “When he’s hungry, he glows a deep red. When he’s angry, he’s blue.” Finally he smiled. “And when he wants to attract a ladyfriend, he becomes the brightest yellow you ever saw, and pulsates like crazy, almost like a 50-foot-high flashbulb going off every other second.”

  “Oh, I wish I could see him!” said Julia. “It must be a wonderful place, this world you live on!”

  “I think so.” He looked over at me. “Not everybody does.”

  “I would give everything I have to go there.”

  “It doesn’t take quite everything,” said Philip, and I tried to imagine the tone of voice he’d have used if he had still been human. “Just most things.”

  She stared at him curiously. “Were you born there?”

  “No, Julia, I wasn’t,” he said and somehow his face seemed to reflect an infinite sadness as he used her proper name. “I was born right here, in this house.”

  “It must have been before we moved here,” she said, dismissing the notion with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. “But if you were born here, why are you wearing a Halloween costume?”

  “This is what people look like where I live.”

  “It must be one of the suburbs,” she said with conviction. “I don’t remember seeing anyone like you at the supermarket or the doctor’s.”

  “It’s a very distant suburb,” he said.

  “I thought so,” said Julia. “And your name is…?”

  “Philip,” he said, and for the second time that night I saw a shining tear roll down his cheek.

  “Philip,” she repeated. “Philip. That’s a very nice name.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I’m sure I knew a Philip once.” Suddenly she yawned. “I’m getting a little tired.”

  “Would you like me to leave?” he asked solicitously.

  “Could I ask you a favor?”

  “Anything.”