by Robert Reed
Pete approached, not smiling, something about his face cool and impassive. “Feeling moody, are you?”
What could he say to that?
“Your mom always was. Moody. More and more, you’re like her.”
The words had a sense of foreboding, of doom, rattling off the glass and through him.
“You’ve got her fire, all right. A real temper.” The big man shook his head, amusement mixed with caution. “Oh, she could explode. Get on her wrong side, and heaven help you.”
Cornell looked at his feet, at his own dusty reflection.
“Much as you look like her, I guess you should get her temper, too.”
Mom had a temper? It seemed unlikely, nothing in Cornell’s memories hinting at such a thing. But if he couldn’t recall something so important—something so obvious—then what else was lost to him? It made him suddenly uneasy.
“Can someone help me?” Dad interrupted, standing at the far end of the circle. “I can’t get the magnetometer to calibrate.”
Pete went to help, thank God.
Cornell finished his work and walked back to the car, the German shepherd trotting beside him. The boy was in the front yard, tossing a worn leather football into the sky. A boombox on the porch was blaring, some local college game going well; but what was different? Cornell paused and stared. The boy looked older, and not just because he was taller. Something had changed in his eyes and his stance, in the way he glanced at Cornell, and in the tone of his voice. “Catch them aliens yet?”
It was a harsh, belittling tone.
Cornell felt anger surging, then he swallowed it. It was like stuffing a wild animal into a tiny cage. That’s how it felt.
“Touchdown, touchdown,” screamed the radio announcer.
The boy asked, “Think we’ll win everything this year?”
In football, he meant. Cornell said, “I don’t know.” Football was a silly, violent game. Dad said so, and he’d always believed him.
“Figure out the circles yet?”
“No.” Cornell shook his head. “Not yet, no.”
“Thought not.” Another toss. A solid catch. “My dad says you’re just a bunch of nickel and dimers—”
And again his temper engaged, sudden and involving a lot more than this boy. Weeks of frustration made him detonate. No warning. He was aware of motion, screams and kicks. Then Pete was pulling him off the boy, the mother saying, “He’s cut, bleeding…look what your son did…”
“Easy,” said Pete, holding him with both hands. “Easy, easy.”
And Dad, flustered and pale, kept saying, “I’m sorry,” to the mother, “Are you all right?” to the boy, and “What’s happened to you?” to Cornell. All the way home, mile after mile, he kept asking, “What’s going on with you, son? What is the matter?”
He didn’t know, couldn’t say. Couldn’t find words worth speaking, and so he sat in the backseat, perfectly silent, watching the countryside flow past.
The first cool nights cut down on the cul-de-sac’s parties. Neighbors from down the street kept to themselves, content with their own vantage points. Then the Tuckers quit coming outdoors, blaming fatigue and their dinner schedule. People stopped expecting aliens. Even the rumors of contact fell off to a trickle. There was a new governmental agency—large and well-funded, devoted to understanding this new world—but its offices weren’t half-completed, and it would take years for the lunar observatories and other facilities to come online.
Life was dropping back into old patterns.
Some nights, even in November and early December, Dad would dress in warm clothes, set up the telescope, and watch New Zealand or the wilds of Mongolia. For Cornell, peering through the curtains, the old man was an embarrassment standing in plain view. What was he doing? There was nothing to see but the earth itself, and what a stupid, shivering waste of time!
“Maybe he thinks the sky’ll change again,” said Todd, teasing his friend. “Pretty weird, huh?”
A twinge of anger, then Cornell agreed. “Really weird.”
“My folks say he needs lithium.”
Lithium? Cornell would have to read about it, learn what it did. Maybe he could slip some into Dad’s morning cereal.
Then later, in mid-December, the nightly rituals changed again. A new cable network began showing nothing but magnified views of the earth’s far reaches, using big telescopes left useless by the Change; and Dad would sit in his lumpy chair, wearing ugly sweaters and the same old sweatpants, drinking cocoa while the views switched again and again. The scenes weren’t as crisp as real life, since only a fraction of the light was reflected. But the network was popular, letting people see things that in the past could be seen only by astronauts. Rainforests, cut and standing. Sprawling cities and orderly croplands. Endless reaches of blue ocean. Mountains and rivers and glaciers and deserts. And sometimes, now and again, neighborhoods like this one—tiny homes on tiny lots set along curling little roads.
Ten o’clock meant the news. Dad would make Cornell watch. Why, he couldn’t tell. But he’d come out of his room, sit on the floor, pretending to pay attention. News was boring. Dad was boring, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. Wasn’t it sad? All the excitement that people had felt was now past. Lost. The wonder had been washed out of their faces, Dad claimed, and he wished he could bring it back again. One night, a couple days before Christmas, the lead story was about a double murder; and while Cornell watched images of bloody pavement and body bags, his father spoke about Antarctica. “It’s visible in the morning, before the sun gets too high.” Oblivious to the carnage, the old man said, “All that pure white ice…it’s beautiful…”
What did he want?
“Come look at it with me. Will you?”
“No,” said Cornell. Then, “No, thank you.”
Dad nodded, not looking sad or happy. Or surprised. Maybe he hadn’t heard his son, swallowing before remarking, “Maybe they just wanted us to be more aware of one another. Do you suppose? The Great Change…it’s their way of building us a mirror for ourselves…what do you think…?”
Cornell wanted to be alone. Nothing but alone, now and forever.
Please.
6
The rumor began nowhere and everywhere, possessing its own vigorous life, and everyone wanted to believe it. It was almost a year since the Change, and supposedly a shuttle full of diplomats had gone up to space station Freedom. They were meeting a delegation of aliens, and there would be an announcement coming. Soon. People spoke of a zero-gee dinner and a great silver spaceship docked with Freedom; and after dinner, the diplomats—human and not—had gone on board the mother ship for dessert and final negotiations. A new union of worlds would come on the first anniversary. The rumor was specific in its details, including promises of new technologies and other aid. Tabloids wrote of little else, and even CNN dropped spicy tidbits—confidential shuttle flights, and so on. Of course the president made public denials. No government had heard so much as a peep from extraterrestrials. The silver object near Freedom was part of ongoing research—an elongated balloon housing delicate instruments—and the leaked photographs had been misinterpreted. Like everyone, the president hungered to meet with whoever was responsible for the new sky. But patience was the watchword, and she begged for the public’s indulgence and continued support.
Regardless of her noise, the anniversary had a celebratory air. That August day saw people taking vacation time and sick leave. Groups clustered near TVs, counting down to the fateful moment—10:11 P.M. CDT—when something was bound to happen.
“Where are you going?” asked Dad, dinner finished and the dishes waiting to be stacked in the washer. “Cornell—?”
“Bike riding,” he replied, not quite snapping.
The old man seemed unsure how to respond. The business of chores was something new, something imposed when Cornell complained about the general mess. But tonight his father decided to say nothing, ignoring the revolt. Which made Cornell a little angry. At least
the old man could growl, making him feel as if he was worming out of something important.
“Ride safe—”
“Bye.” Cornell trotted outside. Todd and Lane were waiting on the island, as promised. “Where to?” asked Cornell.
“The lots,” said Todd.
They rolled out of the cul-de-sac, down the hill and right on the through street, over the ridge and onto the unbuilt area. Weeds stood tall and brown behind the curbs. Millions of bugs buzzed in unison. Rain had washed fill earth over the pavement, leaving sloppy deltas where little weeds struggled to make do. Cornell looked at their houses from behind. He paused, foot on a curb, wondering what Dad was doing. He’d been acting odd lately, even odder than normal: moody and distant, often muttering to himself in a voice too soft to understand. In secret ways, Cornell worried about him. He thought it was the aliens and the time of year. Maybe the old man was scared that the aliens wouldn’t come. Which had to seem pretty shitty, what with them showing everyone the new sky and all…
“Race me?” said Todd.
“Sure.”
They decided on a course. Men with surveying equipment had come through last week, leaving the landscape dotted with little flags, aggressively red and snapping in the hot wind. From the hill’s crest they could see where the curling street ended in a cul-de-sac; their finish line was the cul-de-sac’s mouth, it was decided. Lane started them, raising an arm—“GO!”—and the race beginning with a sloppy spray of gravel.
There was a pleasant sense of danger. Cornell knew the street, but not perfectly. Had the last rains spread more gravel? More earth? Tires skidded; Todd pulled ahead. Cornell had left his helmet at home, but he decided to press the pace anyway, pumping his legs and cutting Todd off at the next curve.
He was almost at the finish line when he lost control.
Cutting across a new delta, he went airborne, and when he hit the ground he was pitched forward, his front tire kissing the curb and the weeds reaching for him as he tumbled into a limp, breathless heap. For a long while he lay stunned, his body taking an accounting of itself. Then someone asked, “Are you hurt?” and it wasn’t Todd. A face appeared above him. An adult; a stranger. A woman, Cornell realized, her hair cut short and the mouth and eyes all smiling. “You should be careful,” she coached, “and wear a helmet, too.”
“I know.”
Todd and Lane stood nearby, watching the woman touch him.
“Anything broken? No?”
He felt embarrassed, more than anything.
“Can you stand?”
The woman wasn’t of any particular age, pretty but for no particular reason, and she seemed amused by everything, starting to laugh to herself. She wore jeans and a light shirt, no bra visible, and when Cornell stared at her, he felt a sudden infatuation, powerful and startling.
“What are you doing here?” snapped Todd.
The woman extended a finger, touching Cornell on the nose, on its tip, and said, “I’m walking through, just wandering.” Sure enough, behind her was a backpack propped against sunflowers. “Is this your property? Am I trespassing?”
She was asking Cornell.
He tried to speak, no breath in him.
She turned and pointed. “What do the little flags mean?”
Todd said, “They’re going to build houses soon.”
But she must have known that, Cornell realized. She was playing a game, letting them sound smart. Another poke at his nose, then a bright laugh. “Know any places to camp?” Then she lifted her pack and adjusted the straps, her shirt pressed against her chest. The boys could see nothing else. “Ride carefully,” she advised Cornell; he watched her leave them, watched her walk and thinking that she was a magical person. Enchanted. Perfect.
She vanished among the sunflowers. Cornell picked up his bike and checked it over, making sure the brakes worked and the wheels turned.
“Let’s follow her,” said Todd.
Lane squirmed and said, “Why?”
“Why not?”
But she’s gone, Cornell thought. She was magical and could vanish at will. Which was why he said, “All right.” They couldn’t bother what wasn’t there anymore.
Yet the woman hadn’t vanished. She had cut over to the next empty street, walking alone, face down and her rump moving. Cornell felt a little weak and strange. He couldn’t stop staring. And as he rolled past her, glancing sideways, he saw the silhouettes of her breasts and a knowing smile and wink, and he fell again. His bike slammed straight into a curb, and he was down, bleeding and in love, feeling nothing but a floating sensation and her kneeling over him again, asking him:
“Should you be riding these things? Because you don’t seem very good at it.”
The woman walked away for the last time, and the boys wandered home when it was dusk, Cornell washing his bloody elbow in the Underhills’ bathroom sink. Then it was night, and everyone was outside, gathered around the island. Mr. Lynn was with his wife, and she was enormous, due any day, carrying twins. The Tuckers sat side by side, Mr. Tucker suffering from some vague ailment that left his head shaking and his senses dulled. Mrs. Pete played with Todd’s little sister, tickling her and both of them giggling. Dad’s expression was tight and hard to read. It was Pete who was reminiscing about last year, about how they’d spent the day investigating one of the mysterious glass disks. He wasn’t a natural storyteller, and the narrative jerked along, sometimes halting altogether. Cornell became frustrated. More and more he wondered how the world could hold together every day, when the adults were so obviously bad at doing almost everything.
Most of them, at least.
Big TVs had been brought into the front yards. CNN was keeping vigil. Smiling, nervous announcers counted down the seconds as if it was New Year’s Eve, and billions of eyes turned skyward.
And nothing happened.
Groans. Uneasy laughter. A few soft murmurs of, “Oh, well.”
The adults drank and returned to their party. The boys played basketball on the Underhills’ driveway. CNN ran features about the world one year after the Change. The economic upswing; the renewed eco-movement; and the surge of interest in science. The new Cosmic Event Agency was funding every kind of project. Hyperplanes were studying the zone of transition. A lunar city was being built, telescopes trained on the stars and earth. Biologists were watching bird migrations, pleased to find that the flocks could still navigate. There was even a branch of the CEA which investigated UFO sightings. A small branch. Despite rumors and the expectations, not many people were reporting lights that couldn’t be explained away with ease.
The basketball game was ended. CNN broke away for commercials, hemorrhoids and Hyundais; Dad began to talk, his voice sudden and dark. “What I think,” he told everyone, “I think we were given our chance. A great, grand opportunity. They showed us the Change, and they watched us react, and we didn’t. Not like they hoped, we didn’t. Which is why we haven’t heard from them.”
There was silence and a tangible confusion.
When did you decide this? Cornell wondered. He watched the narrow face become focused. Determined.
“Sure, we throw a few dollars at the problem. But the aliens…they were hoping for much more—”
“What are you saying?” growled Pete.
Dad swallowed, then said, “People are stupid.”
Neighbors glanced at each other.
“Oh, sure,” said Dad, “we were fascinated for a day or two. But then the novelty wore thin. Nothing of substance has changed.”
Cornell was close enough to smell liquor on his father’s breath.
“The greatest event in history, and it’s old news now.”
The man never drank. Cornell found himself scrambling for a cause. The anniversary? Because Mom hadn’t come home? Maybe Dad had expected her, even when he told Cornell to be patient. They never talked about Mom anymore. Why not? Was disappointment eating at him—?
“We aren’t worthy,” said the old man.
And
Pete told him, “You don’t mean it.”
“I sure as hell do.”
People began to move, picking up chairs and other belongings. Mr. Lynn asked for help with the dolly and his TV. Everyone avoided Dad’s black gaze. Cornell felt embarrassment, and he was outraged, wished he could vanish with the blink of his eyes.
“People are fools,” Dad muttered.
“No,” Pete replied. “But I’m wondering about you.”
A pressure built inside Cornell, steam mixed with acids.
Pete told Dad, “You’ve had too many, I think.”
Now everyone knew he was drunk. Shame washed over Cornell.
“What we need to do,” said Pete, “is get back on the road. How long has it been?”
Almost a month. Cornell hadn’t gone on that trip, staying with the Underhills for three days. And had a fine time, too. They were normal people, and happy.
“A long trip,” Pete promised.
“But they aren’t here anymore,” Dad responded, wiping his hands on his trousers and then lifting them, looking at his palms as if to see answers written on them. “They’ve abandoned us. I’m sure of it.”
It was incredible to hear. Even if Dad was drunk and disappointed, it was awful. And despite his embarrassment and shame, Cornell found himself sorry for the man, some part of him trying to think of a phrase or deed that would help make everything better.
“We’re ignorant, stupid creatures, and we deserve to be ignored.”
Cornell had the basketball. He retreated to the island’s other side, bouncing the ball, filling the air with its ringing rubbery sound. Nobody was left with Dad, save Pete. Pete got to his feet, offering to take Dad home. The two men began to wrestle, the drunken one weak and ineffectual; and Cornell bounced the ball harder, his friends standing near him, watching him and pretending nothing was more fascinating than the ball’s violent rise and fall.
“He misses the old days,” Pete told Cornell.
Cornell avoided the man’s gaze.
“You have to understand.” Pete came closer, making sure he was seen. “Everything’s changed for him. I think that’s the problem.” Didn’t he know? “I can’t do everything for him. I don’t have time or the power.”
