Just Plain Weird

by Tom Upton

  I finally woke at about seven in the morning. I felt very tired, as though what little sleep I had did not allow my body much rest. I seemed to remember that I’d had a couple disturbing dreams, although I couldn’t remember what they were about.

  I took a warm shower--which made want to climb back into bed-- dressed, and went downstairs.

  My mother was already up and making breakfast. She looked none the worse for wear. She coaxed me into some scrambled eggs and bacon, though I had no appetite. I found it very difficult to sit there, at the kitchen table, across from her. I was starting to get that strange, almost otherworldly feeling, that you get sometimes when you’re with someone you’ve known your whole life-- that detached feeling that, though you’ve known the person forever, you don’t really know the person at all. It was like sitting across the table from a stranger, in a strange house, eating a meal they’ve made for you, and you end up feeling more like an intruder than a resident.

  “Your father should be home next weekend,” she said. “Then he’s off to Atlanta on Monday.” It was all strictly small talk, something to say between sips of black coffee out of a chipped cup. “I so wished he’d find another job. On the road nearly thirty weeks a year-- what kind of life is that for somebody his age?”

  I just sat and listened. I couldn’t wait to finish my breakfast so I could get out of there, but she’d piled up the eggs and bacon pretty good. When I tried out for the football team, I probably wouldn’t have to worry so much about making the team as I would about dropping dead of a coronary for all the plaque in my arteries.

  “The bacon’s not burnt, is it?” she asked.

  “No, it’s nice and juicy.”

  “Good.”

  Sometimes I wondered whether she had secretly taken out a large life insurance policy on me.

  “You have any plans for today?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “You get a chance the read your brother’s latest story?”

  Here it comes, I thought. “Yeah.”

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Actually I thought it was a little over-written,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I said it; I’d read it a couple days ago, and thought it was fine. But, now, in afterthought, it did seem over-written.

  “Well, listen to you,” she said, surprised. “A regular critic. And what did you get in English last year.”

  “C plus.”

  “And that qualifies you to be a critic?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure what qualifies anybody to be critic. It just seemed to me that the prose was a little bloated.”

  “‘The prose was a little bloated’? Listen to you.”

  “It’s just an opinion. You asked.” By now, my mind was commanding me to eat faster, eat faster and get out of the house.

  She sipped her coffee, studying me over the rim of her cup. Her eyes were somewhat bloodshot.

  “That’s not a little hint of jealousy I detect?”

  “Jealousy? Why? I’ve never been interested in writing. And I’m secure in the belief that he’ll never be able to do a hundred push-ups. Jealousy has never to do with it. I just thought the story was a little verbose.”

  “Verbose?” She stared at me. “Are you feeling all right?”

  She had me there. I was sure that in my entire life I had never used the word ‘verbose’. It didn’t sound like me at all, I had to admit.

  “Listen, I need to get going,” I said, and shoved my plate away.

  “I thought you didn’t have any plans.”

  “I just remembered something,” I lied. “I promised to run an errand for the people next door.”

  “The new people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are they like, anyway?” I never see them.”

  “They’re nice enough,” I said. “But they’re quiet-- you know, they keep to themselves.”

  “Well, I guess that’s better than the skinheads that were renting the place a few years back. You remember that? The loud music-- people over there at all hours of the night.”

  “I have to go,” I said simply, and left her sitting there at the table to finish her breakfast.

  Normally I would go down into the basement, now, and lift weights for an hour or so, but today I felt so drained I knew I couldn’t do it. So I went upstairs to retrieve the socket wrench set I’d bought Eliza. It was still pretty early, but I hoped she was awake. I really wanted, needed actually, too get through this next meeting with her-- get past the awkward moments of making up with her.

  I had planned to wrap the gift, but then decided against it. I guessed that she would appreciate it more if it were unwrapped. I started to suspect her mind work almost backwards-- though I didn’t think it was quite that simple-- so that she might believe it more thoughtful if the gift were unwrapped, because then she wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of unwrapping it.

  I found her father sitting on the front stairs of their house. He had his elbows resting on his knees, and he was holding his head in his hands, face tipped toward the ground. It looked as if he were fighting off a monumental headache. As I approached, I noticed the small bald spot on the top of his head. He must have heard the scrape of my shoe on the front walkway, because he looked up, then, adjusting his glasses, and blinking his eyes a couple times. Relief passed over his troubled face when he recognized me.

  “Thank God,” he said, and sounded very weary. “I’m not usually a rude person, but about an hour ago I was about ready to go to your house, and drag you out of bed.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Eliza. Since you left yesterday, she’s been absolutely unbearable. You know, at best she’s very difficult to live with-- she’s so headstrong and sees things in such a peculiar light. But I have never seen her this bad-- never.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Ranting and raving and talking to herself. Stalking through the dark house all night long…. Look, Travis, I have no idea why she’s taking this so seriously, but you need to make things right with her. No matter what she tells you, believe her-- please. She really doesn’t lie, you know, or make things up or exaggerate-- I can assure you that much. And, please, don’t ever ask her to prove anything she says…. Now, did you get anything for her?”

  “Yeah,” I assured him.

  “All right, good,” he said. “What did you get her?”

  “A socket wrench set.”

  “A socket wrench set,” he repeated, and thought it over a moment. “Yeah, yeah, that should be fine. You didn’t wrap it, I hope. She hates when somebody gives her a gift that wrapped.”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t even take the price off.”

  He considered this briefly. “Well, maybe you should take that off,” he said, and then supervised as I scrapped the $9.99 sticker off the metal case. “That should be perfect-- I think. You just never can be sure with her. Now, just go up there and ring the doorbell. She’ll answer. She’s probably still stalking around the house, which is why I’m out here. Meanwhile, if you need me, I’ll be out in the garage, doing-- something. All right?”

  No sooner than I was standing at the front door, he had already fled the porch. I took a deep breath before I rang the doorbell, not sure at all what to expect. A moment later the door swung open, and she was glaring out at me.

  “What do you want? Come in,” she said testily. She said it very fast, as though it were all one word: Whatdoyouwant?Comein. And then she disappeared into the house.

  I opened the screen door, and let myself into the house. When I entered the living room, she was standing there in the middle of the room, with her back toward me. She was wearing a white sleeveless top, and blue jean shorts that went down to her bony knees. Her feet were bare, and one of them flapped nervously, or impatiently, on the tiled floor.

  Apologizing for anything had never come easily to me. I always believed that was part of my being socially inept. Those few times in my life th
at I’d had to apologize never sounded right; I always sounded as though I didn’t mean it, even when I did. So I decided just to say: “I got something for you?”

  “You did? And why did you do that?-- did it look like I needed something?” she asked, still looking away from me.

  “I should have believed you,” I said, “no matter how crazy it all sounded. And I shouldn’t have asked for proof.”

  “Well, no,” she said, her tone softening but not much, “you probably shouldn’t have. But now you do believe me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “After my father told you it was all true?”

  “No,” I said. It was a lie, true, but under the circumstances, it seemed desperately needed; I didn’t think I could endure another moment of her being mad at me-- that felt like the cruelest of tortures. “Your father and I never talked about that-- not really.”

  “You didn’t?” she asked, and her foot stopped flapping on the floor.

  “No.”

  “Well…” She turned half toward me, now, so that she could give me a sidelong look. Her arms were crossed in front of her.

  “I, uh, really felt bad about it,” I said, deciding that if I was to be sincere, I ought to be sincere all the way. “I couldn’t even sleep last night.”

  “You do look awful tired,” she commented, not without some concern.

  “I started thinking you went through all the trouble of driving me off a cliff to be sure you could trust me, and then-- well, I should have just taken your word for everything.”

  She turned to face me fully. “You do understand, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe I was just expecting too much from you,” she conceded. “I mean, we did just meet, after all.”

  “But it seems I’ve known you for a million years.’

  Her eyes lighted up at that.

  “Then it’s not just me?” she asked, “It seems that way for you, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “It’s like magic, though, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  A mischievous look sparkled in her eyes.

  “So, what did you get me?”

  I handed her the plain brown bag. She held it in her hand as though trying to determine its weight, and seemed puzzled that it was so hefty.

  “Well, I know it’s not a diamond,” she joked. “And by the way, if you ever did get me a diamond, I’d have to kill you.”

  She opened the bag, and slid out the small gray metal case. She unsnapped the latch and opened the case. For a moment, she stared down at the wrench and its attachments, and then took out the wrench and examined it.

  “It’s perfect,” she said at last. “I’m very pleased, and surprised. It’s an utterly perfect gift for me. For one thing, I don’t have anything like it. And then the wrench is very heavy. If somebody tries to rape me or something, I can crack their head wide open with this. I just love things that serve a duel purpose. Thank you, Travis, this was very thoughtful.” She was beaming now, and impulsively she rushed up to me and threw her arms around my neck to give me a hug. When drew away from me, she did it very slowly. There was an awkward moment when our faces were very close, her eyes caught mine, and I could see all her defenses were down. It was like catching a glimpse of her naked soul, battered and lonely, scarred by some tragedy, and begging for kindness. I couldn’t say what supernatural force stopped me from kissing her then and there, but later I would be glad it did; it wouldn’t have been right, or fair, now-- it would have been like stealing something instead of waiting for someone to give it to you. The moment passed, then, when she lowered her eyes and chuckled uneasily, and then stepped away from me.

  She asked me whether I’d like something to eat, but I begged off, the bacon in my stomach still churning.

  “If you’re ever over and hungry, let me know,” she said. “I can very easily make you anything you might want. There are many things about the artifact we don’t know, but we have learned how it provides meals. Doc hasn’t figured out the language yet, but he managed to program the food dispenser by example: you put a dish in the dispenser, press the right buttons, and it’s programmed to duplicate that dish. So most of the things we have programmed into it are food that came from restaurants-- you know, hamburgers and stuff from the fast food places. But also all kinds of pizzas from some really great pizzerias, and a lot of good seafood dishes, too. We’re not quit certain how it duplicates the food-- I mean, the exact science of it-- but what it makes tastes exactly the same as the food from the restaurants.”

  “Well, let me ask you something,” I said. “Have you and your father figured out exactly what the artifact is?”

  She frowned deeply, thinking. “I have to admit we probably don’t know. Oh, my father has a couple ideas-- theories, really, which is nothing but a fancy word for guesses. The man is way out of his league; he’s an archeologist, after all, and he’s guessing about extraterrestrial technologies.”

  I had begun to develop a dull throbbing pain behind my eyes, and as she spoke, the intensity of the pain was growing by the second.

  “Do you have a few aspirin?” I asked her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a little pale. You sure you don’t need something to eat?”

  “No, it’s just a headache. It popped up out of nowhere. It’s getting pretty bad.”

  “Well, why don’t you lie on the sofa,” she suggested. “I’ll see if we have something for it.”

  As she vanished into another room, I climbed onto the sofa. I kept my eyes shut, but that didn’t help lessen the pain. Before long, it felt as if somebody were driving a railroad spike into my forehead and out the back of my skull. I must have fallen asleep, then, though it hardly seemed possible with the degree of pain I was suffering.

  When I opened my eyes next, I saw Eliza and her father looking down at me. Eliza was nervously chewing at her thumbnail, and there was a fretful expression on her father’s face.

  “Not feeling so good?” he asked.

  “Just a headache,” I mumbled, and slowly sat up in the sofa. The headache was still there but not nearly as bad. “Did I fall asleep?”

  “For about an hour,” Eliza said.

  “Your color is a little better,” her father commented. “You get headaches often?”

  “No,” I said, and then realized something. “Actually I don’t think I’ve ever had a headache before a couple days ago. I’m pretty healthy, really; I think I had a cold, once, when I was about five years old.”

  “You sure you don’t want to lie down some more. I could get a cold towel to put on your forehead,” Eliza offered.

  “No, it’ll be all right,” I said. I could feel the pain slipping away slowly-- it would be gone before long.

  “He should at least have something to eat, Doc,” Eliza said to her father.

  “Yes, you should-- at least a little,” he said to me.

  “All right.”

  “What do you want?” Eliza asked. “Like I said, we can make just about anything.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about…um…pizza-- Chicago-style--”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Sausage? Onion? Anchovies? Green peppers?…”

  “Yeah, and maybe those little shrimp, too,” I suggested.

  “All right,” Eliza chimed, and eagerly left the room, as though she were happy to do something.

  “Pizza?” her father said, when she was gone. “At nine-twenty in the morning? And this is going to make you feel better?” He paused to shake his head in wonder. “Well,” he went on then, “I see everything went all right, thank God. She’s much better now, but you should have seen her last night. I tell you, I didn’t know what to do with her. She can’t help it, though-- I realize that. A lot of it has to do with the way she’s be
en living-- the isolation, the moving…. But enough about that,” he said, as though the topic were distasteful, as though he bore the responsibility for the way Eliza acted. “At the moment I’m much more interested in your headaches. You say you never had a headache before a couple days ago.”

  “Before the day before yesterday, really,” I said.

  “Hmmm. The day you first saw Eliza. I wonder if that’s a coincidence,” he said, not completely serious.

  I let the comment pass.

  “When was the last time you went to the doctor?”

  “Couple weeks ago,” I said. “I needed to get a check-up before starting school in the fall.”

  He considered something at length, and seemed to remain doubtful about whatever it was. “Well, I think you should keep track of them, then,” he concluded. “If you start having them too often, you may have to go back to the doctor. How are you now?”

  “Completely normal.” The pain was gone now.

  “Well, that’s good.”

  Just then Eliza returned. She couldn’t have been gone but a few minutes. She was balancing a pizza on the palm of one hand, which a six-pack of soda dangled from her other hand. She set everything down on the coffee table.

  Her father stared at it all with a dour look on his face.

  “I’m going to leave you two,” he said then. “I don’t think I can bear to witness such a dietary atrocity. I’ll be in the garage if you need me.”

  After he left, we dug into the pizza, which turned out to be the best pizza I’d ever tasted. Eliza obviously had a very high metabolism, because she ate a surprising amount, considering her petite appearance. When we were finished, we both sat back in the sofa, and sipped soda for a while.