Alien Upstairs

by Pamela Sargent

  "Let's check.” They stood aside from the others awaiting the bus. Gerard opened the letter. It had been typed on a computer outlet, and was addressed to Mr. Raf Courn of 141 Oak Street. It said:

  Raf—

  You speak, but you do not listen. I am preparing for my search. Come with me, and let others watch. We are almost ready.

  —M.

  Gerard held the letter up and peered at it. “Maybe it's a code,” he said.

  Sarah shook her head. “I don't think so. We just don't know what it means.” There was something wrong with the letter. She took the envelope from Gerard and inspected it, then looked at the letter again. “Gerry."

  "What?"

  "Don't you see? We don't know where the letter came from. Its point of origin isn't typed on the letter or the envelope."

  He raised an eyebrow. “You're right. And if it was local, it would say so.” He searched the envelope. “It was typed out five days ago. The time's here, but how did it get into the system?"

  Sarah shivered. “Inefficiency. That must be it. You know the post office. Or else someone in the post office itself sent it."

  "God.” He draped one arm over her shoulders “We're getting in deeper and deeper. I'm losing my memories, we're under suspicion—Jesus.” He shook his head. “None of this makes any sense. He probably isn't anywhere around here by now."

  "He has to be."

  "Why?"

  "Because somehow you lost your memory, out there in the country. I don't know how, because I don't know what he can do. And whoever sent the letter thinks he's still here."

  "How the hell do we know what he would do, Sarah?"

  She had no answer to that.

  Gerard counted out the coins. Bruce Carulli tilted his hand and let them slide into his wallet, then upended his beer can. Leaning forward, he put the can on the coffee table.

  "I'll get the car out of there tonight,” Bruce said as he rose. Gerard gave him the keys. “Kind of funny, him selling the engine separately, he could have gotten more for the whole car.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Gerard.

  "Raf's funny."

  "So I heard."

  "Well, he's paying for it. He told me to have it hauled away.” Sarah, sitting by the television screen, was thinking that Gerard was a poor liar. She gazed wide-eyed at Bruce, trying to look ingenuous.

  Bruce moved toward the door. “I better get going. Anyone stops me, I guess I can say Raf gave me the keys.” He glanced at Sarah, then left.

  She said, “He's suspicious."

  "I know. Wouldn't you be?” Gerard sat down.

  "I hope we can trust him."

  "Look, he can wonder all he wants to. He won't do anything about it unless he thinks there's something to gain."

  "Or unless somebody starts asking questions, like the police."

  Gerard leaned back and folded his hands. “There's one thing left we can do. We should have done it before."

  "What?"

  "Go into his apartment."

  "We can't."

  "I have the keys."

  "Oh, no. Mr. Epstein trusts you with those keys."

  "I know that.” He wrinkled his brow. “I don't want to do it, but I don't think we have any choice. Look, no one'll know, and if they do, I can say I was checking his faucets."

  "I guess we have no choice."

  "Get a flashlight, and let's go."

  They crept up the stairs. There were no sounds from Kathy's apartment. Mrs. Ritter was apparently watching television; Sarah could hear the singsong voice of the Imam al-Takari. They tiptoed to Raf's door. Gerard pressed his ear to the door, and then unlocked it.

  They went inside. Sarah closed the door and leaned against it. “I'm terrified,” she said. Gerard searched the room with the flashlight. All of Raf's possessions, with the exception of his console, were still there. “Where do we start?"

  "Let's try the bedroom.” Their feet thumped against the floor. “Quiet,” he whispered, and she wondered if they should take off their shoes.

  The bedroom contained a captain's bed and a television screen. Sarah moved the thin rectangular screen out of the way while Gerard rummaged through the bed, opened the drawer in its side, then checked the mattress. He searched the night table while Sarah held the light. He picked up the telephone and turned it over, then set it down.

  "The books,” Sarah said. “Maybe he hid something in the books."

  "Do you know how many volumes he has?"

  "I don't care. Wouldn't you hide something there, if it were you?"

  "If it were me, I wouldn't have left all this stuff. We don't even know what we're looking for.” They went out to the main room. “Maybe he's going to come back. He didn't move his stuff, right? He didn't give notice."

  "I know. But I keep having this feeling that he said goodbye, that he wasn't coming back here. It's such a strong feeling. Maybe he planted it in my mind. Look, if he really is what he said he was, he's not going to care about any of this anyway."

  "Let's look at the books, then. I don't suppose we can turn on a light."

  "We'd better not. Those curtains are kind of thin. Someone might notice."

  Gerard opened the glass doors and reached in for some books. He pulled out too many; several escaped his grip and slapped against the floor. Sarah jumped. She was afraid to breathe. She and Gerard stood still for a few moments. Then he bent over and picked up the books. “Let's get started."

  Books were stacked around them on the floor. They had found nothing.

  "How many are left?” Sarah asked.

  "God, I don't know. A lot. Do we look through the rest?"

  "We should. Let's rest a bit."

  Gerard stumbled through the dark. Sarah followed him with the flashlight. She sat down on the velvet love seat and turned off the beam.

  Gerard sighed. “A velvet sofa, for Christ's sake,” his voice said. “I can just see him sitting here on his can, if he has a can."

  "Of course he does."

  "How do we know? He might have something that looks like a can. His equipment might be pretty strange.” She thought of the dimly recalled afternoon with Raf, and felt queasy. “Maybe if he doesn't come back, we can have the books.” Gerard suddenly shifted his weight on the love seat and she heard him suck in his breath. “Listen. Do you hear that?"

  She leaned forward. “There's someone on the stairs.” She fumbled for his arm. “Let's go out the back way."

  "We can't. Those stairs are even noisier. We'll alert the whole building."

  "Maybe it's Kathy,” she whispered. Then she heard the footsteps again, and knew it was not; the visitor was coming toward Raf's door. “Oh, my God, maybe it's Raf.” The room seemed very close.

  "Just be quiet. Don't even move."

  The footsteps stopped. There were three short, sharp raps on the door. Sarah chewed her lip. The visitor knocked again. At least, she thought, it couldn't be Raf.

  A key was turning in the lock. The lock snapped. The door swung open. The dim light in the hall outlined a small, thin figure. Its arm reached out for the wall, and the overhead lighting went on.

  Sarah blinked. “Hello, Mr. Epstein."

  Sarah gazed despairingly at the old man as he closed the door and put his revolver back in his shoulder holster. His eyebrows arched as he surveyed the books on the floor.

  "I guess you wouldn't believe us,” Gerard said sadly, “if we said we came here to check the faucets."

  "No, I don't believe I would.” The landlord stared at them until Sarah lowered her eyes. “Stealing. Is that what you were up to, stealing? I never would have expected it of you. My trust has been abused."

  "We weren't stealing, Mr. Epstein,” Sarah said. “I swear we weren't."

  "What else could you be doing? Mrs. Ritter called me when she heard sounds up here. Naturally, I assumed Raf Courn had returned, but I thought I'd better check. When I got here, I considered calling the police, but they get nasty when they come and nothing's wrong, so—” He pau
sed. “And here you are. And here I am, with this somewhat threatening but useless appliance.” He slapped his shoulder holster. “I should have you taken in for breaking and entering, but I'll have to content myself with eviction."

  "No,” Sarah cried. Her eyes stung; she tried to control her tears. She swallowed. “No, please. We weren't stealing. I know we shouldn't be here, but we weren't stealing."

  The old man crossed the room and sat on the sofa. “Then you have an explanation, I suppose. You were sleepwalking, or dusting Mr. Courn's books for him, or were engaging in perversions on that love seat there. Tell me your story."

  "I guess I'll have to tell it,” Sarah said. “Part of our problem is that Gerry can't remember most of it.” She twisted her hands together, knowing she would have to trust the landlord, knowing as well that things could not get much worse.

  She told almost everything, omitting only the tale of Raf's encounters with her and with Martin. Mr. Epstein listened, gazing calmly at her while rubbing his chin.

  "Please believe me,” she pleaded as she ended the story. “I know it sounds crazy, and I can't prove it, but it's true. I can't show you the car because it's been towed away by now, and the coins by themselves don't prove a thing. Gerry's sitting here with partial amnesia, but we can't prove that, either. All you have is our word, and that probably doesn't mean much now."

  Mr. Epstein studied her. She stared back at him. He furrowed his brow and drummed his fingers on his thigh.

  "That is a very unlikely story,” he murmured. “But there are those tales I myself have heard about my absent tenant, and there is also the fact that you two have lived here for some time without causing me a moment's concern."

  "The letter,” Gerard said. “We can show you the letter."

  Mr. Epstein waved a hand. “You needn't bother, son. Either I must believe you, or throw you out. I have the highest respect for your mental abilities, but I somehow don't believe you have the creative talent required to concoct a story of that kind."

  Sarah let out a sigh. “I swear it's true."

  "I'll act on that assumption, for the time being. But I caution you—if I should see anything in your behavior to cause me worry, I'll contact the police. I'm a reasonable man, but I'm not an altruist. You are apparently already under suspicion, and little would be needed to have you hauled in for questioning."

  Sarah folded her hands, not knowing whether to feel relieved or not. The old man frowned. “I have heard stories,” he went on. “Some of them were as strange in their way as yours. But those who are eccentric always suffer gossip.” He turned to Gerard. “I don't suppose you have much to add."

  He shook his head. “I lost my memory."

  "In the country."

  "Search me. That's where I was when Sarah told me all this."

  "Well, then, we'll just have to see if we can find it again."

  Sarah raised her chin and opened her mouth.

  "Don't sit there gaping,” the old man continued. “It's most unattractive. As I said, we'll see if we can find Gerry's memory, and Raf Courn, and, not incidentally, verify this tale of yours. I can ask around at the landlords’ association, and I have friends at the Chamber of Commerce who are realtors. If he's still in this area, I might be able to find him. I've had experience with this sort of thing, unfortunately, because so many try to put their rent on their Adidas account. Look at it this way—something interesting has happened to liven up things. Life can get very dull when you're my age, so maybe I should thank you.” He rose. “Right now, we'd better put those books away, if I'm to get home before curfew. And, Gerry, you'd better give me your set of keys. As I said, I'm a reasonable man, but I'm not a fool."

  Sarah felt for the bed in the dark, turning down the sheet. She heard Gerard's footsteps as he entered the bedroom.

  She said, “You got us into this mess."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You had to go into Raf's apartment."

  "You came along."

  "And you had to drive out to the country."

  "You went along."

  "Did you expect me to let you go alone?"

  "You went out alone with Raf."

  "So?"

  "You were just as curious, then. That's what got us into this."

  "But I wanted to leave it alone after that."

  "You went to his goddamn apartment, for Christ's sake."

  "Don't start that again."

  "You went up there. You screwed him."

  "I don't know what I did."

  "You must have wanted to, anyway."

  "We went through all this, Gerry."

  "I don't remember going through it. I wish you hadn't told me."

  "I wish I hadn't, either."

  "Damn it, Sarah."

  "I don't owe you anything. You and all your crap about what you were going to do, running your own business. You were so ambitious once. I haven't heard you sound ambitious lately. You'll be working for Warwick and Baum's forever."

  "You used to tell me to be realistic. Now I'm realistic and you want me to be ambitious. Why don't you look out for yourself once in a while, instead of expecting me to do it?"

  "I did just fine before you moved in."

  "I can always move out."

  "Why don't you?"

  He sighed in the darkness. She heard the bedsprings sing as he climbed in. She crept into bed carefully and kept to her side, afraid to touch him.

  The mattress moved. “Sarah.” His hand was on her breast. She lay perfectly still. He pressed his head against her shoulder. At last she reached over and slipped her hand under his pajamas, kneading his buttocks. She pinched him. “Hey."

  "Let's not fight, Gerry."

  "I won't if you won't."

  "I don't really want to fight."

  "I don't, either."

  "Stop doing that."

  "I'll do what I want."

  "I'll pinch you again."

  "I'll pinch back."

  "Gerry."

  "Help me get these pajamas off."

  Nine

  Sarah was poised at the runway, waiting for her cue. Lita Rand's amplified voice sang, “And now we see Sarah—” and Sarah pranced out, swooped in the red cape, then strode toward the end of the runway. It was the last outfit she had to model. Lita's voice, giving the particulars of the cape, could hardly be heard over the loud, brassy music; the sound system was not working too well.

  She saw Gerard near the back of the crowd; he grinned. As she came to the end of the runway, she saw another man, a tall one, at the edge of the crowd near the elevators. His face was turned away from her. She stopped.

  Raf. She teetered on the runway. No, she was wrong; this man had blond hair. But the profile was the same. She recovered, made her turn, and almost bumped into Lacey Duncan, who had already come out. The tall black woman frowned at Sarah, then moved on.

  Sarah retreated to the dressing room and heard the muted applause that signaled the show's end. Nancy and Irene were already changing into their own clothes. Sarah caught Lacey's arm as she entered. “Do we have to mingle with the crowd or anything?"

  Lacey shook her head. “No, there's no point. Lita told me before the show that they didn't expect many sales. She'll probably tell you to go home."

  Sarah took off the cape and searched for her own sweater and skirt. Lacey stroked the champagne-colored fur she had modeled. “God, I wish I could take this home."

  "It looks beautiful on you."

  Lacey shrugged. “Well, maybe it was worth doing it for nothing, just to get to wear it."

  "That's just what they want us to think,” Sarah said. She sat down and began to brush her hair. She was not used to wearing so much makeup, and her eyes were tearing.

  "By the way,” Lacey murmured, “are you all right?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You sure messed up on the runway, I thought you were going to drop, and then I thought you were going to knock me into the crowd."

  "I thought I s
aw someone I knew."

  Lita Rand came through the door, craning her neck as she peered around the room. “Sarah?” She came to Sarah's side.

  "What is it?"

  "I'd like to speak to you."

  Sarah finished dressing and located her purse and coat. She straightened the coat's collar; the long, gray, double-breasted garment now appeared to be the old, worn coat it was. Sighing, she thought of Lacey's fur.

  She found Lita on the stairwell outside the dressing room. “Look, I'm sorry about that business on the runway,” Sarah said quickly. “I don't think very many people noticed."

  "It doesn't matter,” Lita replied in her hoarse voice. “I have to talk to you.” She went up the stairs and Sarah followed. Lita led her up into a small office and closed the door. “I'm afraid I have bad news."

  Sarah clutched her shoulder bag and waited.

  "I'm afraid we'll have to let you go."

  Sarah could not speak. She continued to stare at Lita until the older woman looked away. “You see,” she went on, “Mr. Groves's daughter and her family just moved down from Albany. You know how things have been there. If the winters get much worse, they'll have to move the state government. And his granddaughter's just out of college; she needs a job. So we have to let someone go.” Lita was looking at the floor.

  "Mr. Groves lives in an enclave, for God's sake. Why does his granddaughter need a job?"

  "Things have been hard, Sarah, even for them."

  "I've worked here for almost three years. I don't deserve this.” She gritted her teeth.

  Lita raised her eyes. “I'm sorry. Mr. Groves would love to sell, if he could find a buyer. Of course, he can't. We'll give you a recommendation. I'll put it in the data banks myself. You're young. You'll find something else.” The lines around the older woman's mouth grew deeper. “Your work has fallen off recently. You seem distracted. Maybe it's time for you to find other work."

  Sarah pressed her lips together. She swayed, and caught herself.