A Lot Like Christmas

by Connie Willis

  “And what if the Altairi try to leave?” I asked. “A barricade won’t stop them, you know.”

  “Call me on my cell phone, and I’ll tell the audience there’s a fire drill or something. Okay? I’ll make this as short as I can.” He grinned. “No ‘Twelve Days of Christmas.’ Don’t worry, Meg. We’ll figure this out.”

  “I told you she was his girlfriend.”

  “Is she, Mr. Ledbetter?”

  “Let’s go, ladies,” he said, and led them down the hall and into the auditorium. Just as the auditorium doors shut on the last stragglers, my cell phone rang. It was Dr. Morthman, calling to say, “You can stop looking. The Altairi are in their ship.”

  “How do you know? Have you seen them?” I asked, thinking, I knew I shouldn’t have left them in the car.

  “No, but the ship’s begun the ignition process, and it’s going faster than NASA previously estimated. They’re now saying it’s no more than four hours to takeoff. Where are you?”

  “On my way back,” I said, trying not to sound like I was running out to the parking lot and unlocking the van, which, thank goodness, was at least still there and intact.

  “Well, hurry it up,” Dr. Morthman snapped. “The press is here. You’re going to have to explain to them exactly how you let the Altairi get away.” I pulled open the van’s door.

  The Altairi weren’t inside.

  Oh, no. “I blame this entire debacle on you,” Dr. Morthman said. “If there are international repercussions—”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said, hung up, and turned to run around to the driver’s side.

  And collided with the Altairi, who had apparently been standing behind me the entire time. “Don’t scare me like that,” I said. “Now come on,” and led them rapidly into the convention center, past the shut doors of the auditorium, where I could hear talking but not singing, thank goodness, and along the long hall to the room Calvin had indicated.

  It was empty except for the table Calvin had mentioned. I herded the Altairi inside and then tipped the table on its side, pushed it in front of the door, wedging it under the doorknob, and leaned my ear against it to see if I could hear any sound from the auditorium, but Calvin had been right. I couldn’t hear anything, and they should have started by now.

  And now what? With takeoff only four hours away, I needed to take advantage of every second, but there was nothing in the room I could use—no piano or CD player or LPs. We should have used his seventh-graders’ dressing room, I thought. They’d at least have had iPods or something.

  But even if I played the Altairi hundreds of Christmas carols being sung by a choir, and they responded to them all—bowing, decking halls, dashing through snow in one-horse open sleighs, following yonder stars—I’d still be no closer to figuring out why they were here or why they’d decided to leave. Or why they’d taken the very loud tap-dancing chorus of 42nd Street singing “Sleep in heavenly peace” as a direct order. If they even knew what the word “sleep”—or “seated” or “spin” or “blink”—meant.

  Calvin had surmised they could only hear words sung to them with more than one voice, but that couldn’t be it. Someone hearing a word for the first time would have no idea what it meant, and they’d never heard “all seated on the ground” till that day in the mall. They had to have heard the word before to have known what it meant, and they’d only have heard it spoken. Which meant they could hear spoken words as well as sung ones.

  They could have read the words, I thought, remembering the Rosetta Stone and the dictionaries Dr. Short had given them. But even if they’d somehow taught themselves to read English, they wouldn’t know how it was pronounced. They wouldn’t have recognized it when they heard it spoken. The only way they could do that was by hearing the spoken word. Which meant they’d been listening to and understanding every word we’d said for the past nine months. Including Calvin’s and my conversations about them slaying babies and destroying the planet. No wonder they were leaving.

  But if they understood us, then that meant one of two things—they were either unwilling to talk to us or were incapable of speaking. Had their sitting down and their other responses been an attempt at sign language?

  No, that couldn’t be it, either. They could have responded just as easily to a spoken “sit” and done it months earlier. And if they were trying to communicate, wouldn’t they have given Calvin and me some hint we were on the right—or the wrong—track instead of just standing there with that we-are-not-amused glare? And I didn’t believe for a moment those expressions were an accident of nature. I knew disapproval when I saw it. I’d watched Aunt Judith too many years not to—

  Aunt Judith. I took my cell phone out of my pocket and called my sister Tracy. “Tell me everything you can remember about Aunt Judith,” I said when she answered.

  “Has something happened to her?” she said, sounding alarmed. “When I talked to her last week she—”

  “Last week?” I said. “You mean Aunt Judith’s still alive?”

  “Well, she was last week when we had lunch.”

  “Lunch? With Aunt Judith? Are we talking about the same person? Dad’s Aunt Judith? The Gorgon?”

  “Yes, only she’s not a Gorgon. She’s actually very nice when you get to know her.”

  “Aunt Judith,” I said, “the one who always glared disapprovingly at everybody?”

  “Yes, only she hasn’t glared at me in years. As I say, when you get to know her—”

  “And exactly how did you do that?”

  “I thanked her for my birthday present.”

  “And—?” I said. “That can’t have been all. Mom always made both of us thank her nicely for our presents.”

  “I know, but they weren’t proper thank-yous. ‘A prompt handwritten note expressing gratitude is the only proper form of thanks,’ ” Tracy said, obviously quoting. “I was in high school, and we had to write a thank-you letter to someone for class. She’d just sent me my birthday card with the dollar in it, so I wrote her, and the next day she called and gave me this long lecture about the importance of good manners and how shocking it was that no one followed the most basic rules of etiquette anymore and how she was delighted to see that at least one young person knew how to behave, and then she asked me if I’d like to go see Les Mis with her, and I bought a copy of Emily Post, and we’ve gotten along great ever since. She sent Evan and me a sterling silver fish slice when we got married.”

  “For which you sent her a handwritten thank-you note,” I said absently. Aunt Judith had been glaring because we were boorish and unmannered. Was that why the Altairi looked so disapproving, because they were waiting for the equivalent of a handwritten thank-you note from us?

  If that was the case, we were doomed. Rules of etiquette are notoriously illogical and culture-specific, and there was no intergalactic Emily Post for me to consult. And I had, oh, God, less than two hours till liftoff.

  “Tell me exactly what she said that day she called you,” I said, unwilling to give up the idea that she was somehow the key.

  “It was eight years ago—”

  “I know. Try to remember.”

  “Okay…there was a lot of stuff about gloves and how I shouldn’t wear white shoes after Labor Day and how I shouldn’t cross my legs. ‘Well-bred young ladies sit with their ankles crossed.’ ”

  Had the Altairi’s sitting down in the mall been an etiquette lesson in the proper way to sit? It seemed unlikely, but so did Aunt Judith’s refusal to speak to people because of the color of their shoes on certain calendar dates.

  “…and she said if I got married, I needed to send out engraved invitations,” Tracy said. “Which I did. I think that’s why she gave us the fish slice.”

  “I don’t care about the fish slice. What did she say about your thank-you note?”

  “She said, ‘Well, it’s about time, Tracy. I’d nearly given up hope of anyone in your family showing any signs of civilized behavior.’ ”

 
Civilized behavior. That was it. The Altairi, like Aunt Judith sitting in our living room glaring, had been waiting for a sign that we were civilized. And singing—correction, group singing—was that sign. But was it an arbitrary rule of etiquette, like white shoes and engraved invitations, or was it a symbol of something else? I thought of Calvin telling his chattering seventh-graders to line up, and the milling, giggling, chaotic muddle of girls coming together in an organized, beautifully behaved, civilized line.

  Coming together. That was the civilized behavior the Altairi had been waiting for a sign of. And they’d seen precious little of it in the nine months they’d been here: the disorganized commission with members quitting and those who were left not listening to anyone; that awful rehearsal where the basses couldn’t get the entrance right to save them; the harried shoppers in the mall, dragging their screaming children after them. The piped-in choir singing “While Shepherds Watched” might have been the first indication they’d seen—correction, heard—that we were capable of getting along with each other at all.

  No wonder they’d sat down right there in the middle of the mall. They must have thought, like Aunt Judith, “Well, it’s about time!” But then why hadn’t they done the equivalent of calling us and asking us to go see Les Mis?

  Maybe they hadn’t been sure that what they’d seen—correction, heard—was what they thought it was. They’d never seen people sing, except for Calvin and those pathetic basses. They’d seen no signs we were capable of singing beautifully in harmony.

  But “While Shepherds Watched” had convinced them it might be possible, which was why they’d followed us around and why they’d sat and slept and gone astray whenever they heard more than one voice, hoping we’d get the hint, waiting for further proof.

  In which case we should be in the auditorium, listening to the Sing, instead of in this soundproof room. Especially since the fact that their ship was getting ready to take off indicated they’d given up and decided they were mistaken after all. “Come on,” I said to the Altairi, and stood up. “I need to show you something.” I shoved the table away from the door, and opened it.

  On Calvin. “Oh, good, you’re here,” I said. “I— Why aren’t you in directing?”

  “I announced an intermission so I could tell you something. I think I’ve got it, the thing the Altairi have been responding to,” he said, grabbing me by the arms, “the reason they reacted to Christmas songs. I thought of it while I was directing ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.’ What do nearly all Christmas songs have in them?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Chestnuts? Santa Claus? Bells?”

  “Close,” he said. “Choirs.”

  Choirs? “We already knew they responded to songs sung by choirs,” I said, confused.

  “Not just to songs sung by choirs. Songs about choirs. Christmas carols being sung by the choir, angel choirs, children’s choirs, wassailers, carolers, ‘strike the harp and join the chorus,’ ” he said. “The angels in ‘Angels We Have Heard on High’ are ‘sweetly singing o’er the plains.’ In ‘It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,’ all the world gives back the song they sing. They’re all about singing,” he said excitedly. “ ‘That glorious song of old,’ ‘whom angels greet with anthems sweet.’ Look,” he flipped through the pages of his music, pointing out phrases, “ ‘oh, hear the angel voices,’ ‘as men of old have sung,’ ‘whom shepherds guard and angels sing,’ ‘let men their songs employ.’ There are references to singing in songs by Randy Travis, the Peanuts kids, Paul McCartney, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. It wasn’t just that ‘While Shepherds Watched’ was sung by a choir. It was that it was a song about choirs singing. And not just singing, but what they’re singing.” He thrust the song in front of me, pointing to the last verse. “ ‘Good will, henceforth from heaven to men.’ That’s what they’ve been trying to communicate to us.”

  I shook my head. “It’s what they’ve been waiting for us to communicate to them. Just like Aunt Judith.”

  “Aunt Judith?”

  “I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve got to prove we’re civilized before the Altairi leave.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “We sing to them, or rather, the All-City Holiday Ecumenical Sing does.”

  “What do we sing?”

  I wasn’t sure it mattered. I was pretty certain what they were looking for was proof we could cooperate and work together in harmony, and in that case, “Mele Kalikimaka” would work as well as “The Peace Carol.” But it wouldn’t hurt to make things as clear to them as we could. And it would be nice if it was also something that Reverend Thresher couldn’t use as ammunition for his Galaxywide Christian Crusade.

  “We need to sing something that will convince the Altairi we’re a civilized species,” I said, “something that conveys good will and peace. Especially peace. And not religion, if that’s possible.”

  “How much time have we got to write it?” Calvin asked. “And we’ll have to get copies made—”

  My cell phone rang. The screen showed it was Dr. Morthman. “Hang on,” I said, hitting talk. “I should be able to tell you in a second. Hello?”

  “Where are you?” Dr. Morthman shouted. “The ship’s beginning its final ignition cycle.”

  I whirled around to make sure the Altairi were still there. They were, thank goodness, and still glaring. “How long does the final cycle take?” I asked.

  “They don’t know,” Dr. Morthman said, “ten minutes at the outside. If you don’t get here immediately—”

  I hung up.

  “Well?” Calvin said. “How much time have we got?”

  “None,” I said.

  “Then we’ll have to use something we’ve already got,” he said, and began riffling through his sheaf of music, “and something people know the harmony to. Civilized…civilized…I think…” He found what he was looking for and scanned it. “…Yeah, if I change a couple of words, this should do the trick. Do you think the Altairi understand Latin?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Then we’ll just do the first two lines. Wait five minutes—”

  “Five minutes?”

  “—so I can brief everybody on the changes, and then bring the Altairi in.”

  “Okay,” I said, and he took off at a run for the auditorium.

  There was an expectant buzz in the audience when we came through the double doors, and the ranks of choirs arrayed around the stage, a sea of maroon and gold and green and purple robes, began whispering to each other behind their music.

  Calvin had apparently just finished his briefing. Some of the choirs and the audience were busily scribbling notes on their music, and passing pencils, and asking each other questions. The orchestra, on one side of the stage, was warming up in a jumbled cacophony of screeches and hoots and blats.

  On the other side, the sopranos of the Mile-High Women’s Chorus were apparently filling the altos in on my interrupting rehearsal the other night, because they all turned to glare at me. “I think it’s ridiculous that we can’t sing the words we know,” an elderly woman wearing gloves and a hat with a veil said to her companion.

  Her companion nodded. “If you ask me, they’re carrying this entire ecumenical thing too far. I mean, humans are one thing, but aliens!”

  There’s no way this is going to work, I thought, looking over at Calvin’s seventh-graders, who were leaning over the backs of each other’s chairs, giggling and chewing gum. Belinda was text-messaging someone on her cell phone, and Kaneesha was listening to her iPod. Chelsea had her hand up and was calling, “Mr. Ledbetter! Mr. Ledbetter, Shelby took my music.”

  Over in the orchestra, the percussionist was practicing crashing his cymbals. It’s hopeless, I thought, looking over at the glaring Altairi. There’s no way we can convince them we’re sentient, let alone civilized.

  My cell phone rang. And that’s it, the straw that’s going to break the camel’s back, I thought, fumbling for it. Now every
one, even the musician with the cymbals, was glaring at me. “How rude!” the elderly woman in the white gloves said.

  “The ship’s started its countdown!” Dr. Morthman bellowed in my ear.

  I hit “end” and turned the phone off. “Hurry,” I mouthed to Calvin, and he nodded and stepped up on the dais.

  He tapped the music stand with his baton, and the entire auditorium fell silent. “Adeste Fideles,” he said, and everyone opened their music.

  “Adeste Fideles?” What’s he doing? I thought. “O come, all ye faithful” isn’t what we need. I ran mentally through the lyrics: “Come ye to Bethlehem…come let us adore him…” No, no, not religious!

  But it was too late. Calvin had already spread his hands out, palms up, and lifted them, and everyone was getting to their feet. He nodded to the orchestra, and they began playing the introduction to “Adeste Fideles.”

  I turned to look at the Altairi. They were glaring even more condemningly than usual. I moved between them and the doors.

  The symphony was reaching the end of the introduction. Calvin glanced at me. I smiled, I hoped encouragingly, and held up crossed fingers. He nodded and then raised his baton again and brought it down.

  “Have you ever been to a Sing?” Calvin had said. “It’s pretty impressive.” There had to be nearly four thousand people in that auditorium, all of them singing in perfect harmony, and if they’d been singing “The Chipmunks Song,” it would still have been awe-inspiring. But the words they were singing couldn’t have been more perfect if Calvin and I had written them to order. “ ‘Sing, earthly choirs,’ ” they trilled, “ ‘sing in exultation. Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above,’ ” and the Altairi glide-waddled up the aisle to the stage and sat down at Calvin’s feet.

  I ducked outside to the hall and called Dr. Morthman. “What’s happening with the ship?” I asked him.