Starman

  “ ‘Honeymoon’ is what we call it when two people first get married and they go off together and get to know each other and . . .” She swallowed again, but this time the lump in her throat refused to go away. A tear zigzagged a path down her cheek. She didn’t pull away when he reached out to touch it. Drawing his finger back, he studied the moisture thoughtfully.

  “Salt water. What?”

  “Tears.” She spoke sharply in spite of herself. Would he sense that her anger wasn’t directed at him? That the renewed fury was born of frustration and aimed at whichever callous fates had decreed an early death for the kindest, sweetest man she’d ever . . .

  Stop it, she ordered herself. The one thing she didn’t want was to break down in a place like this, least of all in front of him. She didn’t want to have to do any more explaining, because that would mean having to do some more remembering. She’d done altogether too much remembering these past few weeks.

  “They’re called tears,” she told him, once she had herself back under control. “My husband, the man in the picture—Scott? He’s dead. He’s the one you’re copy—” She broke off, sniffling, and tried again. “We do that down here. Make tears. It’s called crying. When somebody you love dies we cry about it.”

  “Define ‘love.’ ”

  She tried to smile through her tears. “You ask the simplest questions, don’t you? I don’t know—it’s like you care about somebody else more than you care about yourself, but it’s more than that, too. It’s like somebody is part of you and when they—when they die . . .” The words dissolved into soft sobs. She finally finished and found herself fumbling in her purse for a handkerchief, tissues, anything, only to have to use the table napkin. “Shit,” she muttered as she dabbed at her face.

  “Define ‘shit.’ ”

  She choked on the unbidden laugh. “Don’t say that.” She tried to be serious. “That’s not a nice word.”

  He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. Or maybe she imagined it. The waitress joined them, balancing their order on both arms.

  “Shit,” the starman said emotionlessly.

  Jenny was trying to dry her eyes and straighten her expression at the same time. “Don’t mind him, please. It’s—he’s a foreigner. He doesn’t speak English too well yet.”

  The waitress favored the starman with a jaundiced eye. “Well, he’s got a hell of a start on it. Who’s the deviled egg on white toast?”

  “He is.”

  “Right. And a superburger, two orders of fries, two choc malts and two Dutch apple pie with whipped cream. Had a wedge of it myself at lunch—it’s terrific. We’ve got a little old gal who makes them every morning, gets in here all by herself at six. Does everything by herself, won’t let anybody else near the oven while she’s baking and . . .” She saw the look on Jenny’s face, smiled and backed off. “Yeah, I know. I’ve got a nonstop mouth. Sorry. Enjoy.”

  Jenny needed two hands to lift the hamburger and keep it together. It was overflowing with onions and pickle chips and juice. She was also just about hungry enough to eat an entire steer all by herself. She had to force herself to eat slowly. After two bites she noticed that the starman wasn’t doing anything, just sitting there staring at his plate.

  “Well, go on, dig in, eat,” she told him. “Fuel.” She took another bite out of the hamburger, felt the juice run down her chin and hurriedly found a clean napkin to wipe herself. The starman observed this silently, then used both hands to lift his wedge of pie and bite into it. It started to come apart in his fingers.

  Jenny put her burger down quickly. “Hey, wait—signals off. That’s your dessert. You eat it with a fork, not your fingers.” She demonstrated with her own utensil, then showed him his. “That thing. Okay? And you eat it last. Sandwich first, dessert last.”

  “Why?” He took another bite out of the pie.

  She considered. “Why? Who knows? What am I, Emily Post? Give me a break, will you. Hey, what’s the matter?” A strange expression had suddenly come over him.

  “Dutch apple pie?” He held it in one hand and used the other to try and keep the filling from oozing out all over his hand.

  “That’s right. You like it?”

  “It’s terrific!”

  “See? For a primitive species we do have our good points.” She took another bite out of the hamburger and followed it with a swig of malt. He imitated her movements perfectly with the pie and his own drink, even to leaving exactly the same amount of malt around his lips.

  The door swung inward. A bus driver entered trailing several passengers in his wake. All of them headed for the counter while the driver matter-of-factly addressed the room.

  “Fifteen minutes. Anybody for Grand Island, Lincoln, Omaha, or Chicago, the bus leaves in fifteen minutes.”

  The passengers filled up the counter, ordering pie and coffee and an occasional sandwich, while Jenny tried to instruct her companion in the fine details of terran etiquette. He had no trouble with the silverware because he ignored it, eating with his fingers and explaining that he abhorred duplication of effort.

  He indicated the fingers of one hand, clutching the malt with the other. “Tools.” He nudged his knife and fork. “More tools. Duplication of effort. Why use twice as many tools as you need to perform same task?”

  “Well, because it’s more polite that way.”

  “Silly. Waste of energy.” He finished the last of the pie and started in on the sandwich. “No fork?”

  “No. You eat a sandwich with your fingers, just like you’re doing.”

  He considered this, finally shook his head sadly. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  Jenny wasn’t sure she did either . . .

  The passengers were starting to trickle back onto the bus. The starman ignored them, producing loud sucking noises as he drained the last bit of malt from the bottom of his glass. Jenny had already finished. She sat quietly, watching him.

  “Don’t they have food like this up there?”

  “We draw what we need from different sources. Energy, fuel—difficult to describe in English.”

  “You mean, like pills?”

  “Difficult to describe. Not any taste like this, but make you feel happy inside, all over.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got some of those floating around down here, too.” She rose. “Excuse me. I’ve got to, ah, you remember?”

  He nodded. She turned and headed toward the bar area, toward the little overhead sign and arrow that pointed toward the restrooms.

  Before turning down the narrow corridor she looked back toward their table. He was still sitting there, staring out the window now, not even bothering to see which way she’d gone. For a moment she hesitated, reconsidered what she planned to do. Then she moved on. Not toward the pair of doors at the end of the narrow hallway, but through the big swinging one that led into the kitchen.

  This meant she had to walk past the pool tables. Her passage drew several appreciative whistles and one mildly obscene gesture with a pool cue from the well-lubricated hunters. She ignored them utterly and didn’t look around until she was safely inside the kitchen. The waitress who’d served them was waiting for an order-to-go, glanced over curiously at the intruder.

  “Listen,” Jenny whispered anxiously, “is there a back way out of here?”

  The older woman considered a moment before replying. “Yeah, sure. Through the back entrance and around through the parking lot. Why?”

  Jenny didn’t give her a direct answer. “You know the guy I came in with? Well, I wonder if you’d mind giving him these—after the bus leaves.” She handed over a fistful of items. “It’s just a map, and some car keys, and a credit card.”

  The waitress took them. “You sure about this, honey?”

  “I’m positive. He’ll know what it’s all about.”

  “Yeah, I expect he will. Okay.” She shoved the stuff into one of her apron’s copious pockets, picked up her order, and exited through the swinging door. She was back before Jenny was
halfway to the service exit.

  “I wouldn’t go out the back right now, honey. That friend of yours? He’s out there in the parking lot.”

  “Oh no. Now what?” Mumbling to herself, she turned and rushed back into the dining room, having to run the same beer-sodden gauntlet of ribald remarks and envious eyes. Sure enough, their table was deserted. She leaned over and peered out the window.

  There he was, out in the middle of the poorly lit lot, standing next to the hunter’s car. He was doing something to the dead deer strapped to the front fender. Well, if that kept him occupied, maybe she could find another way to sneak ’round to the waiting bus.

  Her eyes suddenly widened and she pressed her face right up against the glass. The deer was moving.

  Crazy. It was so crazy. She watched at it slid off the fender and tumbled to the pavement. The starman backed up, watching the animal closely. Shaking itself, the deer got to its feet. It stayed there for a long moment, scanning its surroundings as if orienting itself. Then it turned and trotted briskly off into the trees.

  The deer’s former owner had been staring at Jenny for as long as he could stand it. Now he sauntered up behind her to whisper into her ear. She smelled him at the same time she heard him.

  “ ’Scuse me, miss, but you strike me as a meat-eater. I could fix you up with a nice haunch of venison, and maybe a shot of pork to go with it if you . . .”

  Her head snapped around and he saw the dazed look on her face. It was as if she hadn’t heard a word of what he’d said. Frowning, he looked past her, out toward the lot.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Wait.” She reached for him. “You don’t understand. I don’t understand either, but it’s not like you think.”

  “Like hell, lady! Let go of me!” He shook her off and stomped toward the doorway.

  The starman was staring off into the woods where the deer had disappeared when the hunter grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and spun him around. “All right, bright boy. What happened to the goddamn buck?”

  “Buck? Define ‘buck.’ ”

  “The deer. My five-pointer, damn you.” Furious, he gestured toward the now empty fender.

  The starman turned and nodded toward the woods. “He went away. There, into the trees.”

  “Okay, comedian. We’ll do this your way.” He feinted with his left. Instinctively the starman went with it, following the threatening lunge of the balled hand. That left him wide open for a hard right which sent him sprawling on the asphalt.

  “Bingo.” The hunter looked pleased with himself.

  His victim shook his head and tried to stand up. Four gray marbles fell out of his windbreaker.

  “Still not feelin’ talkative, boy?” the hunter growled. “Okay. Let’s try it one more time. What happened to the buck?” The starman ignored him as he turned to scramble after the precious spheres. A heavy boot slammed into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him and sending him falling to the ground in pain for the second time.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Jenny was screaming as she came running across the lot.

  The hunter barely glanced at her. “Butt out, girly! This ain’t none of your business. I don’t give a shit if he is your boyfriend. I want my buck back. Now.”

  “He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t speak English. I told you that.”

  While Jenny occupied the hunter’s attention, the starman had regained his wind as well as his footing. Now he approached and tapped the hunter on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me.”

  “What?” The hunter turned. As he did so, the starman executed a perfect left-hand feint in imitation of the hunter’s earlier fake. The hunter went with it and caught a right cross that sent him skidding on his tail end across the pavement.

  “Bingo.” The starman inspected his fist with evident satisfaction.

  The stand-off was short-lived. The downed hunter’s buddies had been content up till now merely to watch. With their friend hurt they came piling out of the cafe and into the starman. Their target fought back valiantly, but with a repertoire consisting of a single feint and punch, soon found himself on the losing end of the fight.

  It was about to get serious when three sharp, echoing bursts from a forty-five brought the conflict to an abrupt end. The three hunters halted their blows in midpunch to stare back at the Mustang. Jenny stood there, pointing the pistol skyward. She nodded toward the hunter the starman had flattened. The man was still wondering what had hit him.

  “Pick up your garbage and get going!” Jenny told them.

  Another figure came out of the cafe, detaching herself from the crowd that had been drawn by the gunshots. The waitress put a comforting arm around Jenny’s shoulders.

  “You okay, honey?”

  Jenny lowered the muzzle of the gun and the three standing hunters stiffened. They were having a hard time getting their buddy back onto his feet. “Yeah. Now I am. Thanks for caring.”

  The waitress licked her lips, her gaze moving from the hunters to the young woman standing next to her. “Okay. I just wanted to tell you that the eastbound bus is about to leave. Want me to try and hold it a little longer? I know the driver. He’s a regular and he’ll do it if I ask him. But he won’t be able to wait long.”

  Jenny shook her head. The onlookers had vanished, presumably to reboard the bus. “Never mind. Thanks, but—never mind.”

  The waitress nodded, dug into her apron. “I expect you’ll be wanting this stuff back.” She returned the map, keys, and credit card. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Jenny smiled reassuringly. “I’m fine now. Both of us are. Go back to your tables and thanks again.”

  “All right. If you’re sure.” She turned on her heel and headed back toward the cafe.

  Jenny walked over to the starman. He’d recovered his property and turned to face her. “I thought guns make you little bit jumpy, Jennyhayden.”

  “You make me little bit jumpy, remember?” She reached up to touch his battle-scarred face. “You look like you’ve been in a war.”

  “Define ‘war.’ ”

  “Not now.” She searched through her purse until she found her handkerchief. “We can’t have you walking around like that, bleeding all over everything.” She handed him the bit of cloth. “Here, wet this.”

  He eyed her blankly. She dampened it herself and set about wiping the gore and grime off his forehead. Such a familiar forehead, familiar in every detail. She moved down to clean out his eyes, his lips. It wasn’t easy, working over that face. Emotionally, she was as badly banged up as he was physically.

  “I thought I told you to steer clear of those bozos,” she said accusingly as she worked on him. “We’ve got to get you looking halfway human again.” Suddenly she realized what she’d said and almost broke out laughing.

  “I am sorry,” he said contritely. “I thought . . .”

  She touched his lips with the handkerchief, stilling his apology. “It’s okay. I understand. I think.” She searched the pavement until she found the somewhat battered baseball cap, set it firmly back on his head. After a moment’s hesitation she turned it around so that the bill was on back to front.

  “Looks better that way.”

  He nodded and started for the Mustang. “Thank you, Jennyhayden, for your help and your concern.”

  She smiled jauntily. “All part of our friendly Earth service. We don’t do windows, though.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Skip it.”

  By this time the hunter who’d precipitated all the trouble had recovered sufficiently to watch as his tormentor climbed into the green car across the lot. He tried to follow, but his friends held him back.

  “Lemme go! Lemme at the bastard. Goddammit, Donnie-Bob, let me loose!”

  Jenny noticed the commotion and hurriedly turned the key in the Mustang’s ignition. It was time for them to get out of there. The last thing she wanted was to be anywhere in the bellicose hunter’s vicinity when h
e fully recovered his senses.

  Unfortunately, her nerves were still jangled and she drove for the lot exit a bit too fast. At the same time the hunter broke away from his friends and staggered wildly toward her, stumbling into the path of the oncoming car. As she hit the brakes his friends managed to grab him and yank him out of the way. The Mustang skidded past, fishtailing and stalling out. One of the men tried to get his arms around his irate companion while calling to her.

  “Hey, take it easy!”

  “I’m sorry,” she shouted back at him, trying to coax the engine back to life. “I just want out of here!”

  Observing this verbal byplay, the starman decided it would be a propitious time for a display of politeness. Recalling his last polite parting he extended the middle finger of his right hand, as he’d seen the trucker at the service station do, and smiled broadly at Donnie-Bob and friends.

  “Up yours.”

  Already luckless and buckless, the hunter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he went from furious to near incoherent. “I’m gonna kill that sumbitch!”

  Jenny wrestled frantically with the ignition. “Oh my God—start. Come on, damn you, start!”

  The Mustang growled to life. She burned rubber as she roared blindly out onto the highway, the tires squealing as she fought for control and Donnie-Bob’s fingers just scraping the door on the passenger side. His face was livid.

  “Come on, dammit!” the hunter yelled. He and his companions piled into the old sedan. The ancient V-8 rumbled and he spun the car backward, threw it into drive, and thundered out onto the highway—straight into the side of the eastbound bus, which was just emerging from the other end of the parking lot.

  Heads bounced. The front of the sedan crumpled and steam rushed skyward. Inside the bus, there were curses and a few yelps from startled passengers who had just settled in for the next leg of the long cross-country haul. A six year old began to bawl.