The music she is playing is exquisitely sad. It seems to reach out from the piano and touch me, and makes me think of all the miles of cold space that separate me from dear sweet old Sandoval. Get down from the branch, Ketchvar, the music whispers. Come closer and I will answer all your questions about human misery.
I know it is risky to get any closer, but I climb down from the tree and slowly approach the house. I can see the woman in the blue dress more clearly now. Can this beauty be Stan Harbishaw’s wife? She is playing the piano with deep emotion, pouring herself into the song. Her black hair flies back and forth as her fingers rise and fall.
It is not just the Filbers, the sad music says to me. Nor does a small house or unpaid bills have anything to do with it. Look at this mansion! Look at me here, rich, talented, and beautiful, with everything I could possibly want. Don’t you hear how unhappy I am?
For a moment as she plays, her head turns toward the window and she seems to look right at me. Her eyes are half closed and her lips quiver with a powerful emotion. LISTEN! the music implores. Can’t you hear the emptiness I feel, the sense that my life is passing me by, that I have sold out my youth and dreams, and that everything I touch now rings hollow and false?
I can almost read the name of the musical composition on the sheet music. I step even closer to the window, so that my nose is pressed to the glass. The title and the composer’s name are still blurry.
I narrow Tom Filber’s eyes to slits and use a Zavornian Retinal Pinch to increase my range of sight. I make out the B first, and then the smaller letters: “Beethoven Piano Sonata Opus 13—’Pathétique.’ “
Then I realize that the music has stopped.
I glance back at the woman just as she stands up from the piano bench. She is now staring out the window right at me. She opens her mouth and screams.
I jerk away from the glass pane and start to run the other way, into darkness. A root reaches up out of the ground and trips me. Before I can stand back up, bright lights come on all over the grounds.
A large man exits the front door holding a baseball bat.
I crawl behind a bird feeder and lie flat, peering around the pedestal at him. His bald head glints in the bright lights. I can tell that he once had the baby face of his son, Jason, but his features are now hard and mean. “Whoever’s out there,” he calls, “the cops are on their way. And I’m going to let the dogs out in a second!”
I pick up a stone and throw it as far as I can. When he looks in the direction it lands, I run the other way. Earth street smarts can come in very handy.
At any moment I expect to hear the growl of dogs, but the yard stays silent. I make it to the fence and start to climb just as a siren sounds faintly in the distance. I swing over the top, jump to the ground, find my bike behind a bush, and pedal downhill.
The human bicycle is a primitive contraption but it’s silent and very fast when speeding down a steep slope. I am halfway down Overlook Road when the three police cars appear almost out of nowhere, racing up toward the mansion.
I just have time to veer sharply into a gravel driveway. My speed and momentum carry my bike off the narrow twisting drive. I fly over the handlebars, land in a particularly large thornbush, and scream.
The pain passes quickly. The three police cars disappear up the hill. I gingerly disentangle myself from the prickers and search for my bike.
21
I stow Tom Filber’s old bicycle in the garage. It has gotten some new scratches and dings from my crash, but it is still quite functional.
The evening has grown so cool that I shiver as I close the garage door. It is now well past nine o’clock. I have had no dinner, and there is not likely to be much waiting for me in the house, unless I want to nibble on an old telephone bill.
I remember the apple I plucked and pull it out of my pocket. It’s very tempting to take a bite, but I recall why I picked it and glance toward the Peabodys’ backyard. I can’t see anything, but I hear faint squeaks.
I walk toward the hedge, and sure enough, in the gathering darkness I can just make out the old swing moving back and forth. “Greetings, Michelle,” I call out. “Do not be alarmed. It is not a stranger, come to harm you. It is only me, Tom Filber.”
“You don’t have to give me that nutty speech every time you walk over here,” she responds. “I’m not alarmed. What’s up?”
It’s one of those tricky human questions. I glance skyward. “The moon.”
She looks back at me, and then peers up at it. “Yeah, it’s a pretty one, too.”
“Actually ‘up’ and ‘down’ are meaningless concepts when considering space,” I point out. “But it is an attractive planetary satellite.”
She asks in a soft voice, “Why don’t you come on the swing and help me push.”
I accept her invitation. Our toes brush as we propel the lever back and forth. Her head is tilted against the back of the swing and she is still looking up at the moon. “Can you believe that people once walked on that?”
“Only twelve of them.”
“How do you know a thing like that?”
“It was a high-water mark of human achievement.”
“You make it sound like we’re all going down the drain,” she says. Then she adds, “Can you imagine what it must have felt like to be up there? To be so far from home that you’re looking down at your own planet?”
My eyes jump from the moon to the million stars in the night sky. For a moment they swirl above me, darting about like fireflies. The breeze seems to carry my father’s faint voice: Ketchvar, Ketchvar. I hold tight to the swing and suck in a few breaths. “Yes, I can imagine how it felt,” I whisper. “They must have been very brave.”
She hears something in my voice and slowly lowers her gaze from the moon to my face. “Are you okay?”
“I was just thinking about my father. He’s having a rough night. I sort of wish I was with him.”
Michelle nods and her face seems to soften. “I can hear your parents fighting sometimes. I’m sorry. It really sucks. But I meant are you okay? You’re bleeding.”
“My epidermis just got scratched. No bones were broken and my vital organs seem intact. But thank you for your concern.”
“What happened?”
“I had to dive into a thornbush to get away from the police.”
Her blue eyes study me curiously. “Why were the cops chasing you?”
“I climbed a fence onto private property to pick you an apple.”
She grins and then laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“Here it is.” I hand it to her. “It was the biggest and best-looking one on the tree.”
She takes it from me and our fingers touch. “Why did you pick this?”
“Because you like apples,” I tell her. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” she admits. She takes a bite, chews and swallows, and her pink tongue creeps out of her mouth as she licks some juice off her lips. Then she smiles at me, and her eyes glow. “Yum. Thanks. No boy’s ever risked his life to pick me an apple before.”
Tom Filber’s adrenaline level spikes. I force it down to an acceptable level. “You’re welcome,” I tell her. “I was glad you showed up at the Teen Green Team meeting. I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Well, orchestra got canceled, and I thought I would check it out,” she says. “Even though it’s probably a waste of time.”
“Maybe we can do some good,” I tell her. “Especially if we work together. I have a few ideas.”
She takes another bite of the apple and considers this. “What’s gotten into you lately?”
I can’t tell her that I’ve gotten into Tom Filber—that I crawled in through his left nostril and fused myself into his cranium using the Thromborg Technique. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like you’re the same guy, but somehow you’ve also changed. In a good way.”
“Maybe I’m growing up.”
“Maybe we both are,” she says very seriously. She hes
itates for a long moment. “Come over here for a second, Tom. I want to tell you something that’s kind of private.”
I slide over to her bench. Our bodies are touching, from shoulder to hip to knee.
“The other night you asked me why I sit out here alone some evenings,” she whispers. “I guess it’s no big secret in the neighborhood that my mom took off about a year ago. I get postcards from her. She’s in San Francisco. My father works most nights. So he leaves me at home with my brother.”
She breaks off for a second. It turns out that we can push the swing from the same side if we get the timing right. Our knees bend and straighten in tandem and we sail back and forth over the dark yard.
“My brother has this Goth band,” she continues. “You’ve probably heard them practicing down in the basement. The music’s pretty awful, but that’s not the worst part.”
“What’s the worst part?” I ask.
“Some of the band members drink and smoke. And the drummer is always coming into my room and trying to put his arm around me. So I sit out here till they leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. What were the words she used when she commiserated with me about my dad? “That sucks.”
“It’s okay. I actually like sitting out here,” she says. “But I don’t know what I’m going to do when winter comes.”
“You’re always welcome in my house,” I tell her.
“You have changed.” She’s staring at me and her blue eyes are now glowing as brightly as the silver moon high overhead. “That’s the first time I ever told anyone about my brother’s band and everything. Thanks for being so understanding.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You don’t always have to be so formal,” she says. “I mean, we’re friends, right?” She smiles at me and half closes her eyes. She’s breathing a little bit harder, and I get the sense that she’s waiting for me to take a decisive action.
I access the consciousness of Tom Filber. What am I supposed to do now?
I think she wants you to kiss her.
You think? Can’t you tell for sure?
No way. No one can tell a thing like that for sure.
Aren’t you a human male? Don’t you understand these behavioral codes?
Hey, give me a break, I never kissed a girl before.
Why not?
Never had the chance.
What if you’re wrong?
You’ll probably get slapped. But I think you should go for it. This’ll be my first kiss.
You mean my first kiss, I correct him.
My lips, Snailface.
I terminate the connection with the Ragwellian Bubble and take a deep breath. Michelle’s eyes are now almost completely closed. Her head is tilted up toward me. She has a dreamy expression on her lovely face.
On Sandoval we do not kiss. Gastropods, after all, do not have lips. But we do have physical means of expressing affection. For example, there is the light brushing of sensory tentacles. There is no reason for a Sandovinian to be shy about initiating such an intimate moment, as long as the attraction is mutual.
I take a deep breath and lower my head toward Michelle. Her lips seem to swim away from me, and I pursue them. Finally, there is a moment of soft contact. Her blue eyes pop open, but she does not pull away. I have the distinct impression that she is kissing me back.
It is a truly wonderful moment. I did not know that the human body was capable of such sensitivity of feeling.
Unbidden, Tom Filber makes an excited suggestion from the Ragwellian Bubble: Go for some tongue action.
I hesitate for a second. Why? This is so pleasant.
It will get even hotter! Go for it. She expects it! She’s waiting for it!
He is, after all, a human, and far more familiar with the habits of Earthlings than I am. I lift my tongue and gently lick the outside of her lower lip.
Michelle jerks away. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I tell her.
She stands up. “It’s really late. And cold. I’ve gotta go.” She jumps down from the swing and hurries off through the darkness toward her house.
22
To:
[email protected] Subject: How to Whistle with Broken Glass
Revered Galactic Confederation Elders. Ketchvar here, banging out a message on Tom Filber’s laptop, in a bit of a panic. I’m very concerned about my mission.
Taking on a human body is increasingly difficult to manage. I find myself susceptible to primitive and powerful urges and impulses. This morning I threw an acorn at a fellow human’s head, and I was glad that it hit him! Now, when I should be concentrating on this urgent GC communication, I find myself stopping every fifteen seconds to gaze across at Michelle Peabody’s dark window.
Is she lying awake? Is she furious at me for kissing her? Does she occasionally glance back at my window?
Esteemed Preceptors, there seems to be a serious problem with the Ragwellian Bubble. Tom Filber is beginning to recover his identity and elements of his free will. He has even found a way to communicate with me of his own volition!
How can I expect to survive on Planet Earth without being able to trust the advice of a native? If he recovers more of his free will, he may actively rebel! He might use his position of adviser to give me the worst possible advice.
I glance across at Michelle’s window. Why did she run away like that? Was she disgusted? Or merely surprised?
Did Tom Filber tell me to go for some tongue action out of ignorance? He had, after all, never kissed a girl before. Or was he intentionally sabotaging my romantic moment? Is he already unreliable? Do I have an enemy inside my own cranium?
Revered Elders, I fear we may have randomly selected a family that is not representative of the human condition. I suggest a team of GC analysts immediately go to work on the question of whether all human families are this miserable and dysfunctional, or if I had the bad luck to hop off our spaceship into a loonybin of a household.
How can I condemn species Homo sapiens because of a mean sister and a violent mother, if there are nice families up and down the block? On the other hand, Michelle Peabody is a lovely girl but her mother ran out on her, her father is irresponsible, and her brother the Goth band manager doesn’t sound very nice.
Her bedroom curtain flutters and I glance over. For a moment I think I can see the outline of her face. I raise my right hand and give her a tentative wave. There is no reaction. I attempt a Retinal Pinch, but I cannot pierce the darkness of her room, and then she is gone.
Esteemed Elders, I have one more urgent and very personal concern.
I have felt the presence of my father, Ketchvar II, trying to contact me from Sandoval. He may have thrown his essence Earthward in a desperate Interstellar Transference.
I am extremely worried about him.
He would have attempted such hazardous contact only if he were lost, in pain, or dying. Sandovinians of extreme age sometimes leave their burrows and wander about in the ooze. They can freeze to death or sink so far down that the mud congeals over them and they asphyxiate.
Can you please check and see if my father is missing from the Ketchvar burrow?
During my last visit home, when he wished me well on this mission, he intimated that he might be growing feeble. My mind was already on Planet Earth and this evaluation. I should have paid more attention to what he was trying to tell me.
Revered Elders, he has been a good father and since I am now trapped in Barrisford, inside a human body, on a vitally important GC mission, I must depend on your assistance. Please contact me as soon as you get any word of his condition.
I will keep my Emergency Contact Wibbler on through the night, or you can send me a message on Tom’s laptop. Thank you! I am counting on your kind help!
The night breeze stirs a branch that brushes my window, and I hear my father’s very faint voice crying, Ketchvar, where are you? I’m lost in darkness!
I stop typing and sit very sti
ll. Then I stand and bolt out of Tom Filber’s room, down the steps, and out into the cold New Jersey night.
23
I sprint to the backyard and find a spot beneath the crab apple tree. I sink to the ground, my back against the trunk, my eyes upturned to the branches and leaves.
I force my worries away and wipe my mind blank. All I hear now are the buzzing of night insects and the rustle of the leaves above my head. The cold breeze blows through me. I reach down deep into myself for the very essence of Ketchvar, and liberate myself.
Gone are the physical limitations of a boy who needs a dinged-up bicycle to escape the police. Also gone for the moment are earthly concerns like an overly ambitious kiss bestowed on a friendly neighbor.
I float up through space. I do not see our spaceship, but I do not pause to look for it. Instead, I hurl myself homeward. Stars cartwheel and somersault, and then merge into a chalky streak traced over a slate black background of emptiness.
Two scarlet pinpricks emerge in the distance. The twin suns of Sandoval.
I float down. It is pitch-dark. The Great Squeak has ended and Sandovinians are in their burrows.
I find Mud Cluster Seven in the Chigaboid Quadrant.
There is a commotion in the Ketchvar burrow. I see old friends and family members, looking worried. Search parties are setting out, slithering through the cold night ooze and lifting off on silver floaters.
I wish I were there, I should be there directing the search! But I can only join them in spirit. My astral presence follows my relatives through the ooze, listening as they call out to my father.
I soar with another search party over Sandoval’s surface on a silver floater, while scanners probe the cool muck for Ketchvar II’s unique chemical fingerprint.
No one finds him. No search party hears him. No scanner senses him.
I had forgotten how silent Sandoval is at night: as dark and silent as death itself.