Alien Contact (16 page)

The light came lower, hovering just above the buildings a few blocks away. I left the window and stood by my door, flicking the light switch so that the bare bulb in the ceiling went on and off, on and off, repeating the pattern I had seen. I didn’t know how the aliens responded; from my post by the light switch I could not see out the window. As I was repeating the pattern for the third time, I heard the wailing of a siren and the muffled thunder of a police helicopter. I abandoned the light switch and hurried to the window.

The helicopter was circling nearby. The roving beams of its spotlights reflected from the raindrops, forming bright shafts of light that seemed to connect the copter to the ground. The spotlights moved in a frantic, erratic pattern, rippling over the cars, the alleys, the walls of buildings.

Sirens in the street, bright lights flashing blue and red and blue and red, the rattle of gunfire, a distant explosion—I backed away from the window, suddenly frightened. I turned off my light and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin. I hadn’t meant to lure the spaceship in too close. I hadn’t meant to cause trouble. For a long time, I lay awake, listening to the sirens.

The next day, Harold said that there had been a drug bust down the street. “Thank God they’re doing something to clean up the neighborhood,” he said to Mrs. Goldman, who wasn’t listening.

Harold believes what he reads in the newspapers. He doesn’t know about the aliens. He doesn’t see the world as it really is.

With the alien claw on the arm of my chair, I lie in my bed, trying to sleep. My room is not a quiet place. The bathroom faucet drips, a delicate tap, tap, tapping in the darkness. The wheezing of buses and the rattling of Muni trains drift up to my window from the street below. My next-door-neighbor’s TV rumbles through the walls—he’s a little deaf, and he keeps the sound turned up loud.

On this particular night I notice a new noise: a furtive scrabbling that stops each time I move. I sit up in the bed and look around, thinking it might be a rat. I’ve seen rats on the stairs, nasty gray shadows that flee at the sound of footsteps.

The metal claw is no longer on the arm of the chair. I wait, remaining very still. Finally, by the pale moonlight that filters through my window, I see the claw crouching among the bags and boxes. As I watch, it begins to move again, pulling itself along with its three digits and dragging its broken stalk across the carpet. I shift my weight, the bed creaks, and the claw stops, freezing in position.

It seems so frightened and helpless, crouching on the floor in the darkness. “It’s all right,” I say to it softly. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. I’m your friend.” I remain very still.

Eventually, the claw moves again. I hear a soft rustling as it pushes between the paper bags. I hear it rattling among the broken umbrellas. I fall asleep to the gentle clicking as its digits flex and straighten, flex and straighten again.

In the morning, I see the claw sunning itself in the pale morning light that comes in the window. When I was a girl on my grandfather’s farm, the morning light was yellow—like the corn that grew in the fields, like the sunflowers on the edge of the garden. But the city light is gray. I remember reading somewhere that different stars cast light of different colors. I wonder what color light the claw is used to.

During the night, the claw has improved itself. It has six legs now—the original three and three more that look like they were constructed from the ribs of a broken umbrella. When I sit up in bed, the claw scurries away, seeking refuge among the boxes and bags. I watch it go.

It’s comforting to have something alive here in my room. I had a kitten once, a scrawny black alley cat that I found hiding under a dumpster in an alley. But Harold found out about it and told me cats weren’t allowed. When I was out, he got into my room and took the kitten away. I don’t think he could catch the claw and take it away. I’ll bet that the claw would hide so well that he wouldn’t even see it.

I get up and wash my face. In a cracked cup, I make myself a cup of instant coffee, using hot water from the bathroom tap. I eat a sweet roll from a bag of day-old donuts that I bought from the shop on the corner. As I eat my breakfast and get dressed, I talk softly to the claw that I know is hidden somewhere among my things. “No one will find you here,” I tell the claw. “I’ll make sure of that. You’ll be okay with me.”

The claw does not respond, but I know it’s there, hidden and silent. I finish dressing, take my shopping bag, and go out to see what I can find.

The day is cold and a bitter wind has swept the gutters almost clean. Though I search for hours, I can’t find any other spaceship parts. I find other things: a few aluminum cans, a rhinestone brooch with a broken pin, a stray button from someone’s coat. Near a construction site, I find a one-foot length of cable made up of many strands of copper wire. But nothing else from the spaceship. Finally, late in the afternoon, I return to my room.

The claw has been busy while I was out. In the narrow space between the bed and the bags of things, it has built a metal framework from the narrow ribs of broken umbrellas. In my absence, it seems to have gained confidence. As I make my way to the chair, it continues working.

The framework forms a cylinder that is maybe six feet long and two feet across. As I watch, the claw neatly snips another rib from a broken umbrella. Carrying the strip of metal in its two front feet, it makes its way to the end of the cylinder, then begins to weave the strip in with the others, pushing it over and under the crisscrossing strips of the framework. It’s a clever little machine, busy about its own business. I wonder if it even notices that I’m home.

I set the shopping bag on the floor at my feet and begin to sort through my acquisitions. Boldly, the claw comes over to investigate these additions to my collection. It examines the cable closely, gently separating the individual copper strands. I watch for a moment and then put my hand down by the floor, wiggling my fingers as if coaxing a cat to come nearer. The claw abandons the cable and turns toward my hand, approaching cautiously. It touches me delicately with two of its digits, hesitates, then clambers onto my outstretched hand.

My hands are still cold from being outside. The claw radiates a comforting warmth, like the glow of a wood fire. Moving slowly, I bring it to my lap. It folds its legs beneath it, snuggling down. I stroke it gently and the claw responds by vibrating pleasantly, like a cat purring.

“Were you lonely before I found you?” I ask the claw. “Were you lost and all alone?”

The claw just keeps on purring. I can feel its heat through the fabric of my dress. The warmth soothes my aching legs. It feels so right to hold the claw and just sit.

“You must have been frightened,” I say. “It’s much better when someone’s with you.”

I stroke the claw, knowing that I should get up and heat up some soup on the hotplate. But I’m not hungry now, though I haven’t eaten since the sweet roll I had for breakfast. Through my window, I watch the sky grow darker. I relax, reluctant to move, and I consider the framework that the claw has constructed.

It could be something dangerous, I suppose, but I rather doubt that. The claw seems like a friendly creature. I study the structure and think about what it might be. Back in school, I remember experimenting with a worm called the planaria. If you cut off a piece of a planaria, the piece will grow into a whole planaria again. All you need is a piece, and the piece re-creates the rest.

Suppose that the alien spaceship was like a planaria. Each part of it contained all the information about the whole thing. Break off one piece, and that piece would go about reconstructing the rest. I consider the framework that the claw has built.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” I say to the claw. “I think you are rebuilding the spaceship that blew up.”

The claw shows no interest in my theories. After a time, it scrambles off my lap and gets back to work, busily weaving the copper wire in and out through the framework it has built. Every now and then, it selects a metal button from the box of buttons, threads the wire through the holes in the button, and then continues its weaving. I can see no pattern to its selection or placement of buttons. That night, I lie awake, listening to the rustlings of the claw as it searches among my things and assembles them into an alien pattern.

I wake to the rattle of aluminum. The claw is hard at work. Flattened aluminum cans fill the gaps in the framework, held in place by a lacework of copper wire. Pearl buttons and rhinestone brooches, scavenged from my bags and boxes, sparkle among the cans. The claw scrambles over the surface, tirelessly weaving copper wire over the can that it is adding. It looks so natural there: like a spider on its web.

I don’t want to leave. I’m afraid that if I leave, the claw will be gone when I come back. I sit on the edge of the bed to watch it work. As I watch, it hesitates for a moment, and then leaves its work to rest on the floor at my feet. When I reach out to touch it, it clambers onto my hand and lets me put it in my lap. For a time, it sits in my lap and purrs, then it returns to work.

I feel sad, watching the claw build the craft that will take it away. Eventually, I go out on my usual rounds, unwilling to watch any longer.

It is a cold, bleak day, and I find nothing of interest. A few aluminum cans, a few bottle caps. Maybe the claw can use them to complete its work. I carry them back to the hotel.

My social worker is waiting for me in the lobby, perched uncomfortably on the dingy sofa. She sits between Mrs. Goldman and Mr. Johnson. She is talking brightly about something, but they are ignoring her, lost in their own hazy thoughts. She catches me before I can slip past.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “I was quite worried when you missed your appointment. I asked the manager to check your room.” She glanced at Harold, but he was busy with his papers, refusing to look up. “You know, we really must clean up all that trash beside your bed.”

I stare at her. “What are you talking about?”

“All those cans and things. It’s really a health hazard. I’ve already arranged to have someone come in tomorrow and—”

“You can’t do that,” I protested. “Those are my things.”