Only Alien on the Planet (18 page)

“Really,” James said.

“PBS,” Charlie said, citing his source, and went back to his meat loaf.

“So maybe the key is,” my dad ventured, “just let the kid pick it up. Forget teaching him. Just do it, and let him watch. He'll get it. Especially if he's as bright as you guys say he is.”

“You're so wise,” James said, grinning at Dad.

“Why, thank you, James,” Dad said graciously. “Perhaps some day, you will be too.”

“I doubt it,” Charlie said, his mouth full of meat loaf.

“You better hope so,” James said, huffy now. “
Some
body in this family's going to have to be able to support Mother in her old age.”

“Excuse me?” Mom said.

I loved it, the way she lifted her eyebrows. I wondered what she was like when she was my age.

“Look out, Ginny,” James said. “You're staring again.”

I
f I had to explain Smitty in one word, I think I would have to choose the word “quiet.” This should not be read as tranquil; Smitty's quiet in those days, and for a long time after, was borne out of deep weariness and confusion. Some of it, the confusion, disappeared quickly enough, but his fatigue was soul weariness— that has to be healed over time. And forever after, there would always be that quiet left in his face and his voice.

He had spent so long using his face as a blind that the delicate coordination of thought and movement, the impulses that bring a face to life and are second nature to everybody else, had to be carefully learned and practiced. His face was so sober at rest, a person could easily miss his sense of humor, which was dry and intelligent. Caulder made that mistake a hundred times, early on. Even so, anyone who was interested enough could have learned to read a full spectrum of meaning in Smitty's face.

So when I say that Smitty smiled, what I mean is just the very barest tucking up of one corner of his mouth, hardly a movement at all. And when I say he spoke, or laughed, or even yelled—these were all shadings of his ever-quiet voice. Everything he said, especially in those first weeks, was spoken softly. You could learn to
hear the irony there, or frustration, or affection or the occasional bitterness. But he always spoke so gently, you could miss all the meaning just by thinking you'd heard the words.

The best place to read his feelings was in his eyes. He had a very direct, unguarded, searching look. It could make you very uncomfortable, that look—as though he was reading your whole soul.

When he was first learning to take charge of his own life, he was still at the point where words didn't easily string themselves together between brain and mouth. He'd break his sentences in funny places, waiting for the language to catch up to the thought. The words were almost always perfectly, intelligently pronounced, though sometimes he seemed surprised when they came out of his mouth. If he spoke a good number of words together, you could bet it was something he'd thought out carefully and rehearsed before he made the effort to say them.

It was a long time before Caulder understood any of this. He was too eager to listen, still too impatient to watch and learn. But in a way, it was the fact that Caulder was being such a pain that finally made Smitty take hold.

Caulder always started out our sessions the same way: “How
are
you?” he'd ask, always with the same look—like he was a cat fixed on a rat hole. This time Smitty blinked at the ceiling and answered, “How are
you? “

“I'm fine,” Caulder said, sounding a little puzzled. Outmaneuvered, more like.

“I'm fine too,” I said, gloating over Caulder. “Except for my math.”

Then Caulder, looking at Smitty with something like new respect, said, “Ginny's nearly hysterical. Zabriski finally called and asked her out.”

“Pa-
lease
,” I said, getting my own chair. But the truth was, I was feeling pretty darn good that day. I moved my chair over close to the bed.

“You wanted this,” Smitty said, his eyes on me.

I grinned. I couldn't help it.

“You are happy,” he said. Maybe he was asking. It was suddenly kind of hard for me to sit still under that look.

“It is nice that he called,” I said. “I feel very—good.”

“Your face,” he said. He moved his hand slightly, just short of touching his own. “You have light.”

“Okay,” Caulder announced. “Down to business.” He folded his hands. “So, how are you today?” he asked, this time more conversationally.

Smitty heaved a tremendous sigh.

“Just answer me and we can get past this,” Caulder offered. “It's not that hard.”

“You don't have to give him a very serious answer,” I added. “It's a customary question. You've heard people ask it a million times. Most people just say
fine.
”

“Fine,” Smitty said.

“But that doesn't tell me anything,” Caulder objected. “Besides, you don't look fine.”

This was true. Smitty had looked extra tired to me when I'd first come in. He seemed a world wearier now. He had turned his face
to the ceiling again, away from Caulder's eyes. “I don't understand,” he said after a moment. “You pursue me.”

“I want to know,” Caulder told him.

Smitty folded his hands over his chest. “By what right?”

“I'm your friend,” Caulder said, catching fire a little. It wasn't often he got anything like dialogue out of Smitty. “And Ginny's your friend. That gives us the right to ask you.”

“We have no contract,” Smitty said.

“You can leave me out of this,” I told them.

Caulder gave me a sour look and went right on ahead. “We care about you. We worry about you. How else can we assess your situation? How else can the doctor learn what you need?”

“How else,” Smitty echoed.

“What I don't understand,” Caulder went on, “is why you look so flipping tired all the time. You look like you haven't slept a night since you've been in here.” Actually, Smitty had lost a lot of that waif-like delicacy we'd seen on him the first day. I mean, I was definitely still thinking of him in waif terms, and his eyes were still shadowed and sad, but now he had a little more weight and color in his face, and didn't look quite so ready to die.

“You have math?” Smitty asked, addressing the ceiling.

“Smitty—” Caulder said.

“Yes, I do,” I said, overriding him. I bent over to get my book.

“I just want to know how you
are
,” Caulder insisted, ignoring me.

“Caulder,” Smitty said wearily. “You ask too much.”

“
Why? “
Caulder said. “What is the big
thing? “

“Leave him
alone
,” I said. I dropped my math book into Caulder's lap, hard. “One-fifty,” I said. “Find the page.” The monitors were telling us this was not a good situation, and you could hear the stress in Smitty's breathing.

“What is the
problem? “
Caulder demanded, shoving the book away. “Just tell me how you
are
.”

I turned on him and said, “I think he's trying to, if you'll just shut up and pay attention.”

Then Smitty began to talk.

“The problem—” he said, speaking carefully, breathing hard. He paused, his eyes closed. “—I am pulled to pieces. You ask. They ask. Everybody wants access. Why?” And then, “It costs me. I can't answer.”

“It's a simple question,” Caulder protested.

Smitty closed his eyes. He had a handful of sheet.

“To you,” he said, his voice ragged, the words coming slowly. After a moment, he went on. “All night. The doctor—simple questions. My mother—” He held his hand out—"pushes. Crying. All the time. She wants—” He lifted his hand and let it fall, a helpless gesture. “I don't know. My father—in the chair. Silent. Waiting. Wanting. The doctor, again and again. And every day, you. Always you.” He reached for a breath. He had a tight hold on the sheet. “It costs me.” He looked at Caulder for a long moment. And then asked, “Can you understand?”

There was a silence.

“Sorry,” Caulder said.

“Normal people,” Smitty said softly, carefully, “assume privacy.”

“Sorry,” Caulder said again.

“Math,” I said firmly. I got no argument this time. I also got very little help. I finally read a problem out loud, and after a long time, Smitty tried to talk me through it. He never turned his face to me, but he finally let go of most of his sheet. Caulder didn't make another sound.

But he couldn't stand it for long. “We should go,” he said as soon as we'd finished that problem. He stood up, gathered his materials, put his chair back against the wall, and began to pull on his parka.

I sat there, watching him.

Smitty stirred. “Stay,” he said.

Caulder paused, his arm part way into the sleeve of the parka. He pulled the rest of it on slowly. “Okay,” he said, and he sat down in his chair by the wall.

“Ginny,” Smitty said. “Alone.”

I saw the hurt in Caulder's face. “Sure,” he said. “Okay. I'll wait out in the lobby.” Caulder looked at me blankly and nodded once. Then he picked up his books and left the room.

It was very quiet after that.

“You hurt him,” I said finally.

Smitty sighed.

“He doesn't mean to cause you pain,” I told him.

I looked past him to the window. There was nothing to see out there except the light gray sky and a few bright scarlet ivy leaves. Kind of a desolate view.

Smitty took another slow breath, maybe reaching for balance. He began to speak again, almost as though to himself. “I have read—of
every human condition. Goethe, Dostoevsky, Hugo, Montaigne. I thought—But. Only theory…observation. Not understanding.”

The monitors kept up their soft beeping, a faint sound in the corner of the room. “ I think in language—” he went on. “I write. I write well. I thought—speaking…” He took a breath. He moved one hand up along the sheet until it rested over his heart.

“It isn't that easy for anybody,” I said.

“It's quick,” he said. “Perilous. I plan words inside. Outside— they change.” He closed his eyes.

I put my hands together and willed myself silent, waiting for him to finish.

“It is too hard,” he said finally, sounding tired as all the earth. “I should not have come back.”

“From the party, you mean?” I said.

“From the water,” he said.

I opened my mouth, and then shut it before it finally struck me what he meant. “You mean, from being drowned? You mean—you don't mean—you're not serious.”

He didn't answer. And that scared me. Sometimes, people who say these things end up meaning them.

“Smitty—” I said, standing now, maybe too close to him.

“Michael,” he said softly.

I stopped. “Pardon me?” I asked.

“My name,” he said. And then he opened his eyes and looked at me.

“Michael is your name?” I repeated stupidly. “Don't you like to be called 'Smitty'?”

He studied me for a moment. “No,” he said. His hand was still resting over his heart. “My name is Michael.” He was still looking at me. I sat down.

“Nobody knows it,” he added.

“You could've said,” I pointed out.

His eyes were still on me, but I couldn't read them.

“When I write,” he said, “I sign my name.”

And with a jolt, I remembered the title page of that Machiavelli paper. Michael S. Tibbs, it had said. “S.” Smitty. Probably Smith. Michael Smith Tibbs.

I sat back into the chair. So. “Do you want me to tell everybody?” I asked.

His eyes still holding mine, he shook his head slowly. It was private information.

“Not even Caulder?” I asked. Not even Caulder.

He turned away from me again.

I was listening to him so hard, so hard. “Don't be sorry you're alive,” I whispered. “You should never think that way.”

He made a soft sound. “I do,” he said.

“Then you just stop it,” I said, taking hold of his sheet. “You put it away from you. I mean, what if they hadn't been able to bring you back? You wouldn't be here now.”

“Ah,” he breathed. “What hell—could be better?”

“The point is,” I said, leaning over so that I could see his face, “what's happened has happened, and okay, it's been horrible. It's been abominable. But it's over now. It's over.”

When he met my eyes, there was something like amusement in them. “Over?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, but I had a hard time meeting his look.

“Always,” he said. “Whatever I become. Wherever I go. There will always—be this.”

I let my breath go in exasperation. “But can't you just, like—rise
above
it? Get on with your life? Can't you just forget it and move past it?”

And then, into his eyes there came a shade of amazement. “No,” he said. He had been wise, all these years, never to have looked anyone in the face. His eyes were too unguarded. Just now, I was seeing myself in them, and seeing how little I really understood about the world.

“I don't want to hear you to talk like that,” I said, my hands shaking.

He made a soft sound and turned his face away.

“You're scaring me,” I plead with him.

“I don't lie,” he said.

And then I finally realized what I'd done. What Caulder had been begging for and the doctor had been hunting—Smitty— Michael. He'd shown it to me. But all I wanted to do was make him stop.

I dropped into the chair. And I said to him, “I'm sorry.” I folded my hands in my lap. Words were sticking in my throat. “I'm sorry. Sometimes the truth is hard to hear.”

The monitor went on with its gentle sound, regular and steady in the quiet that followed. The wind blew outside the windows and the red leaves danced and tapped against the glass.

“I am a coward,” I explained carefully. I was hugging my elbows in tight. “But I can try to be brave from now on. I want you to
be—alive. I want this to be over. But I can be brave enough to listen to you, Michael. I'm being brave enough right now. I think. I'm sorry. Even though this still scares me. Because I really do care about what happens to you.”

He hadn't moved.

“Caulder asks you the questions,” I went on quietly, “because he knows you're hurting. And he hates that. He doesn't want you to be alone with the hurt. He doesn't want you to be separate anymore. He wants you to let him be part of your pain, so he can make it less for you. He's just not very good at it.”