Only Alien on the Planet (23 page)

“You realize what you just did?” she asked after the voices had all faded from the room.

But he was still not talking.

“You just fired him as God of your life. You can see him now—a nasty, warped, sad little human being. And you know nothing he ever told you was true. Congratulations. That took a lot of character.

“Now—where do you go from here? Because you get to choose. There's a big, wide world out there.”

She patted him on the shoulder. He didn't flinch very much at all.

She nodded at me. “You did okay,” she said.

“Can he go home now?” I asked her.

She smiled, and I got the impression I had just asked a very naïve question. “He's got a little way to go here yet,” she said. “Especially after this.” But she had said it kindly. Then she left the room, trotting after Michael's family.

“Well, personally, I think you should start by taking karate,” I said to him.

He was staring at the doorway.

I looked at the clock. The whole thing had only taken about forty minutes.

Suddenly the bed began to shake. I looked down. Michael had started to shiver, very hard.

“Oh-oh,” I said, and found the controls, so I could flatten the bed out again.

He pulled his fists up and crossed them over his chest, shaking like he had some kind of palsy. His teeth were even chattering.

“Am I dying?” he managed to ask.

I started tucking the blankets in around him. “I think it's just reaction,” I said, almost sure I knew what I was talking about. The amazing thing was, I wasn't feeling any reaction at all. Except maybe this odd, unbelievable lightness of being. I had conquered the world. I had been brilliant. I felt like singing really, really loud.

A few minutes later, an orderly came in. “Doctor Woodhouse said you'd probably need these,” he said, covering Michael with a couple of heated blankets.

“Thank you so much,” I said, because Michael couldn't get any words past his teeth.

“It'll pass,” the orderly told us, unconcerned.

And after a while, it did.

“You were very brave,” Michael said some time after all of this. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. I was sitting in the chair, after several minutes of bouncing around the room.

“Yes, I was,” I said. “Who woulda guessed? I am very, very brave.”

“And I am very tired,” Michael whispered.

“You, yourself, were incredibly brave,” I told him.

“Yes,” he said wonderingly. “But why?”

“Because you are—” I sang, “—you are the defender of truth and—truth.”

He began to pull the blankets loose, throwing them to the side and struggling to get himself upright.

“You want me to raise the bed?” I asked, sifting through the sheets for the controls.

“No, no, no,” he said almost crossly. “Just need to sit up.” He dropped his legs over the side of the bed, then braced his elbows on his knees and put his face into his hands. “Exhausted,” he said, the word muffled by his fingers.

“And no wonder,” I said. I was ebullient. I'm not sure why, but I was.

“I don't suppose he could be dead now?” Michael said, still into his hands.

“He might as well be,” I said. “At least, he is no longer immortal.”

“Good,” he said. And raised his head. “I'm hungry.” He looked thoughtful. “I want pizza,” he said. “Do you want pizza?” He looked at the clock and then straight down at me. “Look how late,” he said. “Your date.”

“I don't have one,” I said. “I told you that before.”

“Caulder told me—”

“I did have one, but I don't now,” I said.

He looked at me, thinking that over.

“Why?” he said.

But I wasn't ready to answer that.

“Are you so anxious to get rid of me?” I asked, flirting away from the point.

“No,” he said. “But why?”

“Why what?” I asked him innocently.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why, the date?” he asked again. “You've been so—lit up.”

My ebullience had started to ebb.

“Now you're the one asking questions,” I said to him.

He flinched as if I had flicked something into his face.

“It's all right,” I said, even though it really wasn't. Not just then. “But now you understand why Caulder does it.”

“But it is all right?” he asked. “My asking?”

“Y-e-sss,” I said.

“Then why?”

I growled at him. “I canceled it,” I said. “I didn't want to go.”

“But—” he started.

“I didn't feel like going,” I said, trying to make that sound final. But he had a lot to learn about conversational hints.

“You were happy,” he said. “You like him.”

“I don't know him,” I reminded Michael. “I don't know if I like him.”

Again he stopped, thinking it over.

“I don't like him,” he said carefully, not looking quite at me. Then, “The mystery is over. Now you know everything. You're finished here—

“Or do you want pizza? We could order one. I could order one. I could—call. I could call.”

“I think that's a great idea,” I said, ignoring the question behind the offer.

But then he made a disappointed sound.

“What?” I asked warily.

“No money,” he said. Then he brightened, and when he looked at me, there was something very much like mischief in his eyes. “I could probably make Russell pay for it,” he said.

“Perfect, Machiavelli,” I said, rising from my chair. “You want me to go get him?”

It was mean of me, of course. When he closed his eyes, I felt awful. But they didn't stay closed long. “N-ooo,” he said carefully. “I don't think so.”

Then we were smiling at each other.

“I think,” he said thoughtfully, “I might feel happy. Almost happy. But still exhausted.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, even though I suspected I really didn't.

And then, out of the blue, he said, “You want to sit up here?” And he patted the bed next to him. I dropped back down into my chair.

“N-ooo,” I said.

“No?” he said.

“No,” I said firmly.

“You were just up here,” he said.

“You were sick and drugged at the time,” I pointed out. “And you didn't have that look in your eye.”

“What look?” he asked me. As if he didn't know.

“Like you might be thinking about Marti Avery,” I said.

He blinked. “I wasn't,” he said. “I was thinking about you.”

“I know,” I said.

“But I shouldn't?” he asked me. The mischief had gone.

I didn't have an answer.

He sighed and looked around the room. “I wish we had cards,” he sighed. And then he looked at me. “You have been—valiant,”
he said. “Caulder too. But you—very kind to me. Especially kind. Are we friends?”

“Yes,” I said. “We are.”

“And after this?”

“You have a lot to learn, Michael,” I said, serious now. “Actually living around people is so different than just reading about them. It's a lot of work. People are very complicated. Maybe, when you know a little more, you won't even want to be around me.”

He studied my face.

“I'm not stupid,” he said at last. “I never was. I always observed. I do know things. Not about interaction. But about goodness. And honor. I know what I respect.

“I saw you the first day. I have been listening to you for days and weeks and months. I went to the movie that time, with Hally and Caulder. So you wouldn't cry, Ginny. But also—because I wanted to.

“I always liked your talk. Like an open window. Leaf smoke on the air. Autumn. My heart—” He closed his eyes and pressed his hand over his chest as if there were a pain there. I held on to my chair. “You make it impossible,” he said, his eyes still closed.

Then he opened them. “But I understand,” he said sadly.

“Oh,” I said, and I just started to cry. I didn't even know I was going to do it. “Michael,” I said. “Just shut up.” I dashed the tears out of my eyes with the backs of my hands and then glanced at him embarrassed. He was looking down at me helplessly. The word “aghast” popped into my mind. “It's all right,” I said to him, fanning at my eyes and laughing a little. “I don't know what to do with you.”

He slipped awkwardly off the bed and settled himself on the floor beside my chair. Then he gently, deliberately, picked up my hands, one in each of his. After that, he pulled about the lowest trick in the book—he kissed them. My hands. One at a time. It wasn't stupid or sloppy or too much either. It was a perfect gesture. Unnervingly perfect.

“Don't love me,” he said, looking up at me.

“I told you,” I said, “I wasn't sure about that.”

“Shh-sh-sh,” he said. “It isn't important.” He still had my hands. “But care for me? A little while?” He brought his shoulder up. A shrug. A good one. “Just a little while. And I'll care for you. And we'll see.”

“Oh, Michael,” I said again.

“Come down here,” he suggested, now patting the carpet. Then soberly, “I'll write a poem for you.”

“That's a bribe,” I said, swiping at my nose.

“Yes,” he said.

So how could I not?

O
f course that wasn't the end of the story. I'm not sure the story will ever be completely finished. To this day, Michael hasn't really been able to entirely forgive Russell, and that troubles him. He has gotten to the point that he can speak to his mother. And he eventually found with his father a common interest in history—albeit, his dad's interest tended to be less political than automotive.

They kept Russell at the clinic for several months, testing him and working with him. I don't know what was wrong with Russell. Caulder thinks that every person comes to the hour of his birth with his personality already in place, for good or bad—and that his life afterward will only shape what is already there.

I think that things happen, and that, if we don't do something to change them, they just keep happening. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it's a nightmare.

It's been hard for Michael. And maybe it always will be. They kept him at the clinic till nearly Christmas. It seemed interminable to all of us, but it was only the beginning of a long process. You don't undo years of behavior in a couple of weeks. But he does have a strong mind, a strong body, and a strong desire—those
things, together with his luck, have helped him turn his anger and his intense hunger for human meaning into something closer to compassion than to despair.

He has made a solemn promise to himself that there will be no cycling of his trauma—that, whatever he finds of Russell in himself, whatever cruel or dishonest things, he will drag them out into the light and deal with them. I have never heard him speak a lie, nor have I heard him say a damaging word to anybody. Not ever. It's joy and light he loves; he has been on the other side of darkness, and he doesn't intend to go back.

Anyway, once he finally came home, they decided not to send him back to school. It was our last year, and he was so far ahead anyway; it wasn't like he was going to miss anything but the stress.

But his mother was concerned that he'd lose too much if he just sat around for all those months until college. So she took Caulder's mom's advice, and “sent” Michael to study with my mother, the local educational hobbyist.

And that's how it happened that Michael got worked into the fabric of our family, and how Michael and Charlie—and, eventually, Paul—became so close. And that is how Michael gradually became a permanent fixture in my life.

On one of the typical million, million nights of his new life, Michael ate dinner with us, and Caulder came over after. We all sprawled around the fireplace—Caulder lost somewhere in his dreams, Michael and Charlie playing cards, James generally messing around, and my folks reading the paper.

“Ginny got an application from a school in California today,” Charlie said. “Give me three cards.”

“Did you?” Michael asked, looking over at me.

I nodded.

“Is it a good school?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“You going there?” Charlie asked.

“I haven't decided,” I said.

“They haven't accepted you,” James pointed out.

“James,” Mother said wearily. “Why don't you put your exuberance out for the night and go get a book to read?
Now? “

“You got any acceptances?” Charlie asked Michael.

“It's kind of early for that, isn't it?” Mother asked.

“I have some,” Michael said. “My mother sent applications out last year.” Charlie had to work to get it out of him which schools he'd heard from. It turned out there were some impressive names on the list. No surprise there.

“They going to fight over you?” Charlie asked.

Michael looked up. “I hope not,” he said.

“So, have you decided?” Charlie put his cards down.

“Have
you? “
Michael countered, and laid his cards down carefully in front of my brother. Charlie hissed and sat back. “I shouldn't have taught you this game. Julliard.”

“That's the first I've heard of this,” Mother said.

“What?” Dad asked.

“He's decided to go to Julliard,” she said.

“Who?” Dad asked.

“Who do you think?” Mom said, giving him a funny, fond look. “
Char
lie.”

“Really,” Dad said, looking thoughtfully at Charlie.

“So,” Charlie went on, not to be put off. “What about you?” He dealt another hand to Michael.

“I don't know,” Michael said. He was obviously not talking about it.

“They still going to take you, even though you don't finish out this year?” Charlie asked.

“They've already accepted me,” Michael reminded him. He started rearranging the cards in his hand.

“So,” Caulder said from his stomach on the hearth rug, cheek on his hands, “Why haven't you decided?”

“I don't know,” Michael said. “Two cards.”

“You just choose the best one,” James said.

Michael glanced at him. “That makes sense,” he said.

“You worried about cutting it in the Ivy League?” Caulder asked him.

Michael looked at him. “Aren't you?”

“Man,” Caulder said. “Don't worry about that. You've been top honors all your miserable life.”

Michael did his funny little smile, and then he pulled out another two cards. “What else did I have to do?” he asked, and he put the cards down. “Two.”