Rhubarb (34 page)

After a few moments, Jeffrey relented. He brought a rheumy
eye back to Martin. “So help me, if you’re screwing with me…” The door slipped
shut behind him.

“Thank you,” said Martin. “And nice throw.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice the last few weeks,” said
Cheryl. “What do we do now?”

“We make the pie,” said Martin. He slapped the pack of Pall
Malls down next to the rhubarb and rubbed his throat.

“Smoking will kill you,” said Cheryl.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Martin.

Martin had expected every nuance of the making of the pie to
be scrutinized, but he and Cheryl worked virtually ignored but for the kitchen
sensors. Even through the language barrier and the muffling glass, the squishy
ruckus in the viewing room seemed perfectly clear. Jeffrey argued, waffled, and
equivocated. Every breath of secondhand smoke seemed to enrage the accountant
more. Her voice was more pointed and precise, as if she had the facts and the
moral high ground. Martin hoped she was on his side. Chumpdark thoomed angrily
when he could get a word in edgewise.

“I don’t think they care for smoking much,” said Lee.

“That’s what I hoped,” said Martin.

“How’d you figure it out?” asked Cheryl. “I mean, unless
it’s…”
Not real?
she mouthed behind a hand.

“Pie-making 101 with Doris Solberg,” said Martin. “She showed
me pictures of your mom and your grandmother, always smoking, even while they
baked. I put two and two together.”

“Is that why your friend is so sick?” asked Lee. “Being
around smoke and pollution so much?”

“Are you talking about Stewart?” asked Cheryl.

Martin nodded. “Laura and Milton and I have been looking in
on him since you disappeared, but…”

“But?”

“He’s not going to be the same when you get back.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had to take off the human skin—they call it a dermis—but
I don’t think he can put it back on,” said Martin. Cheryl sighed, and Martin
blew another cloud of smoke into the rhubarb and sugar.

Cheryl worked quickly, and Martin had to smoke only five
cigarettes before she put it in the oven. After Cheryl set the timer, she
slumped onto the floor against a cupboard out of direct view of the arguing
aliens.

Cheryl tucked her knees up against her chest and asked,
“Where is he?”

“Who? Oh, Stewart?” asked Martin, joining her.

“He’s in my motel room,” said Lee. He sat where he could
keep an eye on the glass and the door.

“The Brixton Inn,” said Martin.

“My producer’s looking after him,” said Lee. “I hope.”

“Cheryl, he loves you, and he’s been trying to stop all
this,” said Martin. “Are you okay?”

Cheryl had buried her face in her knees. “I keep hoping that
I’ll wake up,” she said. “That I’ll be back in my bed, alarm going off, and
late for work. But it keeps getting worse. I don’t know what to believe
anymore.” A squishy tentacle thwacked the glass as if in response. “And maybe
I’d be able to think clearly, if those things would quit fighting over there.”
She grabbed a metal pan from a shelf and hurled it at the glass.

The nobbering ceased when the pan struck and clattered onto
the floor, then resumed. Jeffrey took over the discussion, and then several
phlegmed objections arose at once. It sounded like the goons had joined the
debate.

“And what is he even doing here?” Cheryl asked Martin,
jabbing a thumb at Lee. “I’m not some back-of-the-milk-carton national news
story on BI, am I?”

“No,” said Lee.

“That’s good, because I might have to do something to you,
and I doubt they’d stop me this time,” Cheryl said.

“Everyone knows about the portal, though,” said Lee. Cheryl
shrugged.

“It’s how they get on and off Earth,” said Martin.
“Wormholish thing up the Deaver Creek bluff on Highway 360. A bunch of Wakers
were there when we came through.”

“I think we may have topped Orson Welles,” said Lee.

“What? This was on the radio?” Cheryl asked.

“A little,” said Martin, and then turned to Lee. “What do
you make of the National Guard?”

“Probably crowd control,” Lee replied.

“Not some kind of UFO squad?”

Lee shrugged and threw up his hands, and then said, “You
look surprised.”

“I always figured you had people scanning military radio
traffic, or had contacts with insiders who tipped you off to this type of
stuff,” said Martin.

“Oh, good grief,” said Cheryl. “You don’t take anything on
his show seriously, do you?”

“We’re on an alien spaceship,” said Martin.

“That doesn’t mean you…oh, never mind,” she said.

“She’s right,” said Lee. “I’m an interviewer. People show up
and I ask them questions. That’s all.”

“But why all the paranormal stuff if you don’t believe in
it?”

“I found a niche and filled it,” said Lee.

“A niche?” asked Martin.

“I’d done local radio for about ten years. Morning talk,
drive time, whatever. But then during the first Gulf War in ’91, the Pentagon
offered to fly local media types to hang out with local troops for a few days.
It sounded like an adventure. So I signed on, and I found myself out on this
airbase in Saudi Arabia a few clicks from the Iraqi border. One night, I
stumbled on a rumor about strange lights in the sky near the base. UFOs coming
to keep an eye on American air operations, they said. So I packaged it all up
nice and spooky, tongue in cheek, and sent it to my producer. When I got back a
week later, no one wanted to talk about anything else. No one got the joke. The
phone rang off the hook, and the ratings…? It didn’t take long to figure out
that there’s a market for this stuff after the sun goes down.”

“What were the lights at the airbase?” asked Martin.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. Lee laughed. “See? My point exactly.
They were rumors at the end of a long chain of telephone tag. Or a joke—bored
soldiers keeping themselves amused in the desert. I was a radio guy living out
a bit of military fantasy, not a journalist. I didn’t realize that I should be
appalled that people cared more about UFOs than the war.”

Cheryl returned her forehead to her knees, and Martin wished
he could comfort her. But it had begun to sink in that he’d given these
sadistic squids the secret they needed. He flushed. What if he’d misread the
situation? No, no way I, Martin Wells, FastNCo. Area Account Representative,
could have ever misconstrued the intentions and motivations of a completely
alien culture. What if they’re not arguing about the cigarette smoke? Maybe
they’re upset that they now have to sacrifice rhubarb-growing capacity for
tobacco plantations. He scanned the room for some way to stop it. Too late to
destroy the pie; they’d only bake another. Too late to kill himself, although
it would be a bit of a relief. Besides, what would an afterlife hold for
someone as stupid as Martin Wells? He pictured himself in a dunce cap for
eternity. Any human who ever lived could punch him in the face once a day.
Twice if you got neurotoxined. Even Gandhi would take a swing every few
millennia.

“It’s probably a little late to become a journalist,” said
Lee.

Cheryl knocked her head against the cupboard several times,
and then asked, “What are we going to do? We can’t let them get away with
this.”

“I have an idea,” said Martin. “But it’s not a particularly
good one.”

“Why?” asked Lee.

“Because it’ll probably kill us in the process,” said
Martin.

Lee turned to Cheryl, who shrugged, then back to Martin.
“Well, tell us already,” he said.

~ * * * ~

Although every pie had its own fingerprint of crimping,
cinnamon and sugar, vent slits, and phrenological lumpiness, the steaming,
golden-brown thing that Cheryl removed from the oven seemed too generic.
Shouldn’t it glow, or levitate? Instead it was a simple dessert on the
stainless-steel table among the discarded rhubarb leaves, sloppy dusting of
flour, and melted puddles of crushed ice—it couldn’t be the most dangerous
object in human history. Could it?

“Smells good,” said Lee.

The cigarette smoke that Martin blew on the pie’s steaming
vents couldn’t usurp the homey, sweet scent that had filled the kitchen. Martin
could almost believe that he could step out the back door into a fine summer
morning in Brixton, Montana. There might be a couple of semis warming their
engines in the parking lot. He’d lean against the back wall of Herbert’s Corner
and enjoy the meadowlarks, the blue sky, even the final drags on this last
cigarette he ever hoped to smoke.

“Put that thing out,” Jeffrey called over the PA, destroying
the illusion. “I’m coming in.”

Martin stubbed the butt into a coffee cup with the other
ashes and stained filters and put his hands up. The door opened, and Jeffrey
entered, followed by Chumpdark and the accountant. The goons hadn’t come in
yet, but the door remained open. Martin had hoped they’d all come in and close
the door. Patience.

“It needs a few minutes to cool,” said Cheryl.

“Cut it,” said Jeffrey, and before she could protest, he
added, “It’ll cool faster that way.”

Cheryl sighed. “Plates are over there,” she said, sending
Martin to a cupboard. He chose one plate for each of their captors. Cheryl
waited until he returned before she touched a knife to the center of the top
crust. “It’s really better if it…”

“Now,” said Jeffrey. The staple gun pressed the point.

Cheryl sank the knife in and cut first one slice, then the
rest of the pie into five even wedges. She dug through a drawer, and then
another, and then found what she needed on the sink counter. Martin hoped they
didn’t sense her deliberate delay. She returned with the pie server and
carefully set the slices on each of the plates that Martin held out for her.
The hot filling oozed out into a puddle around each slice and provided a tangy,
citrusy aroma. Lee caught Martin’s eye and gave him the most imperceptible of
nods.

“Will anyone need a fork?” Cheryl asked.

Chumpdark leaned in to dangle a nostril over a slice and
inhaled deeply. His bulbous head bobbled as he lurched back up and grunted a
few phrases.

“He says it smells delicious,” Jeffrey said.

“What were you arguing about in there?” Martin asked.

“Arguing?” said Jeffrey. “You misunderstand.”

“I don’t think so,” said Martin.

“Think what you want.” Jeffrey bent over and took his own
whiff. “Just like Mother used to make, no?”

Cheryl’s hand hovered over the knife on the table, but
Jeffrey waved the staple gun a little closer. “Not much of a sense of humor
with this one, Martin. Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your life
with her?”

“Oh, I’m very sure,” said Martin. He wanted to pull the
lighter from his pocket and prove it, but they needed more time.

Jeffrey tested his piece with the tip of a tentacle,
smearing off a bit of the filling and curling it up under a gray flap. Jeffrey
slurped, and the tentacle stretched out a bit, then snapped free as he quivered
slightly. “Tart, but sweet,” said Jeffrey. “So far so good.” He hurbled to the
others and slid his plate closer. The goons entered and took theirs. Chumpdark
picked up his plate and deftly inspected it all around on the tips of several
tentacles.

The accountant took hers last. She blurted angrily and
hurled her plate against the glass. Chumpdark called after her as she slithered
out. Martin exchanged a worried glance with Lee, but she had gone. The
gray-green filling and shattered crust slid down the glass, even as the
unbroken plate rolled across the floor.

“I think she’s more of a cake person,” said Jeffrey. He slid
his slice, plate and all, up under the flap of flesh. He closed his eyes, and
smooshed deep in his body. He held still as he drew out a clean plate, and then
he quivered, bending his body sideways, returning upright, wide-eyed and
laughing. “Martin, my friend. Congratulations.”

The goons slurped theirs off their plates. Chumpdark ate his
in one slurging bite. His flab and loose head magnified the resulting quiver.
Chumpdark tossed up some tentacles and cleaned the crumbs from his sticky fold
with others. He jibbled and turned to leave. Martin sniffed the air. Nothing
there but pie and cigarettes. Lee shook his head. A few seconds later, the
aliens retreated to the viewing room and resumed their argument. The accountant
returned, her devices bristling with data. She nudged Jeffrey away to put the
information in front of Chumpdark.

“So is it a success?” asked Lee. “The pie, I mean.”

“It’s right,” said Martin.

“There never was a secret recipe,” said Cheryl.

“I doubt your mom even knew,” said Martin.

“Unbelievable,” said Cheryl. “Now what? Our plan didn’t work.”

“Not yet,” said Martin. Lee had managed to extinguish the
pilot lights on the stove while Cheryl cut the pie. Natural gas was leaking
into the air, but too slowly. “There’s still a chance. Maybe we can get them to
come back in here.”

Martin heard a sound that, hearing once, he never wanted to
hear again—like a plummeting blimp of oatmeal crushing a cow. Mucousy gray
chunks and thin, pink liquid had been splattered on the glass. The chunks
formed sliding dams of horror. They heard a thumperous struggle, and then the
horrible sound again, and then again. The fourth time, a fresh splatter of gray
gore coated the windows. A clear slip of plastic stuck to the glass and emitted
a 3-D spreadsheet into the kitchen.

“Oh crap,” said Martin. “Help me, quick. We need a lot more
gas, and fast.”

Near the stove, Martin smelled the rotten eggy odor.
Together they scooted the stove out into the aisle. A metal-wrapped hose
stretched between the appliance and the wall. Martin climbed over the stove and
tested all the connections. “I need a wrench, or get back here,” he said.