Alien Gifts Page 4

  He smiled, and his jaw ridges protruded even more, like sections of a kid's pop-up book when you pull the paper tabs.

  "Er...good evening." My brain seemed to be slogging uphill through cold water. I wouldn't say I was scared stupid, because I didn't feel scared. Apparently just stupid.

  The alien seemed to sense my befuddlement. "Perhaps I should explicar?" He frowned and made another adjustment inside his ear. "Explain?"

  That seemed like a good idea. I led the way to the living room, motioned him to the couch and sat down opposite him. The comforting warmth of my grandmother's hand-crocheted blanket behind my back made it easier to calmly survey the alien in my house. Scents of lavender and bergamot hung in the air, and although that seemed vaguely odd, it didn't strike me as important.

  All in all, it was just as weird as you might expect, but also perfectly okay.

  "I shall be brief," he promised. "I must be in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, in two day's time, to reunite with the delegation of my colleagues which is scheduled to ankommen there." His left ear twitched. "Sorry—arrive there. Similar delegations will be landing simultaneously in capitals all over your world. I was unfortunately separado...(twitch) ...separated from mine in an incident involving my scout ship, a cosmic shoehorn, and a pinwormhole; my ship was barely capable of withstanding atmosphere-entry and it is remarkable that I am alive, unharmed, and, I believe, relatively near my destination." Each time the wrong language came out he shook his head in apparent irritation and twitched his left ear a time or two.

  I nodded. Except for cosmic shoehorns and pinwormholes, everything so far seemed perfectly reasonable. And he was certainly keeping it brief.

  "I have already ascertained that you are in possession of a working wagen (twitch) motor vehicle and that you are capable of operating it. It is vital that I rejoin my delegation as my areas of expertise are human psychology, languages, and cultural protocols. Our mission, and I assure you it is a paisible (twitch, twitch) peaceable one, could well fail without me. Can you assist me?"

  I had to admire him, keeping his cool when his delivery was obviously not all he could have hoped. I opened my mouth to say "yes," but I seemed to be having a problem similar to his.

  "Why me?" Damn, I felt stupid. Here I was, talking to an alien, and all I could come up with was clichés.

  The alien smiled again—actually this time it was an all-out grin. "Why not you? I have been reconnoitering this area for twenty-four hours. I saw no indication that I might not find sympathy and understanding behind your door."

  Sympathy and understanding. Right. And more importantly, a housewife with a few days free and a desperate longing to escape the fall housecleaning ordeal. Things were going well for this alien. First a safe passage through the atmosphere, and now finding me. This time my mouth said "yes," although in retrospect I think my brain was still answering the door.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson was an optimist. He wrote, "Our spontaneous action is always the best." But I'll bet you a hundred bucks he never agreed on the spur of the moment to drive an alien halfway across the country.

  ~o~

  I know what you're thinking. Why in the world did I agree to do it? Ever hear the phrase, "It seemed like a good idea at the time?" Tim and the kids were at my mother's for the week, specifically so that I would be free to pursue the mind-numbing task of fall housecleaning unencumbered by eleven-and-five-year olds. It was Day Three; I'd vigorously cleaned both bathrooms, two bedrooms, and the living room into the realms beyond even spick-and-span.

  I was sick and tired of housecleaning.

  I was, frankly, bored.

  And tomorrow I was scheduled to clean the kitchen.

  Compelling reasons, indeed. If you don't think so, well, you haven't seen my kitchen.

  ~o~

  He wouldn't accept my offer to put him up for the night.

  "My craft is secured nearby and is capable of sustaining me in comfort," he explained, "while you were not expecting a guest. I shall return at whatever time you deem convenient in the morning."

  We agreed on an early start at six. Belatedly and apologizing, he asked my name, but when I asked his in return there was an uncomfortable pause.

  "It does not translate...agreeably," he said finally, and the mauve skin on his cheeks deepened to lavender. Just for an instant a whiff of wet dog shivered in the air. "It might be best if you suggest a name with which you are comfortable, and I shall be known by that while I am here."

  How do you suggest a name for an alien—when you aren't certain of its gender? The last thing I wanted to do was insult him—if it was a him—so I thought fast.

  "How about Aaron?" I held my breath. I was banking on the fact that supposing he/she knew anything about human names, he'd hear "Aaron" if he was male and "Erin" if she was female.

  He/she nodded. "Aaron will be fine." Unfortunately, it worked both ways. I couldn't tell if he said "Aaron" or "Erin," but I decided I'd call him "Aaron" and think of him as male, because that was my first impression. And everyone knows what first impressions are worth.

  ~o~

  Some people are blessed with the gift of thinking on their feet. They're never dumbstruck or paralyzed by unexpected circumstances. They thrive on unforeseen adversity and snap off witty one-liners in the face of danger.

  I hate those people.

  The police headlights drew closer through the torrential rain, crowned by a dizzying pulse of blue and red flashes. I know those lights are specifically designed to fluster their quarry. They work. My brain kept repeating, "Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap," which wasn't going to help me unless the car was actually being driven by Officer Crap, which I doubted.

  Aaron started to turn to face the cruiser, which finally jolted me out of my stupor. I couldn't imagine what the police officer would do if he saw that face—and even worse, that face as I had seen it at the motel a little while ago. I grabbed the tire iron out of Aaron's hand and hissed, "Get into the back and lie down on the seat. Cover up like you're cold. Pull the neck of your sweater up over your chin and keep your cap on." He hesitated, so I gave him a little shove. His eyebrow ridges rose, but he went.

  I hefted the tire iron and strode forward to meet the police.

  ~o~

  The first few hours of our trip had been mostly...idyllic, I suppose. Aaron arrived on time, sporting a woolen cap pulled low and a grey turtleneck sweater pulled high, obscuring most of his face. I hoped it would be enough. I didn't ask where he'd gotten the clothes, but I envisioned large gaps on one of my neighbors' clotheslines. I was ready to go, we slung our bags and a picnic lunch into the back of the minivan and hit the road in good spirits.

  Why yes, I did say "minivan." Oh, I can hear the snickers. A minivan is not a cruising machine, you're thinking. Using a minivan for a road trip is like answering the call of the wild on your digital phone. It's like getting back to nature in an RV complete with satellite dish and built-in sauna.

  However, the van was comfortable, powerful, and its tinted windows offered a lot more scope for Aaron to hide if the need arose. It was relatively clean except for the hatchful of summer detritus from beach, camping and soccer practice—in other words, it looked nice and normal.

  You have to consider these things when you're harboring an alien. Anyway, I had no choice since Tim had taken his car.

  On to the idyllic parts. If you've never experienced autumn in Nova Scotia you won't fully appreciate this. The first few hours of the drive were breathtaking. Stands of maple, birch, ash and oak skirted both sides of the TransCanada Highway, flaunting their fall colors with embarrassing abandon. Here and there an errant blaze of Virginia creeper lit up the wood like the fires that had threatened us all the long dry summer. The evergreen branches of red pine and black spruce stood out like burnt embers in the heart of a campfire. The van smelled of cedar and I thought Tim must have picked up a new deodorizer.

  Driving with Aaron was...interesting. He sneezed uncontrollably at the air conditioning and I had
to turn it off, and when I drew his attention to the bright autumn display he closed some kind of inner lid over his eyes to "perceive the colors."

  As we drove, he grilled me in a very polite way about all sorts of things: Were we likely to see an eagle? Other indigenous fauna? Was television an effective vehicle for social change? Had humans developed a safe and effective use for radioactive waste? Should both sexes serve together in military endeavors? How long had it been since our last armed conflict? The list was diverse, and long, and he was very astute at avoiding answering my own questions directly.

  It took him a long while to get used to roads with no divider down the center. He actually screamed when the first transport truck passed us. He'd squeeze up against his door in terror when other vehicles were oncoming, and I'd have to coax him back to sitting normally and relaxing.

  "So what's a 'cosmic shoehorn?'" I asked at one point, to take his mind off the eighteen-wheeler that was bearing down on us at an admittedly frightening velocity.

  He didn't answer until we had passed it unscathed. "The term may not have translated well," he gasped, mauve fingers white-knuckled on the armrest. "There may be no direct correlation for it in your language. I will simplify. It is a phenomenon wherein an area of space slides into a slightly larger area of space. We have yet to discover the cause of this curiosity ourselves, but if a craft happens to be inside the smaller area when it moves inside the larger area, that craft can in some instances be transported a considerable distance in a very short time.

  "Sounds dangerous," I said, hoping it masked the fact that I really had no idea what he was talking about.

  "In most cases there is no damage to either the craft or its occupants."

  I nodded. "It's actually not a bad translation. But I doubt anyone here has ever heard of it. So that's how you arrived early?" There was another truck on the horizon. Best to keep him talking.

  "Yes, that, and the subsequent encounter with the pinwormhole." He clamped his lips and eyes shut as the truck thundered past.

  "Which is?"

  "An unstable, very small wormhole. They are triggered by our propulsion systems and sometimes open up without warning just as we approach them. Very inconvenient. They do not connect two stable points in space but rather writhe around like...well, like the creatures you call worms. I was unable to avoid the pinwormhole that opened in front of my ship, as I was still disoriented from the effects of the cosmic shoehorn. It is quite remarkable that the two incidents acted in concert to put me so close to Earth."

  "I'll say," I muttered, stepping on the gas and pulling out around a slow-moving station wagon. "I should have called you 'Lucky.'"

  "Dishkat!" Aaron started and made an odd sign with the fingers of his right hand. I caught a whiff of something akin to burning rubber, although I hadn't accelerated that fast.

  I must have looked the question at him, because he settled back in his seat and said, "In my culture, it is unseemly to attribute anything to what you would call fortune or luck."

  "'Unseemly?'"

  The lavender blush crept into his cheeks again. "All right," he confessed. "It is thought to provoke negative consequences."

  I grinned. "You mean it's bad luck to talk about good luck."

  Aaron nodded sheepishly and went back to perceiving the colors.

  I thought humans might get along with these aliens just fine.

  ~o~

  "Ma'am? Would you put the tire iron down, please?" The officer was out of his car, standing behind the shield of its open door.

  Damn! I hadn't thought about what I looked like, heading for him with a hefty chunk of steel in my hand. He probably thought I was planning to whack him on the head.

  "Sorry!" I quickly tossed the tire iron back towards the van, where it landed with a wet splat. I swiped at the water streaming in my eyes and tried to make out the officer's face.

  He came out from behind his car door then, moving closer with cautious steps. "You folks need some help?" He was discreetly surveying the scene, looking for more tire-iron-wielding mothers or other unlikely threats, I supposed.

  Well, I'm trying to get this alien to Ottawa, you see... "No, I think we can manage." I tried to sound cheerful. "My husband was going to change the tire, but he's sick, and he had to go and lie down in the van. I can do it, though."

  The officer had a young and friendly face, and although I caught a hint of dismay as he looked at the muddied pancake that was my right rear tire, I could just tell he was going to be helpful.

  "Well, I can radio for a tow truck, that's no problem. Is your husband all right?" He looked toward the van.

  "Oh, yes, it's just that he has a...a rare medical condition, and he doesn't have much energy. We're heading for...Toronto right now so he can get a special treatment."

  "It's not contagious?"

  "No, no, nothing like that. It's...it's just something I can't pronounce," I floundered, trying to look innocently apologetic.

  Not good enough. "I'll just check on him," the officer said, pulling his flashlight from his belt and walking closer to the van.

  Panic bubbled up in my chest and I glanced at my watch. While we couldn't predict it with any certainty, it was most likely only a matter of minutes until Aaron's autonomic nervous system would kick back in and blow our cover, and there wasn't a thing he or I could do about it.

  ~o~

  If the first hours of our journey were idyllic, the idyll ended just about the middle of the afternoon. I had to make a pit stop (Aaron never did—and I didn't ask), and I pulled into an almost-deserted gas station and convenience store. I didn't need to warn Aaron to stay away from the windows until we got back on the road. He was already clambering into the back while I got out of the van, a ritual we had perfected with all the coffeeshop drive-thrus we'd patronized.

  I swear I was only in the place five minutes, which just goes to show you how quickly things can go to Hell. I know I was fast because a woman came in with a wailing baby and plopped it down on the change table just as I got settled in the stall. I finished up my business, washed my hands and checked my hair as quickly as I could to get away from the crying. Oh, the noise itself didn't bother me—it just made me feel guilty about being away on an adventure without my kids.

  The only other thing I did was stop at the cash to buy some bottled water. The baby was still howling in the washroom when I left the building. Five minutes, tops.

  The first thing I noticed was the kid on the hood of my van.

  He was about eleven, his clothes car-creased and scruffy. There was only one place he could have come from, a beat-up blue Hyundai parked near the door of the building. A faint snoring issued from the half-open passenger's window, where a man slumped in the seat, eyes closed and mouth agape. I calculated that the boy, the man and the Hyundai went with the woman and the wailing infant.

  All this flashed in my cognitive center while I raced to the van. Peripherally I took in the sneakered feet and footprints on the smooth paint and imagined Tim's reaction, but that was too horrible to contemplate so I concentrated on grabbing the kid and dragging him down. Carefully.

  "Hey!"

  "What the heck do you think you're doing?" I demanded. "This is my van!"

  The boy flicked a look at the Hyundai and its sleeping occupant, but there was no help coming from that quarter. He jerked a thumb toward the back seat of the van. "There's a guy in there."

  "Yes, I know. He's with me." I gave him my best motherly glare, but since I wasn't his mother it didn't have much effect.

  He brushed a shock of blond hair out of his eyes and glared back. "He looks really weird. Is he sick or something?"

  I considered scaring him, but that would only loosen his tongue, and I wanted him to keep quiet. The mother would be appearing soon, but I thought I knew the best way around an eleven-year-old boy. I owned one, after all. I lowered my voice.

  "He's not sick, but he is kind of...a secret. Can you keep a secret?"

  The glare g
ave way to a sly look. As expected. "Maybe."

  I bent down, glancing over both shoulders before I spoke. "Could you keep a secret until bedtime tonight, and not tell anyone about the guy in the van...for...fifty dollars?" I hoped I still had that much in my purse.

  A low whistle, and another look at the Hyundai. "Do I have to take a fifty dollar bill, or can you break it up?"

  Ahh, maybe a bit craftier than my eleven-year-old. A big bill he'd have to explain, but small ones and change he could stretch out for a long time without arousing suspicion.

  I knew I didn't have a fifty anyway, but I said, "Okay, if that's the way you want it." I ended up giving him fifty-one, because I didn't have exact change, but I didn't care at that point. When I finished counting it out I said, "So you don't mention the weird guy in the van to anyone until bedtime tonight, right?"

  He nodded, held out his grubby right hand seriously. "Right. 'Cause you'll take back the money if I do."

  That hurt, having him say it like that, even though it was exactly what I hoped he'd think. I just hate feeling smaller than the child I'm bribing.

  But I nodded back, shook his hand, and shooed him back toward his own car, and while I was climbing into the van the woman with the baby emerged looking frazzled and started giving him heck for getting out of the car alone. She didn't even look at us, and we were off again with the tires thrumming the highway beneath us.

  Aaron was upset and apologetic, and what I thought of as his language 'software' was slipping again. Funny thing was, I was starting to understand what he meant even before he corrected himself. "I was in the hinterseite seat, but suddenly he was just there, looking in the fenêtre. I knew immediately that he had seen me. Pido perdón. I should have concealed myself completely while we were stopped."

  "It doesn't matter, I think we're safe enough," I said. "Who would have expected a kid to climb up on the van? That was the last of the cash I had, but we can get along without it. I've still got my credit cards."

  Famous last words.

  ~o~

  "You okay in there, sir?" The RCMP officer shone his flashlight in through the rain-smeared, tinted windows of the van. At least Aaron wouldn't look quite so mauve in these conditions. The officer walked back to me. "So, will I call for that tow truck?"