The Silvers Page 14

  “What did you dream about?”

  “Could never remember once I woke up.” Imms listens to the tiny glick-glick-glick as B rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Come upstairs?”

  “Not yet,” Imms says. “Sorry. I just need—”

  B nods. He heads for the stairs.

  Imms stays there for a long time, listening to the hum of the kitchen through the doorway. He wonders what B dreams about. What Bridique dreams about, and Mary. NRCSuckers. He wonders what secrets he keeps from himself. None, he decides. Probably the reason his dream seemed real is that the dream was as simple as he is. No hidden meanings, no symbols, no magic. Just a silly desire to travel through miles of space, wave to those he left behind, and return to Earth. A fantasy that he might hold on to both worlds and bounce between them on a whim.

  He shivers, no longer afraid, but cold.

  When he returns to the bedroom, B will be asleep.

  Imms will lie beside him and still be on his own. Even if B appears in Imms’s dreams, he can offer no protection. He’s not real in the dream world. This is what Imms fears most about staying on Earth—what he will have to face by himself. He came here to avoid Alone, but Alone is under his skin and branches through all of him.

  He returns to the bedroom, where B breathes slowly. Imms settles beside him. He has already pushed B away twice tonight. A third chance seems—but, it turns out, is not—too much to hope for. B’s arms wind around him, and Imms sinks back, relieved. B sings into his neck, his beard stubble scratching Imms’s smooth skin. Imms laughs quietly, because B is half-asleep and the song has no real words. But it is still music, and it’s still the best sound on Earth.

  On the local news tonight is a story about people who dressed as Imms for Halloween. Children and adults painted their skin silver and some used contact lenses to distort their eyes. One boy put a flashlight underneath his jacket to simulate a drifting, glowing heart.

  “Look, B,” Imms says as B passes through the living room.

  B stops to watch the montage of trick-or-treating Silver imposters. “Don’t let all this attention go to your head.”

  “Go to my head?”

  “Don’t let it make you think you’re better than you are.” He tugs a hank of Imms’s hair.

  “Ow, I won’t.”

  B kisses him behind the ear.

  Elise Fischer interviews Michael Huffman, the boy who put the flashlight under his jacket. “That was a very cool effect,” Elise says.

  “It worked pretty good.” Michael rubs his nose. “Except I ran out of batteries after, like, an hour.”

  “What made you decide to dress as the Silver for Halloween?”

  “I dunno. I just thought it’d be cool. I knew a lot of people were gonna be doing it, so I tried to make my costume extra good. The Silver’s kind of mysterious, you know? Like a superhero.”

  “Thank you so much for joining us, Michael.” Elise turns to the audience. “The Silver, Imms, inspiring a number of Halloween costumes this year. Coming up, it’s available in eight yummy flavors, but what’ll it do to your kids’ teeth? A sticky Halloween treat that’s better left in the bag.”

  Imms reads Pride and Prejudice, most of the Nancy Drew mysteries, and Gulliver’s Travels. He especially likes the latter, because he loves the idea of islands—little bits of land surrounded by water. It would be hard to dry out on an island.

  He can’t read all the time, though. Reading never grows boring, but B promised him he’d find lots to do on Earth. Imms spends almost all of his time at home or at NRCSE. Just the thought of what else is out there is enough to make him restless.

  “Can we go to the park?” he asks one Saturday afternoon. He wants to get out of the house, which feels too small to hold the two of them plus the shadows that surround B.

  “Don’t you get tired of people gawking at you?”

  “I like the park.”

  “I’m staying in,” B says. “I’ve earned a lazy day.” So Imms makes do with a movie Bridique lent him.

  The next day they go to NRCSE. Imms doesn’t have to see the doctor, but the psychologist gives him tests. She makes him count things. First, objects in the room: wooden blocks, toothpicks, pores in the acoustic ceiling panels. She has him solve math problems on the computer. She quizzes him on colors. She shows him a chart of human faces with different expressions and asks him to pick the face or faces that best demonstrate how he’s feeling. She shows him a movie where cows, chickens, and pigs are killed and made into food for humans. Afterward, she makes him pick faces again.

  B drives him home, and Imms nestles under a pile of blankets on the couch, trying not to remember the animals being killed. It is not just Silvers that humans cut into. It is not just each other. Anything that breathes and has blood. Anything that isn’t quick enough to escape.

  B’s phone rings, and B answers it in the odd, too-happy voice that means the caller is someone he hasn’t spoken to in a while. B keeps using the word no, as though he’s afraid whoever is on the other end might hang up suddenly. “No, I’m good.” “No, that’s great. It was great.” “No, I’m glad to hear from you.” He thanks the caller and says, “You too,” before hanging up.

  Imms curls deeper into the blankets. B had a life before—and now has a life outside of—Imms. B has his friends, his coworkers, his enemies. Imms’s only friends are Bridique and Mary, and they belonged to B first. No one is his except B, and B is so hard to wrap tight and claim.

  There are the NRCSuckers. Maybe Violet Cranbrim is his friend.

  He waits and listens to B’s footsteps, hoping B will come to him. B goes to the bathroom, humming to himself. Imms listens until the flush of the toilet drowns out the sound.

  Two days later, Imms goes to the park. He waits until B is at work. A goon patrols the hedge, but Imms watches until the man turns his back, then slips out the window and through the shrubbery. Soon he’s running so fast that even if the goon sees him, the goon won’t catch him. He slows when he reaches the street, and he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up. He walks to the park, keeping his head down, but unable to stop himself from glancing at the people—on bicycles, walking dogs, holding children by the hand. Frisbees soar through the air. Couples sit on blankets and shiver.

  Imms wants to get to the woods, where he will be safer with—fewer people. He would love to sit and watch the people in the park, but they might try to talk to him, and he’s not allowed to answer their questions or ask any of his own.

  He’s not sure if he’s walking the right way to get to the wooded trails. His sense of direction is not as good on Earth as it was on his planet. He is walking along the line of trees, looking for the trail entrance, when he notices a man sitting on a bench, wearing a hooded sweatshirt like Imms’s. Imms nods at the man as he passes. He has learned this is another way of saying hello.

  “You Skaggs?” the man asks. He’s pale and thin, and his leg never stops moving. Imms turns. “What’s wrong with your face, man?”

  Imms doesn’t answer.

  “Whatever you’re lookin’ for, I got it.”

  Imms nods, wanting to keep going, but not wanting to be rude.

  “What you lookin’ for?” The man’s leg bounces up and down, rattling something plastic in his pockets.

  Imms shrugs, not at all sure what the man is talking about. “What’s the best?” he asks.

  “This ain’t a fuckin’ restaurant, man. Let’s do this quick.” He hooks a finger in his pocket and lifts out a small bag—just the corner of it, just so Imms can see it. “Shit kicks like a mule. One-fifty.”

  Imms takes a dollar and fifty cents from his pocket.

  A voice says, “Don’t move. Hands where I can see them.”

  A police officer approaches from the trees, hand on his holstered gun. Another officer follows. The man on the bench bolts. Imms does the same, but instead of running toward the park, he goes through the trees into the cover of the woods. One of the officers chases him. “Stop,”
the officer yells. “Freeze.”

  Imms runs until the trees end and he reaches the road. The police officer is still crashing through the woods behind him. Imms recognizes the road toward downtown. Lots of people are always there, and it will be easier to lose himself. He speeds up. A siren whines nearby. Suddenly two more officers come from a different direction. “Stop!” they yell.

  Imms reaches downtown’s Main Street. The crowd parts for him as he pounds down the sidewalk. One man reaches out and tries to grab his jacket, but Imms is too fast. He dives to the ground and presses himself as hard as he can to the pavement. For an instant, he thinks it will work, that he’ll slip under the surface. Then somebody grabs his elbow and hauls him to his feet. His hands are yanked behind him, and his body is shoved against the brick wall of an antiques shop.

  Imms is shaking so hard that breath can barely find its way into his lungs. A crowd gathers, and the people who have identified Imms make such a commotion that the officer shouts at them to shut up.

  The officer pulls Imms around to face him. His eyebrows go up. “Fuck. Get him to the station,” he says to the other officer. He addresses the crowd. People have their phones out and are elbowing each other to get closer. “No pictures! Photographing the Silver is not permitted.” The officer extends his arms, shielding Imms, as Imms is led to a car and urged inside, behind a cage wall.

  “Did you hear me? No pictures.”

  At the police station they take computer pictures of Imms’s fingers. The woman who puts his fingers on the scanner looks disgusted by them. An officer asks him what he was doing in the park, what he was buying from the man on the bench. Imms is too terrified to speak. Finally, they call NRCSE, even though Imms asks them to call B. The station is loud and ugly, the fluorescent lights harsh. Imms’s head throbs. He tries to think like Tin Star, who never complained when he got in a jam, who was always brave and always clever. But he is not Tin Star. He is Imms, and he wants B.

  They make him wait on a bench. One of the officers sits beside him, offers him water. Imms takes it gratefully, but after the first sip, the cup slips from his hand.

  The officer picks it up.

  “Can you call B?” Imms asks.

  “NRCSE called him,” says the officer. “He’ll be here soon.” The officer claps Imms on the shoulder and leaves.

  After 2,049 seconds, B walks through the door. Imms runs to him, throws his arms around him and hides his face in B’s neck. B gives him a quick squeeze and whispers, “Not here.”

  Imms falls away, too relieved to be hurt by the rebuff. B talks to the officers for a while. He signs a paper. Imms has to sign it too. Then they are allowed to go.

  In the car, Imms waits for B to start yelling or at least lecturing. He knows he deserves it. This is a new concept to get used to, submitting his actions for judgment. On his planet, a Silver might refuse to do his or her share of pollinating or break the rule about not having contact with humans, but the consequences were always simple: flowers died, flesh tore. Silvers passed no judgment on one another.

  Human society seems to consist entirely of judgments, with elaborate systems of reward and punishment. When B doesn’t speak at all, just drives silently home, going five above the speed limit, something cracks inside Imms. He feels a heaviness behind his eyes, a tightness in his throat. His breath stops on its way to his lungs. B glances at him and pulls the car into a fast-food parking lot. He passes his thumb under Imms’s eye. Holds it up so they can both see the wetness on it. He removes his seat belt, then Imms’s, and pulls Imms across the console into a tight hug.

  The anger comes later. “Do you like living with me?” B asks. He has just come home from work, bringing with him a hard, frantic energy.

  “Yes,” Imms says. “Except for your night farts.”

  B slams his keys on the counter. “Because the NRCSuckers think you might be happier and safer living at their facility.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Well, you need to tell them that next time we go.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “Don’t say that.” B studies Imms, his breath moving his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he mutters finally. “It’s just I’m getting hammered for the park incident.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “No, I didn’t. I should have. I should have done more to drive it into you that you cannot go out alone.”

  Imms presses against the sofa cushion. “I know.”

  B tosses his jacket over a chair. It misses and hits the floor. “The fact is, they’re never going to treat you like a human. They’re always going to treat you like a test subject, which means that if they don’t think I’m taking proper care of you, they will take you away.”

  What Imms is most ashamed of, thinking back on the park incident, is crying. A strictly human thing to do. He wonders if it makes him less Silver. “I won’t do it again.”

  B comes to the couch. He kneels in front of Imms and takes both of Imms’s hands in his. “I can’t lose you,” he says. “You’re all I have right now.”

  B’s words have a fuzziness, a bit of static that blurs their meaning. Needing is not the same thing as loving. Imms knows this. B is afraid, lost, floating. B is not quite as anchored as he thought he’d be now that he’s home.

  “I love you,” Imms says. He likes to practice breathing the words the way he imagines characters in books do. He likes to watch B’s eyes follow the words in the air.

  B squeezes his hands. “Promise you’re staying with me. No more adventures in the park. Or anywhere.”

  “No more adventures.”

  “And I’ll do better,” B says. “I’ll listen when you tell me you want something. We’ll go to the park more. Whatever you want.”

  “Well,” Imms says, in his best imitation of Jenny Feathers, the girl Tin Star loves. “You can start by buyin’ me flowers. And we’ll see from there.”

  “God.” B flops onto the couch next to Imms. “Haven’t you found a book you like better?”

  “I want to meet a cowpoke.”

  “There aren’t any cowpokes anymore. Just rednecks who wear cowboy boots and drive big-ass trucks.”

  “Let’s meet them.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I want to walk around the whole Earth.”

  “That’d take a while.” B looks at the ceiling. “What if we moved? Started looking for a big piece of property, somewhere isolated. We could lose the goons. Have an unlisted address.”

  “I like your house.”

  “Our house.”

  “Right.”

  B jostles him. “What would you think about that? You could pick where we go. We can look at places all around the country.”

  “What about NRCSE?”

  “NRCSE, NRCSE.” B sighs. “Fuck NRCSE.”

  “NRCSE is shit,” Imms agrees.

  “NRCSE is a big ol’ fucking shit turd. With boogers on top.”

  Imms laughs. “I like the word boogers.”

  “It’s a good one.”

  “Can we live in Antarctica?”

  “No.”

  “Canada?”

  “The Southwest, how about? That’s where the cowpokes used to live.”

  “In the desert?”

  “It’s not all desert.”

  “It’s too hot,” Imms says. “We’ll burn up.”

  “You’re impossible.” B tickles him under the arms. The sensation fascinates Imms—the catch of his breath, the spill of uncontrollable laughter.

  “I know you are. But what am I?” Imms asks.

  “Bridique teach you that?”

  Imms nods. “She’s teaching me to win arguments. She says it’s a skill I’ll need with you.”

  B tickles him again. “You think you can win this one?”

  Imms gasps. “Okay, okay.”

  “That’s what I thought. Don’t take any advice from my sister. She’s crazy.”

  “That’s what she says about you.”

/>   B raises his hands.

  “No!” yelps Imms. “I mean, she says you’re—you’re the greatest. You’re always right. And you—you—”

  “And I what?”

  Imms looks at the tiny razor nicks on B’s chin and neck. “Non si può radere.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Italian. It means ‘you cannot shave.’”

  B pounces on him, nibbling the place where Imms’s neck meets his shoulder. Imms laughs until he can’t laugh anymore. B kisses him softly on the cheek. “Pardner. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean it.” B gives Imms’s arm a squeeze that’s almost too hard.

  Imms breathes out. Looks at the color in B’s eyes. “I’ll stay right here.”

  Bridique brings Imms newspaper clippings. “I thought you might like to see what the world’s saying about you.”

  Imms glances at the headlines: “E.T. Flees Cops.” “NRCSE Makes a ‘Hash’ of Silver Dealings.” “Silver Tongue: How the Creature from the Silver Planet Talked Its Way Out of an Arrest.”

  “You’re a sensation,” Brid says.

  “Yeah.” Imms turns from a tabloid cover that reads “‘I Only Wanted to Make the Pain Go Away’: Alien Spills Truth about Life on Earth.”

  “You could hang them on your wall. Or make a scrapbook.” She eyes him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Imms tries to smile.

  Nothing is what’s wrong. An empty place is inside him, an arena that memories enter, one after another, like performers in a circus. Flames, leaping like acrobats. The cool water of a silver lake, as mesmerizing in its grace as a dancer on horseback. A black sky, once the only thing Imms knew. Now that sky is temporary, the darkness between acts. He spends nights waiting for the curtain to rise, the lights to come up. The distractions to begin.

  “Mary and I need some help clearing gutters. Think we could borrow your muscles?”

  “I should ask.”

  “I called Captain Universe. He says it’s fine. I promised I wouldn’t let you buy weed or bone minors or anything like that.”