CHAPTER NINETEEN
July 6, 1959, 9:10 a.m.
Roswell
"All right, everybody, stay in line, stay in line," Valenti called to the crowd. "No need to push and shove; you're going to be here awhile. Rudeness won't make the line move any faster."
"They were supposed to start at 9 a.m.!" someone called. "Why aren't we moving?"
"It'll take a while for the line to move all the way back here," Valenti explained patiently for what would probably be the first of hundreds of times that day. "Like I said, you're going to be here a while."
There was a good deal of grumbling at that statement, which was unsurprising given that there were dozens of people lined up outside the UFO center beneath what was already a hot sun, vying for their own little slice of magic. Hollywood had roared into town, or into the UFO Center, specifically, which had graciously offered its premises for the casting of extras for They Are Among Us. From what Valenti had heard, extras made up the lion's share of the cast, the main cast being few in number and pretty much unheard of as in most low budget movies. Good old Morty Steinfeld planned to make good use of both the town of Roswell and its inhabitants, which would save him a lot of money on both sets and talent.
"Sheriff? Can I have a word with you?"
"Pete," Valenti smiled. "How's the diner doing? Have you picked a name yet?"
"Not yet," Pete admitted. "The top two names in the contest were 'Crash Site' and 'Crashdown', and they both sound too kitschy. But I'm here about that Mr. Seinfeld—"
"Steinfeld," Valenti corrected.
"Whatever. He had his people in the diner this morning leaning on me to make it available for shooting; told me I'd have to shut down for two days. Two whole days! I can't afford that; I was looking forward to all the business the movie would bring. I told him that, but he hasn't left me alone. I don't have to let him film in my diner, do I?"
"Of course not," Valenti said. "Mr. Steinfeld is striving for 'authenticity' by filming on location as much as possible, but it's every business owner's personal decision as to whether they wish to work with him and how much they'll accept as payment if they do. The only thing that affects everyone is the one day Mr. Steinfeld's been allowed to close down Main Street."
"A whole day?" Pete said in astonishment.
"He wanted two," Valenti noted. "I told him one. So if you want to let him film there that day, you'll be closed anyway. He has to give a week's notice, so I'll let everyone who'll be affected know just as soon as I find out."
"All right," Pete grumbled. "I suppose if I'm closed anyway, I might as well let him film. Maybe it'll be good exposure."
Valenti leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "Between you and me and the fence post, what Mr. Steinfeld really wants is to save money on sets. So if you let him use your diner as a set, be sure you charge him through the nose for it."
Pete's face split into a wide smile. "Good idea. Thanks for the heads up."
"No problem," Valenti said. At least I had one happy customer, he thought as Pete walked away, and that one might be his last judging from the tenor of the sweaty crowd spilling down the sidewalks. Most were locals and smart enough to bring water and hats; the few who hadn't would be sorry in short order. Fortunately filming started on Wednesday, so casting would only take place for two days, leaving little time for word to get out and more tourists to come pouring in. There wouldn't be any place for them to stay anyway; Valenti fully expected every available room in Roswell to be rented within the next forty-eight hours.
"Settle down, settle down," Valenti called to an unruly bunch of kids toward the end of the line. "You've got a long wait ahead of you, and—"
He stopped as a stream of water hit him directly in the eye. Laughter broke out, the loudest coming from the kid who was sporting the squirt gun and who promptly moved on from Valenti to other targets. Within seconds he had a miniature melee on his hands.
"Knock it off!" a gruff voice boomed.
The crowd fell silent. Valenti finished wiping the water out of his eyes to find Sheriff Wilcox giving the shooter the evil eye. George Wilcox was the Chaves County Sheriff, and at the age of 59, he cut an imposing figure in both girth and depth that had the desired effect; as he stared down the opposition, the opposition backed up with an alarm they would never have felt if confronted by a skinny young guy like Valenti.
"What's your name, son?" Wilcox asked the shooter.
"G...Gary, sir," the boy stammered.
"Hand that over."
Gary promptly surrendered his "weapon". "Now, you listen to me," Wilcox said sternly. "There will be no, I said no fooling while you're waiting. Riling up a crowd this size is serious business and will be dealt with seriously; try that again, and you'll find yourself waiting in jail. Waiting for your parents to come pick you up on charges of being a public nuisance, that is, and you can just forget about appearing in any movies. Is that clear?"
Heads bobbed up and down. "It had better be," Wilcox warned. "You apologize to Sheriff Valenti," he added to the shooter, "and maybe he won't haul you down to the station."
Valenti felt his wet face growing warm as all eyes swung toward him. "Sorry," Gary mumbled, abashed.
"Is that how you address your sheriff?" Wilcox demanded. "Speak up, boy! If you're going to pull a stunt like this in front of everybody, then you're darned well going to apologize in front of them too."
"Sorry, sir," Gary repeated, a fraction louder.
"Louder."
"I'm sorry, sir," Gary tried again.
"Sound like you mean it!" Wilcox ordered.
"I'm sorry, sir!" Gary burst out, obviously embarrassed beyond belief to be repeatedly humbled and re-humbled in front of all his friends.
"That's better," Wilcox said approvingly. "Get back in line, and don't give Sheriff Valenti or myself any other reason to so much as look at you today."
"Yes, sir," Gary said quickly, relieved to be released, his friends lining up behind him like good little soldiers. The excitement over, the crowd went back to the business of waiting, and Valenti stood there feeling foolish. Managing the town during the filming of this movie was his first big test since being elected sheriff, and he'd just failed it. Or, rather, had his pencil snatched out of his hand.
"Mornin', Jim," George said cheerfully as though they hadn't just had a run in with pranksters. "You've got yourself a right royal mess here."
"I know that," Valenti said peevishly, "and I had it under control until you barged in. Why didn't you let me handle that?"
"And how, pray tell, would you have handled it?" Wilcox asked. "The way I handled it, or the way you've been handling this crowd so far, pleading for patience and trying to reason with them?"
Valenti opened his mouth, then closed it. That's exactly what he would have done; he would have chastised the kid much more gently than Wilcox and asked for better behavior. And he wouldn't have gotten it. He saw that now.
"I've been watching you," Wilcox continued. "Crowds aren't like individuals; they're like big dumb animals that spook easily. You can reason with an individual, but you can't reason with a crowd. You can plead for patience from an individual, but not from a crowd. Crowds have to be controlled with a heavy hand because crowds are only one step away from a mob, and when mobs rule, people get hurt. It's our job to make certain that doesn't happen. You following me?"
"Yes, sir," Valenti said, feeling just like Gary must have.
"Don't 'sir' me," Wilcox said firmly. "You've been a sheriff for years now, and you're still 'sirring' me. I'm 'George'. Remember that. And the next time you run into lip like that—and believe me, you will—you give them exactly what I just gave them. They've seen it now, so they'll be expecting it. This lot doesn't have much to do, so little Gary's story will be all over the place in minutes."
"So why are you here?" Valenti asked. "Figured I couldn't handle it?"
"I figured you might need some help," Wilcox said gently. "Don't take this personally, Jim. You and I go back a long ways, and I thought maybe you could use a hand. You gave me one back in the day."
Valenti smiled faintly, recalling how several of Roswell's deputies had been assigned to the beleaguered Chaves County Station back in the late forties after the "crash" that wasn't officially a crash. Valenti knew better, and so did George Wilcox. They'd butted heads about that several times before finally coming to an understanding which mostly consisted of Valenti coming to terms with the fact that theory and practice were two different things in law enforcement. Maybe in anything.
"I appreciate the offer, George. Really, I do. But...."
"But you want to do this yourself," Wilcox said. "I get that. But look at this, Jim, look at all these people. And it's only going to get worse. You need more manpower, and I can loan you some deputies to help out. I'll even make some phone calls, pull in more from surrounding counties. And they'd be your deputies while they're here," he clarified. "You're the sheriff in Roswell."
"And at the moment, I have things under control," Valenti insisted. "One kid with a squirt gun doesn't constitute losing control."
"One kid with a squirt gun is all it takes in a crowd like this," Wilcox countered. "You sure I can't send in some troops?"
"I have my own deputies," Valenti replied patiently. "And I'll certainly give you a call if I need more."
"Isn't that one of yours over there?" Wilcox asked, peering around him.
Valenti turned around, and his heart sank. Hanson was standing in the audition line, wearing a grin every bit as goofy as the next persons'. "Yeah, he's mine," he sighed, knowing full well that every deputy off duty was probably here somewhere. "All of my men are under strict instructions that participation in the movie can't conflict with their duty schedules. They can't even trade off with each other because that would be a scheduling nightmare. If—"
Screams erupted from inside the UFO Center. Valenti and Wilcox lurched into a run, charging past the crowd and in through the front doors. Not even an hour had passed, and already he'd been nailed by a squirt gun, embarrassed by a former employer, and now people were screaming. What next? "Nobody move!" he bellowed as he flew into the UFO Center's meeting room. Several tables had been set up, behind which sat several startled people, all of whom looked at him like he'd lost his marbles.
"Sheriff, what on Earth is going on?" Morty Steinfeld demanded.
"Somebody screamed," Valenti said. "Several somebody's."
"Well, of course they did," Steinfeld said impatiently. "I'm auditioning for extras, all of whom will be terrified bystanders or alien abductees and all of whom have to know how to scream. Those may be the first screams you've heard today, but I promise you, they won't be the last. I hope you're not going to come charging in here every single time you hear a scream."
Oh my God.... Valenti's gaze rotated from Steinfeld's, to the confused movie hopefuls, to Wilcox's bemused expression. He'd just gone and made a total fool of himself.
"Come here," Valenti ordered Steinfeld, who, after a moment's hesitation, obeyed. "Do you know how many people are waiting out there? That many people are nothing less than a walking powder keg. The slightest little thing could set them off. They hear screams coming from in here, and they're likely to panic because they'll have no idea what's going on. Did you think of that?"
"Er......no," Steinfeld confessed. "I keep forgetting this isn't Hollywood, where people don't have to have standard industry practices explained to them—"
"No, this is not Hollywood," Valenti interrupted hotly. "This is Roswell. This is my town, and I am responsible for the safety of everyone in this town. So you're are going to drop your condescending attitude and any other precious little pretences you've brought with you and follow my standard practices. You will inform me of any other stunts like this that could rile up a crowd, and you will keep the doors to this auditorium closed to make it easier for me and my men to distinguish between real and fake trouble or I'll have you tossed in a cell until you can come up with a way to shoot on location that doesn't involve disturbing the peace, obstructing justice, and any other charge I can think of. Have I made myself completely clear?"
Steinfeld was now several shades paler. "Absolutely," he said, nodding hastily. "I'm so sorry, Sheriff. Of course you need....I should have....I'm sorry. Close those doors!" he bellowed to his assistants, who hastened to obey despite protests from those further back in the line who were now unable to see inside the auditorium.
"And close the main doors as well," Valenti called. "Work through the group you've got, then take in another group. That'll make the line appear to move faster and help with crowd control."
Wilcox fell in step beside Valenti as Steinfeld and company scurried to obey. "You learn fast," Wilcox said approvingly.
"Always have," Valenti agreed. "Now, about those extra deputies....."
******************************************************
First National Bank of Santa Fe
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Bernard Lewis asked as he removed the key from the ignition. "We could do it some other time."
"No...no, I want to get it over with," Helen Pierce said, one hand resting on her bulging belly. "And I'm so grateful you were willing to come with me, Dr. Lewis. This is all so confusing. I had no idea someone dying was so much work. Funerals and lawyers and wills and notifying everyone and...." She paused, as though she couldn't bear to recite the rest of the list. "I'm just glad you're here," she finished.
"I'm honored to be of service to my good friend's widow," Lewis said. "It's the least I could do for Daniel, Mrs. Pierce."
"Helen," she corrected. "Please, call me Helen."
"Helen, then," Lewis smiled. "This shouldn't take long. As the executor of Daniel's will, you're merely witnessing the inventory of the contents of his safe deposit box, which will then be safely kept for your child. Daniel's lawyer will be here with the list of what should be inside, and as soon as everything is accounted for, we'll be finished."
"With this particular task, at least," Helen said ruefully. "Remind me never to agree to be anyone's executor again. Really, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Hopefully you'll never find yourself in this position again," Lewis said soothingly. "Let me help you out."
Lewis walked around the car to the passenger side and held Helen's hand while she maneuvered her very pregnant form out of the front seat with difficulty. I hate pregnancy, Lewis thought as he all but pulled her out of the car. Obstetrics had been the very worst part of his internship, filled as it was with fat, lumbering women, screaming babies, cooing nurses, frantic husbands, and pushy relatives. At least the women were mercifully silent after they'd been drugged for childbirth, a practice which he understood was coming under fire by those who favored "natural" childbirth, an idea Lewis found baffling. Why would anyone in their right mind wish to be conscious and unmedicated during childbirth? Lewis had often wished he had been the one put of his misery while assisting, and had never looked back the day he'd walked out of the obstetrics ward forever.
"I'm sorry I'm so slow," Helen said as they made their way laboriously across the parking lot.
"No trouble at all, my dear, no trouble at all," Lewis lied.
They finally reached the bank and were ushered into a private office, all wood and leather. Pierce's lawyer was there, a suspicious type who seemed to feel that anyone not from De Baca County was automatically suspect. He had not been happy when Helen had told him that Lewis would accompany them to the bank today, but had been helpless to prevent it as Daniel had neglected to bar anyone from this particular event, a fact Lewis found peculiar given Daniel's usual attention to detail. A bank manager appeared, false pleasantries were exchanged all around, and the box produced and opened. Lewis was not surprised to see a long white envelope on the very bottom beneath a small mountain of other paraphernalia.
"Oh, my," Helen said in dismay. "This could take awhile."
"Take your time," Lewis assured her. "I'm in no hurry."
And he wasn't. Lewis found himself surprisingly unexcited as the contents of the box was examined and discussed in excruciating detail. Perhaps it was because he knew that, eventually, they'd have to get to the letter at the bottom. Or perhaps it was because he'd finally gotten what he'd wanted all these years, albeit from an unexpected source.
Lewis had made certain not to let even one full year pass after his forced resignation before approaching the Army about the formation of a task force whose sole mandate would be to hunt aliens. Given the fact that the Army had just lost an alien, he'd expected he'd find at least some level of interest in his proposal. He had been wrong. Consumed by the Korean war and fearful of their duplicity being exposed, he'd found no takers. As the years passed with no sign of the aliens, interest levels had dropped to the point where his calls were returned belatedly or not at all. Everyone assumed the aliens had returned home, and although Lewis did not share that opinion, he was unable to provide a suitable explanation as to why he thought they were still here when no one had seen or heard from them in years. So he had bided his time with varying amounts of patience, knowing that, eventually, the aliens would rear their ugly heads again.
And finally, they had. Daniel's death, not to mention the FBI's quick response and confiscation of the body, had earned Lewis that fateful appointment with his old mentor, General McMullen. Lewis had been absolutely certain there was no way the Army could turn him down now, no way they could ignore the fact that the aliens were still here after nine years, no way they could dismiss the fact that Bernard Lewis knew more about what they were chasing than anyone else in the world. He had fully expected to be granted his task force and reinstated to his former rank, a particularly sore point with him as he felt he'd been spitefully singled out by that patsy, General Ramey. Now Ramey was dead and the aliens were back. The stage was set for the Army to right the wrongs of a decade ago and allow him to pursue the monsters the way they should have been pursued in the first place.
His shock and fury when that hadn't happened had been brief. Being a practical man, Lewis had appropriated certain documents while the alien was captive. Inside the Army, they were priceless; outside they were of dubious worth because the coalition which had hidden the existence of a live alien prisoner from the president had also hidden its paper trail well, meaning the interpretation of those documents could be open to debate without corroborating evidence. Pierce's death had provided that evidence. And so instead of pursuing his original plan to blackmail McMullen into giving him his task force, he'd opted for going straight to J. Edgar Hoover himself, who would welcome even cryptic documentation now that his own agency possessed a body killed by a silver handprint. That gamble had paid off in spades: Lewis now found himself the head of an elite, covert unit created specifically for the purpose of hunting aliens which answered only to the Director himself, and he'd spent the last twenty-four hours feverishly choosing his team and plan of attack. This was the fruition of twelve years of labor and strife, and drunk as he was with the thrill of it, he was very willing to wait just a little while longer to get his hands on the means by which he could hold an alien prisoner long enough to wring from it what he wanted.
"One pocket watch, gold, turn of the century I believe," the bank manager droned on. "Assessed at $550.00."
"It's beautiful!" Helen exclaimed. "I've never even seen that. Don't you think it's beautiful, Dr. Lewis?"
"Exquisite," Lewis agreed. "Daniel's family always had such excellent taste."
Helen beamed. The lawyer frowned as though Lewis had just said something inappropriate. The inventory continued, through piece after piece of the usual worthless, sentimental junk with which the next generation was typically saddled, only to turn around and bequeath it to their own children because it was...well....worthless. Lewis displayed the patience of a saint as the pile grew smaller and smaller until, at last, they came to the letter.
"What's this?" Helen asked, gazing at the plain envelope as the manager handed it over.
Lewis waited calmly while she pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it. He knew exactly what would happen: She would read it once, twice, perhaps three times in complete puzzlement, then announce she did not understand and seek guidance. The letter would be passed around, most likely going to the lawyer first. Lewis had to make certain it came to him, and when it did, he had to make certain he memorized the formula quickly and wrote it down the at the very first private moment he had, which would be a trip to the men's room immediately following this session.
A minute passed, then two. An air of expectancy hung over the room. At length, Helen set the paper down.
"I don't understand."
No, of course you don't, dear, Lewis thought. She held in her hands the power to bring a race of monsters to their knees. Naturally she didn't understand.
"Dr. Lewis....you knew my husband. What do you make of this?"
Excellent! "Let me see," he murmured, suppressing his delight at being given first dibs as he took the paper and prepared to memorize like he hadn't since med school exams.
To Whom It May Concern, Daniel's scrawl began.
Whoever you are, no doubt you're looking for my serum. Sorry to disappoint you—no, actually that's not true, I'm delighted to disappoint you—but it's not here. The serum is mine, perhaps my crowning achievement, although I would certainly like to think I've reached greater heights since then. Regardless, no stifling government that blocked me every step of the way, forcing me to work in secret because of their supposedly lofty morals, will ever get their hands on that formula.
My wife is currently pregnant with my first child, a son. Should I predecease him, my son will inherit the formula for my serum at the age of 30, by which time he will hopefully have sown his wild oats and gained sufficient maturity to know how to use it to his best advantage. The means by which this will occur are untraceable, having not been divulged to anyone or recorded in any legal document. A full accounting of the reason for this subterfuge will accompany the formula when it is delivered to him, along with my notes regarding dosage, strength, and the affect of same on each test subject. Invaluable information, that, and very hard to reproduce without killing the subject, so if I were you, I would remain in my son's good offices. I would also safeguard his welfare carefully, because should he die before the age of 30, the serum will never be delivered and will be lost forever.
I have most likely ruined your day and, hopefully, your career. Nothing personal, you understand; it's just the way the game is played, and no one plays that game better than I do. Remember that as you enjoy the wait.
Sincerely,
Daniel Pierce, M.D.
Stunned, Lewis read the letter once, twice, three times before he had his emotions under sufficient control to speak. "Well....it appears your child is set to inherit something of Daniel's when he turns 30."
"Thirty?" the lawyer echoed. "Let me see that."
"But what's that all about?" Helen asked as the lawyer read the letter.
"I know of nothing your husband intended your son to inherit at the age of 30," the lawyer replied. "He'll inherit the contents of this box at the age of 21, and I can only guess at what he'll make of this."
"Do you know what this is about, Dr. Lewis?" Helen asked.
"I'm afraid I don't," Lewis said through gritted teeth. "Daniel and I did work together frequently, but our work, as you know, is top secret. Apparently he felt someone would try to steal something he had developed and took steps to prevent that."
"Like you, perhaps?" the lawyer said dryly.
"I don't know what you're suggesting, sir," Lewis said coldly.
"Dr. Lewis has been a great help to me," Helen added reproachfully to the lawyer. "And hasn't said one word about 'serums' or anything like that."
"Of course not," the lawyer muttered, obviously unconvinced. "Since Dr. Pierce isn't here to elaborate, I suppose we'll all just have to wait thirty years to find out. Hope I live that long."
The box was closed, and Helen signed off that the contents had been fully inventoried. Lewis drove Helen back to Pierce's house, with her chattering all the way about how grateful she was to have one more executor's duty to check off her list. The air was blue on the drive back to Santa Fe, and by the time he reached his borrowed office, he'd made a decision.
"Jesus," Agent Del Bianco breathed when he'd heard the news. "Now what?"
"When is Pierce's brat due to appear?" Lewis asked.
"September 18th," Del Bianco replied.
"Very well then. I am a surgeon by training, but I shall have to consult with obstetrics experts to brush up on possible complications of childbirth."
"To protect the baby," Del Bianco nodded.
Lewis paused, examining his neatly manicured fingernails. "Yes. Yes, of course."
******************************************************
Mrs. Bruce's rooming house,
Roswell
"I'm so glad Courtney told me about you!" Mrs. Bruce beamed, scooping up the freshly signed lease. "I have two rooms open, and while I can certainly rent them what with all the extra people in town, I feel much better renting to locals."
"We were lucky to find this," Anthony said. "A lot of rooms are gone already."
"Now, you're moving in tomorrow, right?"
"Right," Dee answered. "If that's okay with you."
"That's fine," Mrs. Bruce assured her. "That'll give me time to clean the place up, make sure everything's working, and call the handyman if any repairs are needed. I'll let you know if there's any delay. Here's your copy," she added, handing Dee a copy of the lease. "Did you have any questions?"
"Nope, I think we're all set," Anthony smiled.
Five minutes later they were headed down Mrs. Bruce's front walk, Dee pushing the stroller while Philip toddled along beside them, holding his father's hand. "We are all set, aren't we?" Anthony asked Dee, who was frowning.
"I just don't see how we're going to afford this for the whole summer," Dee sighed. "And yes, I know, I should have thought of that before telling Mama we were leaving."
"Don't forget that I agreed we should leave," Anthony pointed out.
"Okay, so we both should have thought of it," Dee amended.
Anthony hesitated. "Actually, I didn't have to. Your father offered to help."
Dee came to a halt. "Daddy's paying for this?"
"The room? No," Anthony said. "He estimated how much he would have spent feeding the three of us over the summer, and wrote me a check for that amount. So I guess you could say he's paying for the groceries. What?" he continued when Dee gave an exasperated snort. "He offered; I didn't ask."
"That's not the point!" Dee exclaimed. "Mama's whole problem is that she can't see us as an independent family, and come to find out, we're not."
"He's just helping, not covering everything," Anthony said. "He said he would have paid that anyway had we stayed there, so—"
"Oh, yes, Daddy will have a perfectly logical reason that only a crazy person would ignore," Dee interrupted. "But he's still paying. We're still tied to him."
"I don't see your father as a bad person to be 'tied to'," Anthony answered. "He didn't say this, but I think he feels badly that your mother is behaving the way she is, and wants to make it up to us."
"Have you cashed the check yet?"
"No."
"Then give it back."
"What?"
"I said give it back," Dee insisted. "We didn't take their money in college, and we won't start now. I'll get a job."
"By the time we pay for a babysitter, you may as well not have one," Anthony said. "Look, this isn't college. No subsidized housing and willing friends to babysit. We tried living with your parents, it didn't work, so we're trying something else. And if your father wants to help, I'm not too proud to take it."
"Go on," Dee said irritably, taking Philip's hand. "You'll be late for work. We can talk about this later."
Anthony didn't argue, knowing full well when she'd shut down on a subject. Dee and Philip waved goodbye as he climbed into the car and pulled away. That was her father's car, loaned to them for the summer while he got a ride to work with a friend; they wouldn't need it anymore, as Anthony would be able to walk to work now that they lived in town. One more apron string cut....but there always seemed to be one left. I don't want their money, she thought fiercely. But the fact remained that they wouldn't be able to save a dime this summer like they'd planned to, so perhaps they had no choice but to accept her father's offer. At least it was her father doing the offering. He probably hadn't even told her mother.
They reached the end of their street where it connected to Main Street, and Dee immediately scooped up her son and put him in the stroller. Long lines of people snaked down Main, almost as far as Parker's. She'd forgotten about the movie that was being filmed in town, and for a moment she was all excited—there must be dozens of short-term jobs available! Then she deflated when she realized that any job meant childcare, which meant money. Maybe Mama was right. Maybe working and having children really didn't mix, at least not until one was rich enough to afford it.
"C'mon, kiddo," she said to Philip as they neared Parker's. "Let's go tell Courtney she's got new neighbors."
Dee had expected Parker's to be bursting and was very surprised when it wasn't. Streams of people came in and out, but virtually all were ordering coffee in paper cups from a waitress who wasn't going to stop pouring any time soon. Courtney emerged from the kitchen with a plate of breakfast for one of the few seated customers as Dee steadied a chair at the counter so Philip could climb up.
"Hi buddy!" Courtney said, waving to Philip, who waved back enthusiastically. "How did everything go?" she added to Dee.
"You have a new neighbor," Dee announced.
"Great!" Courtney exclaimed. "It'll be so nice to have a friend in my very own building! Coffee?"
"No thanks."
"Ju?" Philip suggested.
"No, no juice either," Dee said sadly. "We can't afford it. How about a glass of water?"
"You can't afford coffee?" Courtney asked quizzically.
"We weren't planning on having to pay rent this summer," Dee explained. "We were going to live with my parents and save some money for next year. But that didn't work out, so we'll have to try and make Anthony's salary cover everything. And I can't get a job because I'd have to pay a babysitter, which would make the job not worth having." She sighed. "I'm glad to be out of there, but it's going to cost us."
Courtney set a glass of juice in front of Philip, then grabbed a cup and saucer. "On the house," she said when Dee began to protest. "I have an idea. Want to hear it?"
"Shoot."
"You could work here."
"Here?"
"Yes, here. You said you'd waitressed before."
"I have. But this place is dead right now; Pete doesn't need more help."
"He will," Courtney said. "We just had a....well, I would have called it a 'meeting', but Mr. Parker called it something else."
"A 'huddle'? Pete likes football," Dee chuckled when Courtney nodded. "It's kind of like a meeting of the football team in the middle of the game."
Courtney looked blank for a moment, then continued. "Anyway, Mr. Parker said we'll be needing more help. No one's in here now because everyone's standing in line hoping to be hired, but as soon as people start working their way through the line, they'll be coming in here, and as soon as filming starts, he thinks we'll be even busier. A bunch of the waitresses want to be in the movie, so they're not going to be around as much as they usually are. I'll bet Mr. Parker would love to have an experienced person like you."
"But what about Philip?" Dee asked. "I could get all sorts of different jobs, but I can't bring him with me."
"That's where I come in," Courtney said confidently. "We'll just make certain our shifts don't overlap, and I'll watch him for you while you're here."
"For how much?" Dee asked uncomfortably.
"For free, silly! After everything you've done for me, it's the least I can do."
Free? Dee's head spun as she weighed this new scenario. She'd made good money waitressing in Albuquerque; tips alone frequently outpaced her salary. And she'd have some say over her hours, Philip could stay in their own building with someone she knew, and.....
"I couldn't," Dee said, shaking her head. "It wouldn't be fair to expect you to babysit for nothing."
"You didn't 'expect' it; I offered," Courtney pointed out. "And you're only home for the summer, so it's not like it'll go on forever. You've done so much for me; let me do this for you."
"Okay, if you won't take money, than what will you take?" Dee asked. "There must be something I can do for you in return."
"Did I, or did I not just mention how much you've done for me?" Courtney asked dryly. "And you're still 'doing'. Every time I have a question, I run to you."
"Or Carl," Dee smiled....then paused, something having occurred to her. "I know something I can do for you. I can help you find whoever you're looking for."
Courtney's eyes widened. "What did Carl tell you?"
"He just mentioned you were looking for someone, and that he'd offered to help. I can help too. Who are you looking for?"
"Hey sweetheart, can I get some toast?" a man at the far end of the counter called.
Courtney rushed off to answer, and Dee watched her closely as she trotted back and forth. She's afraid, she realized with a start, noting the stiff posture, the set features, the distracted look in a pair of eyes over which a veil had fallen the moment Dee had raised the subject. Whatever her reason for trying to find this person, it was simultaneously important and frightening.
The toast delivered, Courtney returned to Dee's end of the counter looking troubled instead of all excited like she had only minutes ago. "I'm grateful for the offer," she said carefully, "but this is something I have to do myself. It's not right to involve you in it."
"I'll mind my own business," Dee promised. "I just offered to help you find whoever it is. Once you find him, it's up to you."
"I wish it were that simple," Courtney said wistfully.
"Why can't it be that simple?" Dee asked. "Does this have to do with your telling Carl it was dangerous? Because if it's dangerous, you shouldn't be looking for this person either."
"I have to," Courtney said. "And I can't explain why," she added when Dee opened her mouth. "I just have to."
"All the more reason to accept help when it's offered," Dee said, conveniently ignoring the fact that she had only just refused to accept help from her own father. "I've lived here all my life; I know this place backwards and forwards. There must be something I can do."
Dee could tell that Courtney was just about to say, no, no, there's nothing you can do....but she didn't. Instead, she stopped, staring off into space like she'd just remembered something. "Maybe there is something you can do," she said after a moment. "You said you know that man who found the aliens' ship, right?"
"A little," Dee said warily. "What does Mac have to do with this?"
"I need to talk to him," Courtney said intently. "Everyone says he doesn't talk to anyone, but maybe he'll talk to me if you ask him."
"Why do you want to talk to Mac?" Dee asked.
Courtney hesitated again. "Because—" she leaned in and lowered her voice "—I'm looking for an alien."
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I'll post Chapter 20 next Sunday.
Babble away!
) Another is to avoid as much as possible the all good/all bad type of character in favor of the messier sometimes right/sometimes wrong variety. I found myself doing a lot of empathizing when I watched Roswell, as torn myself between conflicting needs/obligations/perspectives/expectations as the characters were. That's my favorite type of story, albeit one that usually precludes a neat, happy ending.
So I'm throwing this up tonight, and I apologize for the limited response to feedback. I very much appreciate the time you all took to leave it, and I love reading all your comments; even the characters I invented myself seem more alive when people respond to them! I hope everyone enjoys their Mother's Day, whoever and however they're celebrating.