A Turn On The Pathway To Citizenship Part Two of Three
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The aliens were taking Grace away at night. Were they taking her away because she was enjoying sex with him in the quiet dark hours of the night? No, that didn't seem logical to him. What was more logical to him was that they taking Grace away at night to do unspeakable things to her, to perform more experiments on her mind and body? Their experiments had already destroyed her mind. It was obvious to him that the attempt to transfer another mind into her body had gone awry. She was like a half-person, less than half, alive but without a mind. No, that wasn't right. Part of her mind still remained in her body, but not enough, not nearly enough. The transfer didn't take, he decided. The new mind died, leaving only a fraction of her old mind in her body. That was it. Pride washed over him, and he sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. He'd figured it out, figured out why Grace was the way she was.
"Aaron," one of the aliens said, "open your mouth."
He didn't like the sound of that. He pursed his lips tightly and clenched his teeth. The big alien reached out and squeezed his jaw. He didn't have a choice. He opened his mouth. The alien swabbed the inside of his mouth with a q-tip, an alien q-tip. Alien q-tips were much larger than human q-tips.
Was the q-tip medicated? Would the drug on the q-tip put him to sleep like their needles? Maybe it was poisoned.
Suddenly, an appalling stench spread his nostrils. He gagged, but controlled the urge to vomit, swallowing excess saliva and his nausea. The revolting stink of rotting human flesh grew stronger and stronger until he couldn't breathe through his nose. He gasped in air through his mouth, sucking air in, blowing it out, like a carp on a riverbank out of the water.
The stink filled the air when he thought of poison. Poison? Was his body telling me something? Was the q-tip poisoned?
He gagged again, and this time he allowed his roiling stomach to spew up its contents. The vomit splashed onto the alien's thick-soled shoes, and furious, the alien cursed and stomped away. John smiled wickedly as the vile viscous liquid from his stomach drooled from the corners of his mouth and dripped off the tip of his chin.
Fooled them again, he said silently. He, he. Fooled 'em. Foiled their poison plot. Tossed the poison right back at 'em. He, he. I'm smarter than any fuckin' alien ever born.
If they're born. Maybe they're hatched, come out of eggs like stinkin' chickens or lizards. Or pods, like peas. Pod aliens. Pod people. He, he. Maybe they come from trees like fruit. Fruit aliens. Apple aliens. No, avocado aliens. Even better, pollinated people. He, he.
He preferred pollinated people for its alliteration, and after that he thought of the aliens as pollinated people, PP, for short, finally believing that's what they were.
"That's the last of the men in the ward," Broderick Dalton said to Leah Mullen. Dalton was a hospital orderly. He didn't work on Mullen's ward. He worked for the hospital's head of security, Hank Patrick. "MacDonald threw up on my shoes."
"He does that a lot. He thinks he smells rotting human flesh, and the smell makes him sick. He's hallucinating, of course, a classic symptom of paranoid schizophrenia," Mullen said. "Swabbing the sick men on this ward for DNA samples was a waste of time. None of them are capable of raping a woman, not with the meds they take every day."
"Well, it's done anyway. I'll go clean up and deliver the swabs to Hank."
"What else is Hank Patrick doing to identify the rapist?" she said.
"Don't know. I just work here. Talk to Hank."
Robyn stood in the gym with Coach waiting for Danielle, Gloria, and Marylyn to arrive. Nora and Cory were doing some warm-up exercises. The door opened, and instead of someone missing from the group, Tom walked in with a teenager, a small teenage boy. Robyn knew the boy; he'd been in her office, but she couldn't remember his name. Then his name came to her: Carl Reed, a McGill student. She'd pull his file after the session this morning. Coach would want to see it. Since the mistake he made with Larry Foreman, Coach wanted all the information on a troubled student he could get his hands on, an approach that Robyn applauded.
"Wait here, Carl," Tom said and walked up to Coach. "Good morning, Coach, Robyn. I've got another student for your program."
"He doesn't look overweight to me," Coach said.
"His name is Carl Reed. I'm tired of Carl sitting bruised and crying in my office or Harry's after he's been shoved around, laughed at, and hassled by half the school population, and I'm not just talking about the male half, Robyn. Some of the more militant members of the fair sex can be meaner than snakes. Coach, can you put some meat on Carl's bones and some starch in his backbone?"
"Is he here of his own volition?" Coach said.
"Oh, yeah," Tom said. "I told him about your program. He said he'd heard about it, said the kids call it the Bobcat Fat Farm."
"Oh, no!" Robyn said, appalled.
Coach chuckled and said, "I figured the group would acquire a nickname. I anticipated Windom's Whales. Bobcat Fat Farm didn't occur to me."
Tom laughed. Robyn looked at the two men like they had just lost their minds.
"Carl told me that if you can take weight off, you can put it on," Tom said. "If you were asking if he's motivated, the answer is yes."
"Okay, I'll see what I can do with him," Coach said.
"Carl!" Coach shouted and waved the boy over. "Come with me. We need some conversation, and then we'll take your measurements for the before picture. Mr. Early tells me you feel like the guy that gets sand kicked in his face at the beach. If you're willing to listen, work diligently, and follow the diet Ms. Sanger will design for you, we just might be able help you." Coach marched him off to the weight room.
Tom left and Danielle arrived. "Where's Coach?" she said to Robyn.
"The weight room with a new student," Robyn said.
Danielle sighed deeply. "I spent some time with Coach yesterday and last evening. I had high hopes, Robyn, but Coach and I don't fit."
"Huh?"
"Did you know he is a Republican?"
Robyn couldn't help it; she laughed. "How rude of him!"
"Don't, Robyn, just don't. He likes Giuliani for president. He can't say anything nice about Hillary, thinks she's a liar and an opportunist, I think he said. He's a hawk; I'm a dove—his words. He thinks Gore, the liberal media, and the even more liberal intelligentsia who control our universities are exaggerating the threat of global warming to a ridiculous extreme—his words again. And he wants a very tall fence built across our border with Mexico. Can you imagine?"
"Terrible!" Robyn said, trying not to laugh.
"It gets worse. He thinks we should build more nuclear power plants, drill for oil in Alaska and off our shores, and build more refineries to reduce our reliance on foreign oil. He doesn't care if the oil companies spew filth into our air, pollute our water, and destroy the habitats of endangered species. I could never love a man who thinks like he does." She snorted. "He even likes country music!"
"Oh, no!" Robyn said, trying to look aghast.
"Yes. Anyway, with such a broad difference in our core beliefs, we decided we wouldn't be compatible as a couple and parted as friends."
"I'm sorry, Danielle. Are you going to try to patch things up with Harry?"
"I don't know. Maybe. He doesn't turn me on like Coach, but Harry and I have quite a few things in common. We'll see."
Danielle, Robyn said silently, I'd never tell you, but I'm a Republican, and it sounds as if my core beliefs match Coach's, not precisely but close enough. She giggled. Especially regarding country music. You abandoned your claim. I just might stake out a claim of my own. We'll see.
As he walked to school, Larry was thinking about Helen Sanford. She'd been on his mind almost constantly since Saturday night. He'd never met a girl like Helen. She was tomboyish one second and the height of femininity the next. The dichotomy made his head swim. No, that wasn't true. What made his head swim was remembering her holding his head in her lap with her arms around him and the look of concern in her pretty eyes. No one, male or female, had ever truly worried about his well being, and no one had ever tried to comfort him.
Just thinking about Helen made him feel warm, but the warmth wasn't arousal. It was a calm warm, pleasant. He wondered if what he was feeling was love. Not likely, but if it was, he'd better put it behind him. He was dirt poor, the son of a drunk, and had a bleak future. Maybe. Coach might have shown him a way to fashion a future beyond laboring in a mine for union wages for the rest of his life. Still, Helen was the daughter of a bank president with a bright future ahead of her. She'd be history, away at some college, before he could make something of himself.
Not for the first time, Larry cursed himself for his sexist attitude when Coach had announced that a girl would be playing on the football team. Well, she showed him, she showed everyone that she deserved to be on the team.
Putting aside that she was the daughter of a bank president and he was poor white trash, he'd like to take her out, to the movies maybe, hold her hand during the movie, but he didn't have the price of a movie ticket for him, let alone one for her, too. And he couldn't pick her up for a date. He didn't have a car. He walked to school; he walked to work. He sure couldn't walk her to the movies. Hell, he had to catch a ride with Cal to go to the party Saturday night, and when Cal disappeared...
Cal, you crazy fool! Why did you rape that girl? Stupid!
When the sheriff had told him Cal was one of three men who raped Mary Tendoy, Larry couldn't believe his ears.
"You're wrong about Cal, Sheriff," Larry had said. "I know Cal; we've been like brothers since grade school. He blusters, acts tough, pushes people around, but he isn't a rapist."
"Believe it, Larry," the sheriff had said. "Perkins and Osceola, who also raped the girl, ratted him out, and I've got another eyewitness who saw him roll off the girl's unconscious body. Cal was bare-assed nekkid when he rolled off her. What does that tell you? Also, a rape kit was taken at the hospital, so DNA evidence will back up the testimony of the witnesses. If you see him, tell him to turn himself in, and please, Larry, don't try to protect him and get yourself into a heap of trouble in the process. You did the right thing when you called Coach for help Saturday night. Don't mess up now by harboring your friend. I'm not asking you to give Cal up, but don't protect him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Larry exhaled with a sigh, his breath visible in front of his face as he trudged toward the school. Damn you, Cal. Why did you do it?
Larry turned to rustling sounds from his right, and Cal stepped from behind a barren tree. "Speak of the devil, I was just thinking about you," Larry said.
"How'd you get the black eye?" Cal said.
"Tiny hit me," Larry said.
"That'd do it."
"Where'd you get yours? Both of them?" Larry said.
"Bill Perkins and Pete Osceola."
"Why'd Perkins and Osceola hit you?"
"That's a long story. Look, I'm drowning in shit, Larry. It's up to my ears," Cal said, looking straight ahead as they walked. "I did a stupid thing Saturday night."
"I know," Larry said. "Sheriff Ken is looking for you."
Cal nodded and let all the air out of his lungs. "I figured."
Larry snorted. "What did you expect, that you'd get away with raping that girl?"
"I didn't rape her! You've got to believe me, Larry. I did not rape that girl. I went downstairs to take a leak, and Osceola was on her, fucking her. Bill Perkins grabbed me. Said he knew that I'd rat them out. Said I had to take a turn with her so I couldn't rat them out without incriminating myself. I told him to go fuck himself, told him that I wasn't a fuckin' rapist, and he hit me. Osceola finished with the girl, and they both tore into me. They said if I didn't take a turn that they'd kill me. They beat me until I was unconscious, and then I guess they stripped me because when I woke up, I was naked and on top of the girl. I got dressed and busted out of there. What with Perkins, Osceola, and my dad, I'm a dead man."
"You're telling me the truth?" Larry said.
"Swear to God, Larry, I didn't rape that girl. But that doesn't matter. If the sheriff thinks I raped her, somebody must have seen me naked on top of her while I was unconscious. I'll be convicted of the crime anyway. I'll end up in prison—if my dad doesn't kill me first."
"Uh-uh, the sheriff told me they took a rape kit at the hospital. If you didn't rape her, your semen, your DNA won't show up. The best thing for you to do, Cal, is turn yourself in," Larry said.
"Can't do that, Larry. I can't put my mother through something like that, and my dad would tear into me. You know how he is. He'd beat me to a bloody pulp."
Ah, Larry thought, that's why Cal looked me up this morning. He fears a beating from his father. He's come to me for a solution, a way to avoid his father's wrath.
"You can't avoid this problem, Cal. It isn't going away. This town isn't that large. There's no place for you to hide. Make it right; turn yourself in. Tell the sheriff the truth, and you'll be all right."
"Uh-uh, I've got a plan," Cal said. "Listen, I hung around until this morning to tell you goodbye, Larry. You've been a good friend, and I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."
"Where are you going? There's nowhere to go."
"I've still got my dad's car. My uncle and aunt are out of town; I knew where they hide their key. I've been staying at their house, parked Dad's car in their garage. Larry, I'm going to bust out of town, go down to Vegas."
Larry's laugh was harsh. "That won't work, Cal. Do you have enough gas in the car to drive to Vegas? I doubt it. Do you have the money to buy gas? To buy some food? How much money have you got on you?"
"Enough," he said.
He came to me for a solution. Give him one, Larry told himself.
"I don't think so, Cal. Come with me. If you won't turn yourself in to Sheriff Ken, turn yourself in to Coach. He'll go to the Sheriff's Office with you, and..."
"Coach! Are you crazy, man! He hates my guts. Yours, too."
"No, Cal, he doesn't hate me. He's trying to help me. He found me a better job, one that pays twice as much as the convenience store job. And he ... Ah, hell, Cal. We read Coach all wrong. He's a good guy. If he'll help me; he'll help you. And he won't let your dad tear into you."
"Humph, Coach is big, but my dad is mean to the bone and he won't fight fair. If he has to, he'll take it to Coach with a baseball bat or a tire iron."
"Cal, Coach whipped Tiny Saturday night," Larry said.
"You're shitting me."
"I shit you not. He whipped him, took him down without breaking a sweat. Remember, he told us he knew how to fight, some kind of martial arts training; I can't remember what he called it, but whatever it's called, it works. He not only took out Tiny, he also took out Frank Cox and Brad Baker when they jumped in to help Tiny, and they were wielding nightsticks. Coach went after Tiny because Tiny was hitting me. I was cuffed at the time. Coach won't let your dad beat you."
"Maybe not—until I'm home alone with Dad and Coach isn't anywhere around."
"Tell Coach that you want to turn yourself in, but you're afraid of what your dad will do to you. Coach will put the fear of god in him, Coach and Sheriff Ken. Coach and Sheriff Ken are asshole buddies now, Cal. Come on; this is the only chance you've got." Larry sighed. "Let's say you make it to Vegas, Cal. Then what? No money, no job, and you're wanted by the law. What are you going to do then, be a punch for a bunch of queers for eatin' money? You've got a chance to beat this thing. You're innocent, for Christ's sake. Let Coach help you be a man, not a frightened kid. So your father beats you? So what? He's beat you before, and he'll beat you again. You're man enough to take it until you're old enough or big enough so you don't have to take it anymore. Perkins and Osceola say they'll kill you. That'll never happen. They've been arrested for the rape, Cal. They don't have a reason to kill you anymore."
"Coach whipped Tiny?" Larry said, disbelief evident in his voice.
"Yes, twice, and the second time Coach was cuffed."
"No way. You're lying to me."
"I swear to God, Cal. Helen was holding my head in her lap. Tiny had hit me, knocked me cold, and Helen—she's great, Cal, something else again. Where was I? I remember, Helen saw Tiny get up off the ground and go after Coach. She screamed a warning, and Coach ducked under Tiny's haymaker, and then kicked him in the balls, but Coach slipped in the snow because he was cuffed and landed on top of Tiny. Tiny wrapped his arm around Coach's neck and squeezed, told Coach he was going to kill him, and Coach spun around hitched his back and slammed his knee into Tiny's balls again. That did it; that took all the fight out of Tiny."
"Why was Coach in handcuffs?"
"The sheriff arrested him for assaulting his deputies, but after Tiny tore into Coach the second time, the sheriff turned Coach loose. He'll help you, Cal. I know he will."
"Helen was holding your head in her lap?"
Larry laughed. "Yes, that's a long story, too. Waddaya say? Let's go talk to Coach and get your future back. You don't want to end up a punch for a bunch of queers."
Larry waited. The two young men walked in silence.
--"Okay," Cal said quietly. "Let's go talk to Coach."
--They took a few more steps.
--"Tell me the long story about Helen, Larry," Cal said, wistfully.
The Bobcat Fat Farm as a label won't fit anymore, not with the addition of Carl Reed to the group, I thought as I watched Carl on a mat trying to keep up with Robyn's pilates exercise. The boy was a natural with tai chi, but pilates isn't for him. Yoga might work. He reminds me a little of Aaron MacDonald when I was his age. I wasn't that short, but I was thin like him. Working out with free weights will do more for him than any exercise. Free weights and the right diet will put some meat on his bones.
It's not just his size. He's effeminate. I don't know how to alter his feminine mannerisms. If he were gay, eliminating the mannerisms probably wouldn't be important in the long run. But he isn't gay. Without me asking, he told me he wasn't gay, that girls turned him on, not guys.
And anger isn't his problem. Oh, he's angry, but fear dominates his emotional makeup. I could fix that. I could teach him krav maga. That'd put some starch in his backbone, as Tom suggested, but I don't want to teach anyone krav maga. If I teach just one person, I'd end up teaching another, and then another. In the end, teaching the self-defense system would eat up all my time. Worse, there'd be a bunch of lethal kids out about town. One of them would kill someone, and I'd be libel, signed releases and hold harmless agreements to the contrary.
I saw Larry walk into the gym. He spied me and waved me forward.
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