but also because there is a tenderness about them, quite apart from their beauty, that he finds appealing. He doesn’t want them to think that he is either stupid or disposed to lie. “Yes, aliens.”
Cass to Polly, Polly to Cass, blue lasers transmitting unspoken volumes. Then Polly says, “Where are your folks, really?”
“They’re really dead.” His vision blurs with tears of guilt and remorse. Sooner or later, he’d have been forced to stop somewhere, if not at the Hammond farm, then at another, to find clothes and money and a suitable identity. But if he had realized just how close on his tail the hunters had been, he wouldn’t have chosen the Hammond place. “Dead. The newspaper’s right about that.”
To his tears the sisters fly as birds to a nest in a storm. In an instant he’s being hugged and kissed and comforted by Polly, then by Cass, by Polly, by Cass, caught in a spin cycle of sympathy and motherly affection.
In a swoon short of an outright faint, Curtis is conveyed, as if by spirit handlers, into the dining nook, and with what seems to him to be a miraculousness equal to the sun spinning off spangles in the sky over Fatima, a divine refreshment appears in front of him — a tall glass of cold root beer in which floats a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
Not forgotten, Old Yeller is served a plate piled with the cubed white meat of chicken, and ice water in a bowl. After cleaning the chicken off the plate nearly as fast as it could have been sucked up by an industrial vacuum cleaner, the dog chews the ice with delight, grinning as she crunches it.
As though image and reflection exist magically side by side, Cass and Polly sit across the table from Curtis in the nook. Four silver earrings dangle, four silver-and-turquoise necklaces shine, four silver bracelets gleam — and four flushed breasts, as smooth as cream, swell with sympathy and concern.
Playing cards are fanned on the table, and Polly gathers them up as she says, “I don’t mean to salt your grief, sweetie, but if we’re going to help, we need to know the situation. Were your folks killed in a cover-up because they saw too much, something like that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Something like that.”
Slipping the deck of cards into a pack bearing the Bicycle logo and setting the pack aside, Polly says, “And evidently you also saw too much.”
“Yes, ma’am. Something like that, ma’am.”
“Please call me Polly, but never ask me if I want a cracker.”
“Okay, ma’— Okay, Polly. But I like crackers, so I’ll eat any you don’t want.”
As Curtis noisily sucks root beer and melting ice cream through a straw, Cass leans forward conspiratorially and whispers ominously, “Did you see an alien spacecraft, Curtis?”
He licks his lips and whispers, “More than one, ma’am.”
“Call me Cass,” she whispers, and now their conversation is firmly established in this sotto-voce mode. “Castoria sounds too much like a bowel medication.”
“I think it’s pretty, Cass.”
“Should I call you Curtis?”
“Sure. That’s who I’m being… who I am.”
“So you saw more than one alien ship. And did you see… honest-to-God aliens?”
“Lots of ‘em. And some not so honest.”
Electrified by this revelation, she leans even farther over the table, and a greater urgency informs her whisper. “You saw aliens, and so the government wants to kill you to keep you from talking.”
Curtis is utterly beguiled by her twinkly-eyed look of childlike excitement, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her. Leaning past his root beer, not quite nose-to-nose with Cass, but close enough to feel her exhilaration, he whispers, “The government would probably lock me away to study me, which might be worse than killing.”
“Because you had contact with aliens?”
“Something like that.”
Polly, who has not leaned over the table and who does not speak in a whisper, looks worriedly at the nearby window. She reaches over her sister’s head, grabs the draw cord, and shuts the short drape as she says, “Curtis, did your parents have an alien encounter, too?”
Although he continues to lean toward Cass, when Curtis shifts his eyes toward Polly, he answers her in a normal tone of voice, as she has spoken to him: “Yes, they did.”
“Of the third kind?” whispers Cass.
“Of the worst kind,” he whispers.
Polly says, “Why didn’t the government want to study them, like they want to study you? Why were they killed?”
“Government didn’t kill them,” Curtis explains.
“Who did?” whispers Cass.
“Alien assassins,” Curtis hisses. “Aliens killed everyone in the house.”
Cass’s eyes are bluer than robin’s eggs and seemingly as big as those in a hen’s nest. She’s briefly breathless. Then: “So… they don’t come in peace to serve mankind.”
“Some do. But not these scalawags.”
“And they’re still after you, aren’t they?” Polly asks.
“From Colorado and clear across Utah,” Curtis admits. “Both them and the FBI. But I’m getting harder to detect all the time.”
“You poor kid,” Cass whispers. “All alone, on the run.”
“I’ve got my dog.”
Getting up from the booth, Polly says, “Now you’ve got us, too. Come on, Cass, let’s pull stakes and hit the road.”
“We haven’t heard his whole story yet,” Cass protests. “There’s aliens and all sorts of spooky stuff.” Still leaning toward Curtis, she drops her voice to a whisper: “All sons of spooky stuff”, right?”
“Spooky stuff,” he confirms, thrilled to see the delight that he has given her with this confirmation.
Polly is adamant. “They’re hunting for him right across the state line. They’re sure to come nosing around here soon. We’ve got to get moving.”
“She’s the alpha twin,” Cass whispers solemnly. “We’ve got to listen to her, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I’m not the alpha twin,” Polly disagrees. “I’m just practical. Curtis, while we get the rig ready to roll, you take a shower. You’re just a little too fragrant. We’ll throw your clothes in the washer.”
He’s reluctant to endanger these sisters, but he accepts their hospitality for three reasons. First, motion is commotion, which makes it harder for his enemies to detect him. Second, but for the big windshield, the motor home is more enclosed than most vehicles; the other windows are small, and the metal shell largely screens his special biological-energy signature from the electronic devices that can detect it. Third, he has been Curtis Hammond for approximately two days, and the longer that he settles into this new life, the harder he is to find, so he probably poses little danger to them.
“My dog could use a bath, too.”
“We’ll give her a good scrubbing later,” Polly promises.
Past the galley, a door stands open to a water closet on the right, which is separate from the rest of the bathroom. On the left, a vertically stacked washer-dryer combination.
Directly ahead is the bathroom door, and beyond it lies the last eighteen feet or so of the motor home. The sole bedroom is accessed through the bath.
Old Yeller stays behind with Polly, and Cass shows Curtis how to work the shower controls. She unwraps a fresh cake of soap and lays out spare towels. “After you’ve undressed, just toss your clothes out the bathroom door, and I’ll wash them.”
“This is very nice of you, ma’am. I mean Cass.”
“Sweetie, don’t be silly. You’ve brought us just what we’ve been needing. We’re girls who like adventure, and you’ve seen aliens.”
How her eyes sparkle on the word adventure, only to sparkle even more bewitchingly on the word aliens. Her face glows with excitement. She all but quivers with expectation, and her body strains against her clothes just as the powerful body of Wonder Woman forever strains against every stitch of her superhero costume.
Alone, Curtis removes his small treasury from his pockets and puts the cash aside on the vanity. He slides open the bathroom door just far enough to toss his clothes out in front of the washer, then slides it firmly shut
