She shook her head. “I need to clean him up,” she said. “Maybe you could come back after…”
“Naw, I’ve got to get going anyway,” I said. “And you’ve got to pack. Enjoy your trip. I’ll take care of things here.”
I said that he was my best friend. That’s a lie. Sophomore year, I stopped making night runs with him, I stopped helping with the movies. I barely talked to him at school. I’d gotten onto the soccer team, and I had a group of good friends, some of them seniors. I had a girlfriend. What the hell did I need Stevie for?
He never stopped pestering me. I remember when he stopped me in the hall to tell me he’d spent spring break building a full-size starfighter out of silver-painted plywood.
See? He flipped open his notebook to his storyboards. He showed me a cartoon of a stick figure climbing into the hatch of a starfighter. The ship was maybe three times taller than the pilot, and drawn in much more detail.
You built this?
It’s almost done, he said. He flipped pages. Now, he said, we switch from live-action to the models.
The panels showed the launch, then a far shot of the starfighter rising through the clouds, then a closer shot of the ship outlined against black space.
Look, he said. It’s all there. It’s a two-stage rocket.
God, he could be so pathetic. I don’t remember any bruises on him that day, though at some point I’d stopped looking. It was easier to stop worrying about Stevie in the winter. With our windows closed we couldn’t hear Mr. Spero shouting at him.
I took the book from him. Jagged pen strokes showed the starfighter exploding. What’s this? Lasers or something?
The NovaWeapon, he said. It hits his ship.
In the next panel, Rocket Boy ejects. The last picture showed him in close-up—the stick figure filled up most of the frame, anyway—floating in space.
He can’t eject into space, I said. He doesn’t have a space suit. He’d die in ten seconds.
We’ll make a suit, Stevie said.
I tossed the notebook back to him. Don’t be a fucking retard, I said.
Even in the dark, I could tell that there was nothing left of Stevie’s old bedroom. The shelves crammed full of plastic models were gone. The paneling and wallpaper had been pulled down, the walls painted glossy white and trimmed in pastel blue. The bed was gone too, replaced by a crib. The bed frame had been blond wood, with panels in the headboard where Stevie kept his paperbacks, videotapes, Super-8 cassettes, and cans of developed film. Had they really given everything away?
I toured the rest of the house in the dark, not wanting to turn on the lights and alert the neighbors. The basement had been divided into rooms and partially finished, but the other rooms looked pretty much as I remembered. The main difference was that every trace of Stevie, except for a few pictures, had been removed.
It took me most of Friday night and part of Saturday to install the cameras and mikes and routers. I needed spots that were high up, with wide angles. The finished rooms in the basement were easy, because the drop ceiling tiles could be pushed out of the way. The upstairs rooms were harder. These ranches didn’t have much of an attic, just crawl spaces above the house and garage that you accessed through little square holes. The work was draining: hours balanced on the beams trying not to put a leg through the insulation and plaster. I was used to working one-legged, but after a half hour I was sweating and trembling from exertion, and itching like mad from the insulation. I had to take a lot of breaks.
I ran power from the light fixtures, drilled down through the plaster ceiling, and popped the little fish-eyes into them. Each camera was about as big as a fifty-cent piece, and most of that was above the ceiling. The lenses themselves were smaller than a dime. I wired the circuit boards on the backs of the cameras to the digital switcher, which was broadcasting at 2.4 gigahertz. I put the antenna next to the wall facing my house. According to the specs I didn’t need the antenna—I should have been able to pick up the cam signals from 700 feet away. But if there’s anything my day job has taught me, it’s that spec-writers lie.
Only three cameras came on without a hitch. The others had cabling problems of one type or another, and I had to spend another two hours crawling around in the attic. Last, I had to vacuum all the plaster that had dropped onto the floors. The house would be cleaner than they’d left it.
By Saturday night I had everything working. I could sit at my desk and tab through most of the rooms in the house from my PC.
I went in again Sunday morning, and this time I actually watered the plants. Then I went room by room and searched every closet, trunk, and suitcase, looking for anything of Stevie’s. I spent a lot of time in the storage room, going through Rubbermaid containers filled with Christmas decorations, photo albums, and old clothes. Under the basement workbench, hidden behind a toolbox, I found two new Jim Beam bottles, one empty, the other down to a couple brown inches, with a plastic cup over the neck. I put them back exactly as I’d found them.
Except for one box of grade school papers, there was nothing of Stevie’s in the house.
It wasn’t until nearly noon that I remembered the attic space above the garage. I had no idea when the Spero’s were coming back. But I had to check it out.
I left my crutches on the floor of the garage and hauled and hopped my way up the stepladder to the square hole. I pushed aside the lid and groped above my head until I found the string for the light.
The junk was half-familiar, stuff that could have come from my own family. A box for a plastic Christmas tree, a rotary fan, a set of kitchen chairs I remembered, taped together boxes with pictures of toaster ovens and car stereos and power tools. I stumped deeper into darkness, toward a stack of cardboard boxes. The seams were thickly taped.
I used my keys to poke and saw through the tape. The first box I opened contained a metal box, like a typewriter case. “Ames H.S. Library” was stenciled on the side. I flipped the metal clasps and pulled off the top.
It was the Super-8 film projector. There was even a spool of film on the arm.
I knew it. I knew they hadn’t thrown it away.
I worked my way through the other boxes, unfolding the cardboard flaps and hauling things into the light. It was all there: the notebooks, the videotapes, the film cans. Even the models—two boxes filled with nothing but plastic spaceships and props.
I’ll pay you, he said.
He was standing under my window, in broad daylight. He wore black cargo pants, shiny black combat boots. He even had on dark eye shadow. He looked like a dork.
Why don’t you come to the front door like everybody else, I said to him. And then: How much?
Ten bucks. It’s the last scene. The last time I’ll ever ask you. All you have to do is hold the camera.
I’m not going to sneak out of my window for ten bucks.
Twenty bucks. Come on, you know you have to see this.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and I didn’t have anything else to do. I went out through the back door, though I made sure nobody saw me.
First, give me the twenty, I said.
He looked annoyed. You’re going to take the money?
I held out my hand. I didn’t want it—I just wanted to see if he had it. And if he’d really pay me.
He handed me two tens, and I stuffed them in my pocket. All right, I said. You’ve hired a camera man.
My house became a studio. The bedroom office was already wired to receive the video broadcasts from my cameras. In the living room I moved the couch to face the large blank wall, and set up the projector on the end table. I pushed the TV and VCR into the corner, so I could watch the videos without leaving the couch. I spent my nights moving between the two rooms, watching whatever I was in the mood for.
That first Sunday, before the Spero’s had even returned, I watched the first tape. Stevie had numbered the videotapes and film cans, so I was able to place them in order. Chapter One of the NovaWeapon Chronicles featured
