Alien Upstairs (8 page)

"Not really,” Sarah replied, wondering what Mr. Epstein knew. “What have you heard?"

"A man I know was a neighbor of his at the Towers two years ago. He said Mr. Courn spent about two months avoiding everyone in the building, and they're all fairly sociable over there. Then he suddenly blossomed, began to invite everyone to parties. There were stories that he had an eye for the young ladies, and, if I may say so, for young men too.” He rolled his eyes in the direction of Larry Belder's back window. “He would disappear for a while, then return. For a time, he lived with a girl people said was his niece, then he finally moved out and bought a house. That isn't so odd, I suppose. But there were stories that he believed he was from outer space. Of course, no one put any credence in such tales, but why would a man say such a thing?"

"He told those stories here, too,” she said. “He had us all to dinner and just said it, flat out. He seemed sane enough otherwise."

"Well.” Mr. Epstein picked up his toolbox. “I must go, it's getting late. Good evening, Sarah."

She went back inside. Gerard was sitting at the kitchen table, his chin in his hands. The set of apartment keys Mr. Epstein had given him lay on the table.

"I thought you were going upstairs to fix a faucet."

"I will. I had to sit down. This bothers me, Sarah, losing my memory. I can't stand it. You think, even if you have nothing, you have your memories, that's the one thing you'll always own. I feel as though someone's broken into my home. Worse."

"Oh, Gerry.” She stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders; his muscles were tight. “Look, I've lost some memories, too. Maybe it's for the best, maybe our minds are rejecting all this stuff about Raf."

"And I have to trust that what you tell me is true."

She stopped rubbing. “Don't you?"

He reached for her hands and drew them around his face. “I have to. I do. I think I'm beginning to hate him. I'll catch up with him somehow. We'll find him."

I don't think we will, she thought. I don't think I want to. But she said nothing.

 

 

 

 

Eight

 

 

Gerard was awake and washing in the bathroom when Sarah arose. She went to the kitchen and made tea, then sat at the table. The thought of the winter ahead oppressed her. She considered taking the coins and going south with Gerard. Closing her eyes, she thought of palm trees and warm sand, dulcet breezes and salty air. The coins would eventually be spent, and then they would be stranded. There was more unemployment farther south, and she had few skills to sell.

Gerard was already dressed when he came into the kitchen. He began to make Cream of Wheat. “You usually get our mail today, don't you?” he said as he stirred the hot cereal.

"Yeah. I always go later, though, when it's not as crowded. Maybe you can get it later this week. There probably isn't anything anyway, except for bills."

Gerard served the cereal and sat down. “Maybe Raf's mail is still there. Or maybe he left a forwarding address."

Sarah looked up. “I was hoping we were going to forget about Raf."

"Do you want to?"

"I guess not,” she said, and thought, Yes, I want to forget him. She recalled the dark, damp basement under Raf's abandoned house, and shivered. She gazed at Gerard, feeling cowardly and disloyal.

"We can't forget about him, Sarah. Or, rather, I can't forget about him because I've forgotten other things.” He smiled weakly. “Look, it won't be much trouble. We'll ask at the post office, maybe we can find out something."

"I can just see it. He probably gave them Mars as a forwarding address."

"Listen.” He leaned forward and put down his spoon. “We can pick up our mail before going to work. We can ask. If he picked his up, it means he's still around. If he left an address, I can try to get it, and if not, maybe they'll give us his mail."

"Oh, Gerry, they'll never just hand it over."

"We can try, can't we?” He picked up the dishes and took them to the sink.

"Maybe he works for the government,” she said.

"What?"

"Maybe he does. On a secret project. We could get into real trouble."

"People on government projects don't tell everyone they're aliens if they want to keep a project secret. And they don't go around stealing memories."

 

A bald post office employee ushered Sarah and Gerard to a queue. In a far corner, a young woman in the Postal Service uniform stood near a computer screen; she was in charge of giving zip code information to those waiting there. A long line had formed at the computer next to the scales used for weighing packages; a tall black man, also part of the Postal Service, stood near the computer, ready to advice those who did not know how to stat their letters into the system. A fat middle-aged woman in Postal Service gray roamed the room; Sarah did not know what her job was, but assumed it had some sort of title. The Postal Service people had job security, even if there was little for them to do.

The line inched forward. The old woman in front of them bounced restlessly from one foot to the other. Sarah sighed. Two young men in the adjacent line were murmuring something about gold shares. Her lips curled. Anyone who could afford gold shares would have data-links and a printout machine in his home, and would not be standing on one of these lines.

The people in front of them were finally dispatched, and the old woman approached the window.

"Why, hello, Mrs. Morris,” the young man behind the window said. “How's Jenny? Haven't seen her for a while."

"Fine, fine. She got promoted to sergeant last week, she might get transferred over to Scranton, though. Sad seeing all your children move away."

"Yeah, it sure is.” The young man disappeared for a moment, then handed her two letters and a package. Sarah waited impatiently for the old woman to move away.

"Hey,” the woman said, “this letter took three weeks to get here."

The young man's mustache twitched. “Sorry. You know how it is."

"When you delivered the mail, it took two or three days, and now you've got those whosits to stat letters into, and it takes three weeks."

"We do the best we can, Mrs. Morris.” The fat middle-aged woman moved closer to them, hovering near the gray-haired woman. The old lady turned suddenly, almost bumping into Gerard, then departed.

Sarah moved up to the window. “Sarah Jaynes and Gerard Litvinov, 141 Oak Street."

The young man left the window, then returned, shoving the mail through the slot under the glass.

"And do you have anything for Raf Courn?” Gerard said. “He's at the same address."

The young man exhaled loudly. “You picking it up for him?"

"Yeah,” Gerard said, sounding uncertain.

"Well, you can have it, Buster, it's just cluttering things up around here. But you should of told me when you asked for yours. Now I gotta go get his, too. If you're getting mail for your friend, tell me right off, okay?” He disappeared again.

"I think they'll just hand mail to anyone who asks,” Sarah muttered. Gerard motioned to her to be quiet. The man came back and handed them a letter.

"By the way,” Gerard said rapidly, “Mr. Courn didn't by any chance leave a forwarding address, did he?"

The man groaned, “Listen, Mac, if he'd done that, we would have sent this thing on, wouldn't we?” Sarah became conscious of restless mutterings and stirrings behind her. “Look, you tell your pal that we can't be efficient unless we get the right data. You tell him to fill out a change of address. Okay? We try, you know? Then we get complaints. You think it's just one lousy letter, but I say just multiply it by a million and see what you get, and then add on a million more special delivery letters people just got to send in the old way because they think we got nothing better to do than sit around and read what comes over the computers and they want their privacy. You tell your friend. Okay?"

Gerard backed away. “Sure.” They left the post office with the mail.

"What have we got?” Sarah asked as they descended the steps outside.

"Bills, as usual.” Gerard tucked their mail into his front coat pocket and ruffled Raf's letter. “No bills for Raf, though."

"Maybe he pays cash for everything.” They walked along the sidewalk. A blond Guard and a tall policewoman were moving toward them. Sarah glanced at the Guard, who seemed vaguely familiar.

"Hey."

Sarah turned her head. “Hey.” The policewoman was speaking to them. Sarah slipped her arm through Gerard's. The policewoman came nearer and hooked her hands through her belt. “Well?” she said to the Guard.

"That's them."

"Okay, you can go.” The policewoman eyed them and Sarah felt her breakfast curdle in her stomach. The blond man wandered off, shouldering his rifle awkwardly. “My friend there says he saw you at St. Anne's a few days ago."

"We were going to early morning Mass,” Sarah said slowly. She was certain she looked guilty. She tried to gaze directly at the officer.

The woman shrugged. “You got out of a car. He saw you. You went in. Later on, he noticed that the car was still there. And it's still there today. Father Gautier complained. He's not running a parking lot, you know."

Sarah, thinking of the absent engine, wondered if they had checked under the hood. “Well, you see,” she began, “we borrowed the car from a friend, and I guess we just assumed he'd pick it up. I guess he didn't."

"What's your name?"

"Sarah Jaynes. And Gerard Litvinov.” The policewoman took out a pad and wrote it down.

"Address?"

Gerard told her.

"All right, you go back there and drive that car away."

Sarah realized that the woman did not know about the engine. “Look,” she said, “we're on our way to work, and we don't have the keys. Can't we take care of it later?"

"What's your friend's name?"

"Raf Courn.” Sarah spelled it for her and she wrote it down. “Same address."

"Well, you or your friend had better get that car out of there by tomorrow.” She tilted her head and adjusted the cap over her short brown hair. “He didn't take off by any chance, did he?"

Sarah gulped. “Oh, no. I think he's visiting friends or something."

The policewoman regarded her for a long moment. “All right.” She tucked her pad and pen inside the pocket of her short blue coat. “Just take care of that car, or you get a citation and a fine.” She ambled down the sidewalk.

Gerard clutched Sarah's arm and they hurried toward their bus stop. “What are we going to do?” she said, trying not to whine.

"You said the engine disappeared."

"It did."

"I'll get Bruce Carulli to haul it away. I'll slip him some cash and he can sell it to a recycler."

"He's going to wonder where we got all this money all of a sudden. He fixed the Toyota, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. You told me that. I'll think of something to tell him."

"And he's going to wonder why the engine isn't there."

Gerard sighed. “I'll think of something. He knows Raf is a little weird, half the neighborhood knows that. I'll think of a story."

The cold wind whistled around them. Sarah squinted. A policewoman had their names; Bruce might wonder about the car. Even Mr. Epstein was probably curious about her interest in Raf. If Raf somehow turned up in a missing persons file, she and Gerard would be under suspicion. Someone might even think that they had murdered Raf and taken his money.

"We've got to find him now,” Sarah said, afraid she would begin to cry. She had not seen Raf since her lapse of memory, and now it occurred to her that she could have killed him and blocked it. She swallowed hard, denying the thought. “What's in the letter, Gerry?"

"Let's check.” They stood aside from the others awaiting the bus. Gerard opened the letter. It had been typed on a computer outlet, and was addressed to Mr. Raf Courn of 141 Oak Street. It said:

 

Raf—

You speak, but you do not listen. I am preparing for my search. Come with me, and let others watch. We are almost ready.

—M.

 

Gerard held the letter up and peered at it. “Maybe it's a code,” he said.

Sarah shook her head. “I don't think so. We just don't know what it means.” There was something wrong with the letter. She took the envelope from Gerard and inspected it, then looked at the letter again. “Gerry."

"What?"

"Don't you see? We don't know where the letter came from. Its point of origin isn't typed on the letter or the envelope."

He raised an eyebrow. “You're right. And if it was local, it would say so.” He searched the envelope. “It was typed out five days ago. The time's here, but how did it get into the system?"

Sarah shivered. “Inefficiency. That must be it. You know the post office. Or else someone in the post office itself sent it."

"God.” He draped one arm over her shoulders “We're getting in deeper and deeper. I'm losing my memories, we're under suspicion—Jesus.” He shook his head. “None of this makes any sense. He probably isn't anywhere around here by now."

"He has to be."

"Why?"

"Because somehow you lost your memory, out there in the country. I don't know how, because I don't know what he can do. And whoever sent the letter thinks he's still here."

"How the hell do we know what he would do, Sarah?"

She had no answer to that.

 

Gerard counted out the coins. Bruce Carulli tilted his hand and let them slide into his wallet, then upended his beer can. Leaning forward, he put the can on the coffee table.

"I'll get the car out of there tonight,” Bruce said as he rose. Gerard gave him the keys. “Kind of funny, him selling the engine separately, he could have gotten more for the whole car.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Gerard.

"Raf's funny."

"So I heard."

"Well, he's paying for it. He told me to have it hauled away.” Sarah, sitting by the television screen, was thinking that Gerard was a poor liar. She gazed wide-eyed at Bruce, trying to look ingenuous.