The True Meaning of Smekday (4 page)

I decided then and there that the mole had not glowed. It was a trick of the light, or a hallucination, or smoke and mirrors, or any one of those things people say that are supposed to explain what happened but don’t. Anyway, I stopped believing the mole glowed. I
had
to.

It didn’t matter, because I still believed the thing had changed size and color, and that was scary enough. I shut down the computer and crept back down the hall. Pig followed, purring and making little figure eights around my legs. She probably thought she was getting an early breakfast, and when I didn’t acknowledge her she meowed.

For a moment I thought I’d been caught when I heard Mom’s voice from her bedroom. I froze in place, and her voice went on, one word, pause, one word, pause, like she was calling a bingo game. I couldn’t help but be curious, so I padded slowly to her bedroom door. It was ajar, and I put an ear to the crack.

“Tractor,” said Mom.

Tractor?
I looked in.

“Gorilla,” she continued, then, “
Arancia
…Domino…
Emendare
…Vision…Apparently…Mouse…”

She was lying on her back, talking in her sleep. In English and Italian. And dreaming about the weirdest roll call ever.

I listened a while longer, expecting her to stop, or to say something sensible. I don’t know much Italian, but I knew enough to realize the Italian-to-English dictionary wasn’t going to make any sense out of what I was hearing.

“Lasagna,” said Mom.

“Good night,” said I, and went back to bed.

The next day I made Mom an appointment to see a dermatologist. The appointment nurse said they could have a look at her in about a month, and I was sort of politely rude about this, and after a really vigorous conversation she moved it up to next week.

Next week. I’ll get her there somehow, I thought as I put down the phone; and I couldn’t have been happier, because I didn’t know Mom would be gone in four days.

Let me just leap ahead those four days now, because there’s really nothing to say about them. They were filled with meals and sleep and arguments with Mom, as though she weren’t about to be taken, as though everything weren’t about to change. We went shopping, we wrapped presents, went to Mass, put up the white plastic Christmas tree. If my life were a movie, you could expect that musical montage of scenes right now, the kind lazy directors use to show time passing. You know: there would be a bunch of funny, short clips of Mom and me at the store trying on different outfits, funny hats, and now we’re trying to make eggnog, but the lid comes off the blender and the stuff splatters the walls and us, and we’re laughing, and now cut to us Christmas caroling outside someone’s house, but, whoops! they’re Jews, and all the while “Jingle Bell Rock” or something is playing. And the next thing you know, it’s four days later. It was Christmas Eve, in fact, but I don’t want to dwell on that. This isn’t a Christmas story. It’s a Smekday story.

It was nighttime when it happened. I was in bed, but I wasn’t sleeping. I was just lying awake, listening to the noise of cars and people speaking too loudly on the street, and thinking about something. Okay, I suppose I was probably thinking about what I was going to get for Christmas the next day, and it was hard not to. Though I guess Mom was
trying
to be quiet in the living room, it was plainly obvious that she was still up, stuffing my stocking with candy and CDs and things, or wrapping a present. After a while the noises drifted off, and I think I did, too. I hadn’t been sleeping long, before I was startled awake by a big noise.

Sckruuuup

went the noise, from above, from up on the roof. And yes, for a moment I thought, Santa Claus? So sue me.

I got very
’Twas the Night Before Christmas
at this point as I stumbled to the window to see what had happened. That’s when I got my first glimpse: a huge accordion hose, like a vacuum cleaner attachment, swinging down from the roof and sailing off into the darkness. I looked up quickly to see what it was attached to, but I saw only a huge dark shape high in the sky. In its wake, every car alarm in the neighborhood wailed, and every dog barked.

I heard Mom shout,
“Cannoli!”
from the living room.

Then,
“Earphones!”

I ran out into the hall and stopped at the doorway.

“Eggbeater!”

Mom had fallen asleep stuffing my stocking. And she must have
really
fallen asleep, because she was still wearing the stocking up to her elbow. She was sitting on the floor, propped against the futon, bits of candy and ribbon spiraled around her.

“Chessboard!”

It probably goes without saying that she was chanting words like before. Only now she was shouting, red-faced, with her eyes shut tight.

“Granata!”

I crept, heart pounding, to her side, and got a good look at the mole. It was blinking, definitely blinking, purple and red and green, over and over and over.

“Somewhat!”

“Mom…?” I said.

“Cookies!”
she answered.

“Mom! Mom, wake up!”

“Annunciare!”

I shook her arm, the one without the stocking on it, but her eyes stayed closed.

“Mom!” I shouted.

“Mom!”
Mom shouted. I think this was just a coincidence.

I don’t really remember everything else she yelled. I didn’t know I’d be asked to write it all down someday. Probably there were some nouns and verbs and things, there was definitely the name of a president but I don’t remember which one, and the brand of shampoo she liked. But I remember the last word. I remember the last word she said.

“Zebra!”

Then it was over. The words stopped coming. Her eyes didn’t open, but she sat quietly for a minute. I shook her again.

“Mom…Mom…”

She stood up. She stood up so quickly she pulled me with her. The mole was only purple now, no longer flashing. Just bright and steady, and I will hate the color purple for the rest of my life.

I let go, and she walked through the kitchen to the back door. I thought she’d run right into it, but she calmly slid off the chain and turned the bolt, then stepped through to the fire escape. I followed, wishing I was wearing shoes. It was freezing outside.

“Wh…where are we going?” I said, descending the stairs behind her. Once on the street, I kept an eye on the ground, stepping gingerly around broken glass and garbage. Mom didn’t answer, but her purple mole stared down at me in an evil, purple way.

I don’t know when I first noticed the humming. I think I’d been hearing it for a while, since before waking, even, but it was the sort of thing you could drown out, like cicadas in summer. But now as we walked, it grew louder. I knew without thinking that we were walking right toward it.

“C’mon, Mom, time to go home. It’s C-Christmas Eve.” I gritted my teeth to keep them from chattering.

“If you come home with me, I’ll make you eggnog. I’ll make you some
special
eggnog. With rum. Or…or vodka. With whatever’s in the bottle with the pirate on it.”

We were walking toward the Oak Hill Cemetery. It was a good cemetery, the kind with high stone walls and fat mausoleums. Obelisks and statues of sad angels. Normally, Mom would never have set foot in there.

And now, finally, I could see it. It was enormous, for one thing. Bigger than you’d expect, and then bigger still. It fell slowly through the air like a bubble. Like a bubble with tentacles. Like a snow globe the size of half a football field, with an underbelly covered in hoses. Suddenly it lit. Not with blinking lights like an airplane: it was like the globe was filled with a glowing gas, pale yellows and greens. And purples. And inside the globe were smaller globes, and layers of platforms and shapes, and on those…possibly…tiny figures moving.

But no: this isn’t working. By describing the ship, I’m making it seem less than it was, and that’s a sin.

It was terrible. And it was
wrong.
Just looking at it felt like losing. It was the great flying monstrous humming end of the world.

For days afterward, nothing seemed right. I didn’t comb my hair or brush my teeth. I never even opened my Christmas presents. Why bother? Now there were aliens. I wouldn’t listen to music. It made me cry. All of it, it was too beautiful. And I’m not just talking about Beethoven or something. Old *NSYNC albums made me cry. The song the ice-cream truck played made me cry. I couldn’t laugh, and hearing other people laugh made me angry. It was selfish and sick, like burning money. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The ship landed. There was no landing gear. The six hoses just spread out like legs and held the ship’s weight. Then it…
walked.
There’s no other way to describe it. The whole great thing walked on hoselegs like a beetle toward us, picking its way through monuments and headstones.

I looked around for help, but there was no one else on the street.

“Mom! Wake up! Wake up wake up!” I screamed. She was standing still, and I ran to her side, clutched her leg. “Mom! I love you! I’m sorry! Let’s go home!”

The ship raised a leg, and it flexed out like a worm toward us. And as it got close…I let go. I let go of my mom. I let go and hid behind a mausoleum. Because I was scared. And I know I deserve whatever you think of me for that.

The hoseleg pulled itself over Mom’s head and half swallowed her, down to her waist. She didn’t move, or make a sound. She still had my Christmas stocking on her arm. Then there was a noise like:

Foomp

and she sailed into the air; she sailed
away
, sucked like soda into that big humming head.

I don’t know if I can write about everything afterward. It’s going to sound like I’m trying to be dramatic, but it’s not like that. It isn’t for anyone else. You only fall because your legs stop working. And you don’t fall to your knees, you fall on your ass into a patch of crabgrass like the Idiot of the Year. You scream for your mom because you really think it will bring her back. And when it doesn’t, your skin feels too tight, and your lungs are full of cotton, and you couldn’t call her again if you wanted to. And you don’t get up, and you don’t think up any clever plans, because you’re only waiting to burst like a firecracker and die. It’s the only thing to do.

That’s all. There’s more, but that’s all I’m going to write about it. You asked me to write about the days before the invasion, so there’s my answer, though it was sort of a personal question, and you maybe shouldn’t have asked it. But that’s all.

Anyway.

I wrote “ass” a couple paragraphs ago. Pardon my language.

So I sat in that graveyard for a while. I don’t remember getting up and I don’t remember going home, but there I was. I made myself a sandwich, and afterward I sat in a chair. I forgot to breathe. I didn’t know you could do that. From time to time it came to me that my chest was empty and my head light, so I gaped like a dying fish until I was full again. Then I stared and I thought about nothing. Nothing. That got boring, and I felt my stomach growl, and I thought, Wasn’t there a sandwich? So I returned to the kitchen to find it still on the countertop, a cockroach sitting right in the center like a baseball pitcher.