Whenever he came home late from work, his wife would say to him, "Where’ve you been? Jason’s been fussing and
crying." And he’d say, "He just wants to go to the park. He’s used to going to the park every evening." Or he’d say, "Why
didn’t you take him to the park?" even though he knew that Jason wanted his father, not his mother, to take him. And he
knew that she hated to take the boy anywhere, like she was embarrassed by him or even afraid of him. But how could she
have feared her own son?
He, on the other hand, had adored Jason, cherished him despite his stuttering and stammering, despite the fact that the
boy would freeze up, become catatonic even, if a stranger so much as looked at him. Or maybe he loved his son so much
because of all that, meaning that he loved Jason all the more because of how much the boy needed to be loved. So he tried
to get home from work on time although, of course, he couldn’t always.
One night when he got home particularly late, he discovered Jason locked in his bedroom, shut in because his wife finally
couldn’t take the screaming anymore. At least, that’s what she told him as they climbed the stairs to the boy's bedroom
where they found him, curled up on his bed and murmuring incomprehensibly to an imaginary friend, which made his wife
even madder. No, that wasn’t right; she didn’t actually get mad. Rather, she got upset, like it scared her. The boy, however,
was easily consoled, entertained by one of his shiny toys, a silver Lost in Space flying saucer, and the two of them played
with it in the boy’s bedroom until his bedtime. Then, as his son slipped into secret dreams, he went in search of his wife.
He found her in the living room, standing in front of the big picture window, staring out into the night, a reflection of her in the
window staring back into the house, a forlorn look on its face. He asked, "Are you okay?" or maybe he said, "You haven’t
been crying, have you?"--something like that. He was concerned about her, but whatever he said, it must have sounded like
an accusation. Without looking at him, she folded her arms tightly across her chest and whispered, "I’m fine. Just fine."
She stayed like that, staring out of the window, until he pressed his chest against her back and wrapped his arms around
her, pulling her tightly to him. She tilted her head back against his cheek, wiped her eyes, and whispered, "It’s getting late.
Let’s go to bed."
#
He used to think she had been happy when Jason died, or at least that she had been relieved. But thinking back on it now,
he wonders if she didn’t grieve for him too, in her own reluctant way, maybe even more so because she must have felt so
much guilt about how she’d treated him, or rather, how she had ignored him. She never actually mistreated Jason, never
beat him or anything like that, but she never really loved him like a mother should have. Yes, that’s what she must have felt,
must have felt more than anything. Guilt. And so her guilt pulling one way and his grief pulling the other tore the two of them
apart.
For a while after their divorce the dreams stopped, and he was almost able to convince himself they had been nothing more
than that, just dreams, and that he had made too much of them. But then one day he saw them again, that strange couple,
that is.
Encouraged by the freshet of self-help books which were then flooding the market, and feeling the approach of middle age
beginning to chill his bones, he had taken up jogging in a brief flirtation with self-improvement, and it was while warming up
for a run in the park that he noticed them. They looked very different that time, the man in khaki slacks and a teal Izod shirt,
his hair cropped short, and the woman in a gray skirt and cream blouse, her hair brushed back in waves. In fact, he almost
didn’t recognize them at all until they looked his way, and he saw their eyes, those large, dark, limpid eyes which had
penetrated his dreams for so long. At that moment he froze, torn between the desire to run to them so he could touch them,
verify their existence, and the urge to hide from them. But he knew it was too late to hide; they had seen him, and more
importantly, he had seen their eyes, had let those eyes back into his mind and his soul. For a long moment he held their
gaze, and he was sure they wanted to say something to him, but they didn’t. He’s sure they hadn’t. He’s sure they had just
walked on, gotten into their Volvo, and driven away. So why had the dreams come back after that?
He sighs and slowly sips his wine. That had been so long ago, so many dreams ago--so many haunted dreams and so
many broken ones too. And now here he is with only a cat for company, sitting in a small apartment cluttered with books,
holding a glass of ice-diluted wine, and staring down at a birthday card for a dead child. He lifts the card again, noticing it’s
not actually a birthday card. Rather, it’s one of those friendship cards, the kind that tries to warm your heart with cloying
sentiment. This one has a picture in soft-focus of a woman wearing a homey floral-print dress and a straw hat, walking
through a meadow, plush with wildflowers. Inside, it has a verse--he never reads those--and underneath that, in his sister’
s scrawling handwriting, is a short note.
"I know this would have been Jason’s 21st birthday and I’m sure it’s hard on you. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of
you and I love you. XXOO, Julie."
He lowers it slowly onto the coffee table, sets it next to the ashtray he no longer uses, and he gently pats the card. Then he
notices in the clean ashtray a tiny grain, some sort of crystal he found earlier that evening, gleaming like a bit of dust fallen
from a star, and he picks it up, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. Actually, he didn’t "find" it--not exactly.
Earlier tonight he'd been in the kitchen making a snack to go with his glass of wine--paring an apple and slicing a hunk of
cheese--when he nicked his finger with the knife. It bled like he’d severed an artery or something, as finger cuts often do,
so he ran cold water over it, then pressed a paper towel to it to staunch the flow of blood. While he waited for it to stop
bleeding, he stared at the knife, or rather, he stared at the sliver of his reflection in it. Just the angle of his jaw where it
hinged at the side of his neck, that was all he could see in the knife. What caught his attention was a faint scar, which he’d
noticed before but had never given much thought to until now, and he stared at it for several long minutes. What was it?
That is, how had he gotten it? He couldn’t quite remember.
He wrapped his injured finger in a wadded paper towel when the gush of blood had slowed to a trickle, and picked up the
knife. After rinsing it off, he carried it into the bathroom, balanced it on the edge of the small porcelain sink, and stared at his
reflection in the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. He picked up the knife, slowly lifting it to his bare throat, to that scar
on the side of his neck, and he lightly traced the straight line of the scar with the point of the knife. Tiny drops of blood rose
up along the line, like a miniature string of crimson pearls.
Then, before he could stop himself, he made a quick, shallow cut. He didn’t know why he did it, or rather, he couldn’t think
of a good reason at the time; it just seemed like the thing to do. He winced from the sharp pain, then dug the diamond-like
chip from his bloody flesh. With an eerie calmness he cleaned and bandaged the shallow wound, then washed off the
crystalline grain. He thought about flushing it down the toilet, but as he stared at it, glittering in the palm of his hand, it
reminded him of Jason. That is, he thought about how Jason would have liked it. Jason, who always loved to look at bright,
shiny things, who would stare, mesmerized, at lights, candles, a glint of sunlight in cut glass, anything that shined, he would
have stared at this sparkling particle too.
That was when he changed his mind, decided to keep the minute jewel. Maybe he would have it set in a ring, or maybe he’
d have it made into an earring and get his ear pierced like Marie had suggested. That idea, the one about the pierced ear,
made him laugh at himself. Who was he trying to kid? A balding, fifty-year-old man with a pierced ear wouldn’t look sexy; he’
d look foolish. Marie was just being nice, so he put that idea out of his head. But he would do something with it, something
special.
#
He plinks the little gem back into the ashtray and rubs his eyes. He had tried to go to sleep earlier, and maybe he did fall
asleep there in the recliner watching a late-night rerun of M*A*S*H or The Six Million Dollar Man or Mission: Impossible. He’
s not sure which it was, some old TV show he used to enjoy back in another lifetime, back when Jason was alive and he
was still happily married, or at least thought he was happily married. Those old shows are different now, though. That is,
he doesn’t find any magic in them anymore, but they probably haven’t changed; he has. Whatever the program was, he
must have fallen asleep because he remembers waking with a jolt when Ulysses jumped off his lap and scurried into the
kitchen.
Something was wrong. His heart was pounding as he realized that he wasn’t alone in the room. They were here--in his
home, of all places!--standing in his living room. They seemed to shimmer slightly, or were his eyes still bleary with sleep?
In an instant he knew it was the same pair, the same couple he’d seen in the park twice before. They had changed
somewhat, although not as much this time as the last. They both were dressed in dark blue suits, the man wearing a
white, button-down shirt and a red tie, the woman wearing a pink, silk blouse and a silver necklace. But they hadn’t aged,
and their eyes, as both times before, were piercing. He tried to get up, but for some reason he could barely move.
The man raised the gem, held it up for inspection, and whispered something unintelligible to the woman. She nodded,
then glancing around the room, she noticed him. That is, she noticed that he was now awake. She touched the man’s arm
lightly, then turned and said in a lilting accent he couldn’t identify, "You found this." Was that a question or a statement? He
wasn’t sure, but he struggled to nod anyway. "This changes things." It was the man who spoke then, his accent as exotic
as the woman’s, although a bit more clipped. The woman replied, "A shame. Such a good subject."
Beginning to feel as much smothered by his curiosity as by his immobility, he whispered, "Who are you?" and they looked at
him blankly, without reply. He persisted, saying, "I’ve seen you before. Twice." The man cocked his head slightly and said,
"Three times." Not remembering a third encounter, he frowned, so the man explained, "First time, the Marking was
interrupted. Your offspring’s accident." At that, a pulse of adrenaline shot through him and woke him further from his
torpor. "Jason!" he whispered. The woman reacted, saying, "Regrettable. The young human somehow saw through our
Transport’s camouflage. Stared directly at it." And the memory of that horrible day flashed through his mind.
It was a hot summer evening on one of those days late in June that, reluctant to give way to night, holds onto the sun as
long as possible. He and Jason were going for their daily walk through the park as the shadows of tall Eucalyptus and
Sycamore trees stretched out on the grass in languid repose. He always enjoyed his walks with his son, but that day
seemed even more special than usual. Maybe it had been the lazy feel of the late summer afternoon. Or maybe it had been
the fact that Jason was particularly animated that day, entranced by the ruddy tone of the waning daylight, running the tips of
his fingers over the dappled tree trunks, staring spellbound at glints of sunlight on a gold-colored statue of Amelia Earhart.
Buoyed by his child’s exuberant mood, he was blissful as they continued their walk, and thus lulled, he had let his usually
tight grip on Jason’s hand relax slightly until the boy, his attention easily diverted, pulled away.
As if trapped in a nightmare, he saw his son trotting toward the street, into the rush of traffic. He broke into a run toward the
boy. He screamed out, "Jason! Jason, no!" But, as was often the case, Jason failed to respond to his own name, and
before he could reach the boy, he saw a car hit him. In numb disbelief he watched as the impact flung his son into the air.
Then for an eternity of minutes, all he was aware of was the screech of brakes, a storm of tears, the keening wail of sirens,
and a small, broken body.
He drifted back to hear the woman continuing, "... must have been attracted to the gleaming silver of our Transport. We don’
t know why the holographic camouflage didn’t mask it from his eyes. Perhaps his condition made him sensitive to its
shine, enhanced his perception of it. Whatever the reason, chaos ensued. It made your Marking impossible at that time."
So that was why Jason ran out into the street that day, right in front of an oncoming car. The boy, always fascinated by
anything brilliant, glistening, saw something other people couldn’t see, and he ran toward it.
Clenching his eyes shut, squeezing out one last tear, he asked, "Why?" thinking he was asking why had they been there, at
that park and on that day, and why had they chosen him. But really he was trying to ask why had his son died, even though
he was finally beginning to realize that asking such a question was his way of holding the awful event at arm’s length while
still allowing himself to languish in its exquisite pain.
Misunderstanding the question, the woman answered, "To monitor. To track." The man said, "To learn. This, implanted,
allowed us to do that," and he dropped the tiny crystal back into the ashtray.
Still groggy, he shook his head feebly and asked, "Who are you?" and the two visitors glanced at each other before the man
said, "You wouldn’t know the star system we come from."
"But you look like ... like us," he said, more to himself than to either of them. That is, he didn’t expect a response, but he got
one anyway. "Holoflage," the man told him, not explaining the term, but not needing to either, the implication being that their
appearance was an illusion.
He looked at his guests--he’d begun to think of them as such--then down at the gem and asked, "What now? Are you going
to stick probes in me or something?" thinking of stories about the degradation suffered by reputed abductees and tasting
bile at the back of his throat, whether from fear or anger, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he also asked if they planned to dissect
him, or maybe he thought about asking that, but changed his mind, afraid to find out.
The couple, puzzled by this turn of the conversation, stared at him for a quiet, awkward moment, then exchanged glances.
The woman murmured something to the man, and the man said to him, "We are not Yarra-Holtans," using a tone that
sounded like distaste mixed with surprise or, perhaps, amusement. The man added, "We respect other species, use more
subtlety in study," his voice tinged with wounded pride. Of course, any guesses as to the emotional content of his guests’
tone and manner held a human bias which may have been completely erroneous when applied to non-humans, but he
thought his inferences made sense, and he clung to them as much by default as out of conviction.
"So why did you come here tonight?" he asked, confused. The woman answered him, but he had difficulty understanding
her reply. Did she say, "To find out what happened to the beacon"? Or was it, "To find the beacon"? Maybe she even told
him that they wanted him to keep the beacon. He wasn’t sure, for her words had become too cryptic, or rather, they were
layered with a multitude of meanings out of which he tried, and failed, to identify just one. In any case, they left soon after
that, and the gem, the beacon, was still there with him.
But before they left and before he fell asleep in his chair again, he asked, "Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell people about you?" He
couldn’t help asking, although he feared what they might answer, what they might tell him they would do to make him forget
or to keep him from talking about them. The man just smiled, or at least it looked like a smile, and then they were gone
before he could ask them to stay longer, before he could beg them to take him away with them. He remembered the young
boy he had once been, clutching a flashlight aimed toward the heavens, on the distant, lonely plains of Nebraska, and he
thought about Jason, a boy who never asked to see visitors from some exotic planet, who never asked to be taken away by
them, but who had seen them nevertheless, and had been spirited away by the encounter.
He picked up his drink and took a sip, but the ice had completely melted, and the diluted wine tasted flat in his mouth. He
set it down, resolving to pour it down the kitchen sink later.
#
He yawns and rubs his throbbing temples, wondering again if they’ll return. He tilts back the recliner, too tired to struggle off
to bed. He’ll just sleep here tonight, here in front of the television, letting it lull him to sleep. He’s amused to see that one of
his old SciFi movies is on the late show now. It’s been a long time since he’s seen one of the movies he wrote years ago;
they’re so bad, they’re rarely shown. He hasn’t any grand illusions about the cheap movies that used to support him and
his family, but bad as they are, this one, Escape from the Silver Planet (a gratuitous sequel to the cult classic, Thralls of the
Silver Planet), might be fun to watch, at least for a few minutes while he drifts off to sleep. He tries to remember how long
the movie has been on, but can’t. He just remembers watching it for a while, seeing characters who looked like people he
saw once or twice long ago in that park where he used to take Jason for walks every evening, where he’ll go tomorrow,
Jason’s birthday.
As sleep begins to claim him, he sees himself in the park, walking with his son and meeting that couple again. Jason
looks up at him with wide, clear eyes and gives him a sparkling jewel, then gets into a Mercedes with the couple and waves
goodbye as the three of them drive off. After they disappear, he unclenches his fist, looks down into the palm of his hand,
and sees a small diamond earring, twinkling like a tiny star as it catches a bit of light from the sun.
He is deep in slumber now, and a small part of him knows that upon waking in the morning he will remember this dream
only vaguely. But that will be enough.
END
Return to page 1
crying." And he’d say, "He just wants to go to the park. He’s used to going to the park every evening." Or he’d say, "Why
didn’t you take him to the park?" even though he knew that Jason wanted his father, not his mother, to take him. And he
knew that she hated to take the boy anywhere, like she was embarrassed by him or even afraid of him. But how could she
have feared her own son?
He, on the other hand, had adored Jason, cherished him despite his stuttering and stammering, despite the fact that the
boy would freeze up, become catatonic even, if a stranger so much as looked at him. Or maybe he loved his son so much
because of all that, meaning that he loved Jason all the more because of how much the boy needed to be loved. So he tried
to get home from work on time although, of course, he couldn’t always.
One night when he got home particularly late, he discovered Jason locked in his bedroom, shut in because his wife finally
couldn’t take the screaming anymore. At least, that’s what she told him as they climbed the stairs to the boy's bedroom
where they found him, curled up on his bed and murmuring incomprehensibly to an imaginary friend, which made his wife
even madder. No, that wasn’t right; she didn’t actually get mad. Rather, she got upset, like it scared her. The boy, however,
was easily consoled, entertained by one of his shiny toys, a silver Lost in Space flying saucer, and the two of them played
with it in the boy’s bedroom until his bedtime. Then, as his son slipped into secret dreams, he went in search of his wife.
He found her in the living room, standing in front of the big picture window, staring out into the night, a reflection of her in the
window staring back into the house, a forlorn look on its face. He asked, "Are you okay?" or maybe he said, "You haven’t
been crying, have you?"--something like that. He was concerned about her, but whatever he said, it must have sounded like
an accusation. Without looking at him, she folded her arms tightly across her chest and whispered, "I’m fine. Just fine."
She stayed like that, staring out of the window, until he pressed his chest against her back and wrapped his arms around
her, pulling her tightly to him. She tilted her head back against his cheek, wiped her eyes, and whispered, "It’s getting late.
Let’s go to bed."
#
He used to think she had been happy when Jason died, or at least that she had been relieved. But thinking back on it now,
he wonders if she didn’t grieve for him too, in her own reluctant way, maybe even more so because she must have felt so
much guilt about how she’d treated him, or rather, how she had ignored him. She never actually mistreated Jason, never
beat him or anything like that, but she never really loved him like a mother should have. Yes, that’s what she must have felt,
must have felt more than anything. Guilt. And so her guilt pulling one way and his grief pulling the other tore the two of them
apart.
For a while after their divorce the dreams stopped, and he was almost able to convince himself they had been nothing more
than that, just dreams, and that he had made too much of them. But then one day he saw them again, that strange couple,
that is.
Encouraged by the freshet of self-help books which were then flooding the market, and feeling the approach of middle age
beginning to chill his bones, he had taken up jogging in a brief flirtation with self-improvement, and it was while warming up
for a run in the park that he noticed them. They looked very different that time, the man in khaki slacks and a teal Izod shirt,
his hair cropped short, and the woman in a gray skirt and cream blouse, her hair brushed back in waves. In fact, he almost
didn’t recognize them at all until they looked his way, and he saw their eyes, those large, dark, limpid eyes which had
penetrated his dreams for so long. At that moment he froze, torn between the desire to run to them so he could touch them,
verify their existence, and the urge to hide from them. But he knew it was too late to hide; they had seen him, and more
importantly, he had seen their eyes, had let those eyes back into his mind and his soul. For a long moment he held their
gaze, and he was sure they wanted to say something to him, but they didn’t. He’s sure they hadn’t. He’s sure they had just
walked on, gotten into their Volvo, and driven away. So why had the dreams come back after that?
He sighs and slowly sips his wine. That had been so long ago, so many dreams ago--so many haunted dreams and so
many broken ones too. And now here he is with only a cat for company, sitting in a small apartment cluttered with books,
holding a glass of ice-diluted wine, and staring down at a birthday card for a dead child. He lifts the card again, noticing it’s
not actually a birthday card. Rather, it’s one of those friendship cards, the kind that tries to warm your heart with cloying
sentiment. This one has a picture in soft-focus of a woman wearing a homey floral-print dress and a straw hat, walking
through a meadow, plush with wildflowers. Inside, it has a verse--he never reads those--and underneath that, in his sister’
s scrawling handwriting, is a short note.
"I know this would have been Jason’s 21st birthday and I’m sure it’s hard on you. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of
you and I love you. XXOO, Julie."
He lowers it slowly onto the coffee table, sets it next to the ashtray he no longer uses, and he gently pats the card. Then he
notices in the clean ashtray a tiny grain, some sort of crystal he found earlier that evening, gleaming like a bit of dust fallen
from a star, and he picks it up, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. Actually, he didn’t "find" it--not exactly.
Earlier tonight he'd been in the kitchen making a snack to go with his glass of wine--paring an apple and slicing a hunk of
cheese--when he nicked his finger with the knife. It bled like he’d severed an artery or something, as finger cuts often do,
so he ran cold water over it, then pressed a paper towel to it to staunch the flow of blood. While he waited for it to stop
bleeding, he stared at the knife, or rather, he stared at the sliver of his reflection in it. Just the angle of his jaw where it
hinged at the side of his neck, that was all he could see in the knife. What caught his attention was a faint scar, which he’d
noticed before but had never given much thought to until now, and he stared at it for several long minutes. What was it?
That is, how had he gotten it? He couldn’t quite remember.
He wrapped his injured finger in a wadded paper towel when the gush of blood had slowed to a trickle, and picked up the
knife. After rinsing it off, he carried it into the bathroom, balanced it on the edge of the small porcelain sink, and stared at his
reflection in the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. He picked up the knife, slowly lifting it to his bare throat, to that scar
on the side of his neck, and he lightly traced the straight line of the scar with the point of the knife. Tiny drops of blood rose
up along the line, like a miniature string of crimson pearls.
Then, before he could stop himself, he made a quick, shallow cut. He didn’t know why he did it, or rather, he couldn’t think
of a good reason at the time; it just seemed like the thing to do. He winced from the sharp pain, then dug the diamond-like
chip from his bloody flesh. With an eerie calmness he cleaned and bandaged the shallow wound, then washed off the
crystalline grain. He thought about flushing it down the toilet, but as he stared at it, glittering in the palm of his hand, it
reminded him of Jason. That is, he thought about how Jason would have liked it. Jason, who always loved to look at bright,
shiny things, who would stare, mesmerized, at lights, candles, a glint of sunlight in cut glass, anything that shined, he would
have stared at this sparkling particle too.
That was when he changed his mind, decided to keep the minute jewel. Maybe he would have it set in a ring, or maybe he’
d have it made into an earring and get his ear pierced like Marie had suggested. That idea, the one about the pierced ear,
made him laugh at himself. Who was he trying to kid? A balding, fifty-year-old man with a pierced ear wouldn’t look sexy; he’
d look foolish. Marie was just being nice, so he put that idea out of his head. But he would do something with it, something
special.
#
He plinks the little gem back into the ashtray and rubs his eyes. He had tried to go to sleep earlier, and maybe he did fall
asleep there in the recliner watching a late-night rerun of M*A*S*H or The Six Million Dollar Man or Mission: Impossible. He’
s not sure which it was, some old TV show he used to enjoy back in another lifetime, back when Jason was alive and he
was still happily married, or at least thought he was happily married. Those old shows are different now, though. That is,
he doesn’t find any magic in them anymore, but they probably haven’t changed; he has. Whatever the program was, he
must have fallen asleep because he remembers waking with a jolt when Ulysses jumped off his lap and scurried into the
kitchen.
Something was wrong. His heart was pounding as he realized that he wasn’t alone in the room. They were here--in his
home, of all places!--standing in his living room. They seemed to shimmer slightly, or were his eyes still bleary with sleep?
In an instant he knew it was the same pair, the same couple he’d seen in the park twice before. They had changed
somewhat, although not as much this time as the last. They both were dressed in dark blue suits, the man wearing a
white, button-down shirt and a red tie, the woman wearing a pink, silk blouse and a silver necklace. But they hadn’t aged,
and their eyes, as both times before, were piercing. He tried to get up, but for some reason he could barely move.
The man raised the gem, held it up for inspection, and whispered something unintelligible to the woman. She nodded,
then glancing around the room, she noticed him. That is, she noticed that he was now awake. She touched the man’s arm
lightly, then turned and said in a lilting accent he couldn’t identify, "You found this." Was that a question or a statement? He
wasn’t sure, but he struggled to nod anyway. "This changes things." It was the man who spoke then, his accent as exotic
as the woman’s, although a bit more clipped. The woman replied, "A shame. Such a good subject."
Beginning to feel as much smothered by his curiosity as by his immobility, he whispered, "Who are you?" and they looked at
him blankly, without reply. He persisted, saying, "I’ve seen you before. Twice." The man cocked his head slightly and said,
"Three times." Not remembering a third encounter, he frowned, so the man explained, "First time, the Marking was
interrupted. Your offspring’s accident." At that, a pulse of adrenaline shot through him and woke him further from his
torpor. "Jason!" he whispered. The woman reacted, saying, "Regrettable. The young human somehow saw through our
Transport’s camouflage. Stared directly at it." And the memory of that horrible day flashed through his mind.
It was a hot summer evening on one of those days late in June that, reluctant to give way to night, holds onto the sun as
long as possible. He and Jason were going for their daily walk through the park as the shadows of tall Eucalyptus and
Sycamore trees stretched out on the grass in languid repose. He always enjoyed his walks with his son, but that day
seemed even more special than usual. Maybe it had been the lazy feel of the late summer afternoon. Or maybe it had been
the fact that Jason was particularly animated that day, entranced by the ruddy tone of the waning daylight, running the tips of
his fingers over the dappled tree trunks, staring spellbound at glints of sunlight on a gold-colored statue of Amelia Earhart.
Buoyed by his child’s exuberant mood, he was blissful as they continued their walk, and thus lulled, he had let his usually
tight grip on Jason’s hand relax slightly until the boy, his attention easily diverted, pulled away.
As if trapped in a nightmare, he saw his son trotting toward the street, into the rush of traffic. He broke into a run toward the
boy. He screamed out, "Jason! Jason, no!" But, as was often the case, Jason failed to respond to his own name, and
before he could reach the boy, he saw a car hit him. In numb disbelief he watched as the impact flung his son into the air.
Then for an eternity of minutes, all he was aware of was the screech of brakes, a storm of tears, the keening wail of sirens,
and a small, broken body.
He drifted back to hear the woman continuing, "... must have been attracted to the gleaming silver of our Transport. We don’
t know why the holographic camouflage didn’t mask it from his eyes. Perhaps his condition made him sensitive to its
shine, enhanced his perception of it. Whatever the reason, chaos ensued. It made your Marking impossible at that time."
So that was why Jason ran out into the street that day, right in front of an oncoming car. The boy, always fascinated by
anything brilliant, glistening, saw something other people couldn’t see, and he ran toward it.
Clenching his eyes shut, squeezing out one last tear, he asked, "Why?" thinking he was asking why had they been there, at
that park and on that day, and why had they chosen him. But really he was trying to ask why had his son died, even though
he was finally beginning to realize that asking such a question was his way of holding the awful event at arm’s length while
still allowing himself to languish in its exquisite pain.
Misunderstanding the question, the woman answered, "To monitor. To track." The man said, "To learn. This, implanted,
allowed us to do that," and he dropped the tiny crystal back into the ashtray.
Still groggy, he shook his head feebly and asked, "Who are you?" and the two visitors glanced at each other before the man
said, "You wouldn’t know the star system we come from."
"But you look like ... like us," he said, more to himself than to either of them. That is, he didn’t expect a response, but he got
one anyway. "Holoflage," the man told him, not explaining the term, but not needing to either, the implication being that their
appearance was an illusion.
He looked at his guests--he’d begun to think of them as such--then down at the gem and asked, "What now? Are you going
to stick probes in me or something?" thinking of stories about the degradation suffered by reputed abductees and tasting
bile at the back of his throat, whether from fear or anger, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he also asked if they planned to dissect
him, or maybe he thought about asking that, but changed his mind, afraid to find out.
The couple, puzzled by this turn of the conversation, stared at him for a quiet, awkward moment, then exchanged glances.
The woman murmured something to the man, and the man said to him, "We are not Yarra-Holtans," using a tone that
sounded like distaste mixed with surprise or, perhaps, amusement. The man added, "We respect other species, use more
subtlety in study," his voice tinged with wounded pride. Of course, any guesses as to the emotional content of his guests’
tone and manner held a human bias which may have been completely erroneous when applied to non-humans, but he
thought his inferences made sense, and he clung to them as much by default as out of conviction.
"So why did you come here tonight?" he asked, confused. The woman answered him, but he had difficulty understanding
her reply. Did she say, "To find out what happened to the beacon"? Or was it, "To find the beacon"? Maybe she even told
him that they wanted him to keep the beacon. He wasn’t sure, for her words had become too cryptic, or rather, they were
layered with a multitude of meanings out of which he tried, and failed, to identify just one. In any case, they left soon after
that, and the gem, the beacon, was still there with him.
But before they left and before he fell asleep in his chair again, he asked, "Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell people about you?" He
couldn’t help asking, although he feared what they might answer, what they might tell him they would do to make him forget
or to keep him from talking about them. The man just smiled, or at least it looked like a smile, and then they were gone
before he could ask them to stay longer, before he could beg them to take him away with them. He remembered the young
boy he had once been, clutching a flashlight aimed toward the heavens, on the distant, lonely plains of Nebraska, and he
thought about Jason, a boy who never asked to see visitors from some exotic planet, who never asked to be taken away by
them, but who had seen them nevertheless, and had been spirited away by the encounter.
He picked up his drink and took a sip, but the ice had completely melted, and the diluted wine tasted flat in his mouth. He
set it down, resolving to pour it down the kitchen sink later.
#
He yawns and rubs his throbbing temples, wondering again if they’ll return. He tilts back the recliner, too tired to struggle off
to bed. He’ll just sleep here tonight, here in front of the television, letting it lull him to sleep. He’s amused to see that one of
his old SciFi movies is on the late show now. It’s been a long time since he’s seen one of the movies he wrote years ago;
they’re so bad, they’re rarely shown. He hasn’t any grand illusions about the cheap movies that used to support him and
his family, but bad as they are, this one, Escape from the Silver Planet (a gratuitous sequel to the cult classic, Thralls of the
Silver Planet), might be fun to watch, at least for a few minutes while he drifts off to sleep. He tries to remember how long
the movie has been on, but can’t. He just remembers watching it for a while, seeing characters who looked like people he
saw once or twice long ago in that park where he used to take Jason for walks every evening, where he’ll go tomorrow,
Jason’s birthday.
As sleep begins to claim him, he sees himself in the park, walking with his son and meeting that couple again. Jason
looks up at him with wide, clear eyes and gives him a sparkling jewel, then gets into a Mercedes with the couple and waves
goodbye as the three of them drive off. After they disappear, he unclenches his fist, looks down into the palm of his hand,
and sees a small diamond earring, twinkling like a tiny star as it catches a bit of light from the sun.
He is deep in slumber now, and a small part of him knows that upon waking in the morning he will remember this dream
only vaguely. But that will be enough.
END
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