The Last Starfighter (5 page)

“You know, Alex, I always wondered what a real etching was.”

“Me too, but it’s a nice line. Well, how about coming over to watch the crickets sing?”

“Do they sound like Men at Work?”

“Depends on the crickets.”

She grinned. “Okay, but you have to promise to walk me home. It’s scaaarrry out.” The Gordon trailer was one step removed from the Rogan’s.

“It’s a deal, if my feet hold out. I’ve been on them all day.”

She was suddenly sympathetic again. “I’m really sorry about the picnic, Alex.”

“That’s okay. At least one of us had a good time.”

The crickets were not recordable, nor did they sound much like Men at Work, or even their much earlier namesakes. It didn’t matter to Alex and Maggie. They snuggled close on the worn porch swing set up in the small fenced are a that was the Rogan’s front yard, luxuriating in the cool evening air. Around them the trailer park was winding down for the night. It was the end of still another summer day. Maggie said little, preoccupied, and Alex was wise enough not to press her for her thoughts.

Somewhere Dan Rather’s report clashed with the Spinners doing “Rubberband Man” on Otis’s stereo. Otis had asked Alex for his opinion on compact disc players, but gave up on the idea when he discovered there was nothing out that he wanted to hear. Sony didn’t seem interested in Otis’s favorite music.

Alex didn’t care much for it either, except for one singer Otis played over and over. It was a voice that stood out even above the news of the war in Afghanistan and the rise in the prime rate: Billie Holiday. Alex wished he could have seen her in concert. That made Otis smile, because he knew his young friend would never have been admitted to the joints where Holiday had been forced to make her living. But the boy’s interest pleased him.

“Yep,” a voice was saying from the region of the Boone trailer, “that Alex sure is gonna go places.”

“Sure is,” Elvira concurred.

“I’ll say,” agreed Mrs. Boone. There was a pause, and then Granny Gordon announced the termination of parental radar by calling out, “G’night, kids.”

A few moments later the lights in the Gordon trailer went out. Mrs. Rogan wasn’t home yet. Alex waited a moment longer before slipping his right hand innocently around Maggie’s shoulder. Seemingly of their own volition, the fingers clenched gently, drawing her still closer to him.

Her face turned up toward his and their eyes locked. He bent forward, lips straining for hers . . . and she dodged neatly, bussing him on the cheek. Then she rose from the swing and headed for her trailer.

“Night, Alex.”

His first thought was that she’d made some kind of unconscious mistake. Her aim was off, that was all. But there was more to it than that.

’"Night, Alex’?” he repeated. “What the hell’s ‘Night, Alex’?” He wasn’t as much mad as he was confused. Usually it was Maggie who initiated the kissing. “Hey, wait!” He caught up to her as she started up the steps toward her small porch.

The spies were out that night. No CIA recruit listened or watched more intently than Louis Rogan from his position at his bedroom window. He was old enough to have some idea of what was happening, was aware there was physicality involved (though he thought of it in different terms). He was as fascinated by the sight as if he’d been witness to a murder.

Maggie continued up the steps but hesitated at the door.

“C’mon, Maggie, tell me what’s wrong. You can always tell me what’s wrong.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “Won’t get mad?”

“Promise.” He held up crossed fingers, looked solemn.

“I guess it finally hit me.” She didn’t want to look at him, but discovered she couldn’t look anyplace else. “You’re really going away, aren’t you?”

“Is that what’s bugging you?”

“Isn’t that enough? Don’t you think that’s important?”

“Sure it’s important. Of course I’m going away. We’re both going away.”

She frowned. “Both?”

He mounted the steps, put both hands on her shoulders. She didn’t back away. “Yeah, both of us. Who’d pester me if not you? Who’d pester you if I wasn’t around? Don’t you remember? We already went through all this. I go to college, find a place, get a job, and come back for you.”

“I . . . I didn’t think you were serious about that, Alex. I thought you were just talking through your hat.”

“Naw. Always talk through my lips. See?” He stuck out his chin, pointed to his puckered mouth. “Watch my lips. I . . . am . . . coming . . . back . . . for . . . you. Got it?”

“But what about Granny? She needs someone to look after her.”

“Granny?” Alex nodded sharply at the trailer. “Granny needs someone to look after her about as much as Ma Barker did. Granny can take care of herself, and anyway, you’re not the only one she’s got. Who do you think helps her out when you’re in school?” He gestured toward the surrounding mobiles. “This whole park’s her family. I should have so many friends looking after me.”

She was silent, and he found himself nodding at her. “That’s not it. That’s not it at all, is it? It’s something else. The truth is that you’re scared of leaving this place. Scared of leaving . . .”

Suddenly angry, she snapped back at him. “I am
not
scared!”

He put up both hands, defensively. “Hey, take it easy. So maybe I’m wrong. You know how to prove me wrong.” He softened his tone.

“Whatever happens, whether you come with me right away, or later, or down the road some time, it’s you and me forever, right? Rogan and Gordon versus the world. ’Cause I’m not goin’ anywhere far enough to keep me from coming back to you, Maggie.”

What now? Was she laughing at him, or crying? It was always so hard to be sure. He had a clearer idea when she put her arms around him and hugged him tight.

“Oh, I love you so much, Alex.”

“And I love you twice as much back, Maggs. I’ll always love you.”

This time their lips didn’t miss.

Unable to believe his prepubescent gaze, Louis Rogan made an anguished sound as he flipped up the visor on his space helmet, the better to ensure missing none of the sickening display. Weren’t they
ever
going to let go of one another? And how could they
breathe
! Maybe they were holding their breath, yeah, that had to be it. But how could they hold their breath for so
long
!

“Di-a-
ree
-ah!” he murmured, thoroughly disgusted with what he was seeing.

But he didn’t turn away.

3

One good thing about working in a small town, Jane Rogan thought tiredly as she drove the old pickup into the parking place alongside her home: Everyone knew you too well to risk pinching you. Not that some of the regulars in the cafe didn’t keep trying to pick her up. At first it had been flattering. Now it was just boring. She doubted any of the men were serious, though. It was nothing more than a carefully choreographed ballet.

“Hey Jane,” Seth Daniel would call out, “how about bringing some of that over here?”

“Some of what, Seth?” she would reply, the waitress’ professional smiled epoxied on her face.

And Seth would grin at his coffee-drinking buddies and say, “You know what.”

And she would sigh and reply, “Not on the menu tonight, Seth. Besides, you know your stomach.”

And they would all guffaw while muttering private male obscenities to one another, and the tips would be good, and that was what mattered.

She checked the front seat to make sure she’d gathered up all the mail and put it on top of one of the two big bags of groceries, next to the loaf of generic brand white bread. Then she balanced a bag in the crook of each arm and started for the trailer. She could have called Alex out to help, but she already felt badly enough about making him miss his picnic that morning. So she managed by herself, even though the bags were getting a little heavier each month, in spite of the fact that she always bought the same quantity of groceries.

Once inside, she set the bags down on the kitchen table, put the spoilables in the refrigerator and the freezer, then went to check on Louis. He was lying in bed, eyes shut tight. She backed out, checked Alex’s room and wasn’t surprised to discover it empty.

Still, a look at her watch caused her to frown. She knew there was no reason for her to worry. Not about Alex. Except . . . ever since he’d made that one trip to the college side of town and had come back at three
A.M.
reeking of beer she’d felt compelled to keep a closer eye on him. Of course, he’d only done that once, and he was of the age to sow a few wild if thoughtless oats, but having been forced to miss the picnic and the swimming he might just be in a state of mind to try something silly and . . .

Her worries vanished as he came striding into the living room, a big smile plastered across his handsome young face. He was whistling the theme from
Rocky
loud enough to wake half the park.

“Shushh, Alex, you’ll wake Granny and the others.”

“Wake Granny? Granny Gordon could sleep through World War Three, humble Mom.” He gazed ceilingward and adopted a Shakespearean pose. “Yea, and someday they shall point to this place, to this very abode of tin and glue, and they shall say,
this
is where it all began.” He slipped back into his normal slouch, grinning widely at her. “Guess what? I finally broke the record on Starfighter. Not the local record, mind you. I pushed it so far it had to back up and start over again.”

“That’s nice, dear.” She sifted the mail, some of which she’d already opened and checked. The bills she left untouched, preferring to put aside their malign revelations until the last possible instant.

“Nice?” He gaped at her. Obviously she had no idea of the significance of his accomplishment. When he’d walked into the room he’d felt like Rocky running up the library steps in Philadelphia. Now his euphoria vanished and he felt like Rocky in
Rocky III
, getting the stuffing bashed out of him by Mr. T.

Mothers had a way of deflating one’s ego faster than a blocked punt run back against you for a touchdown.

“It’s stupendous, mom, not ‘nice.’ We need to call somebody. The paper, the
Guinness Book of Records
people, the local TV news . . .”

“I picked up all the mail,” she replied patiently, nipping intimations of imminent immortality in the bud, “because Mr. Perlman’s truck broke down.” She handed over a single ragged-topped envelope. “This came for you and when I saw the return address I got so excited I had to open it.”

“That’s okay, mom.” Still feeling good, he accepted the envelope. “What is it?”

She didn’t look at him. “It’s about your loan.”

“Loan?” Suddenly he didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to know because he already knew the nature of the letter’s contents from the look on her face. He just held the envelope, staring at her.

“Your student loan.” She sighed again, deeply this time, and tried to smile at him. “I know how much it meant to you, Alex, but you can still go to City College with your friends.”

Weak and sick, he let the letter slide out of its container and forced himself to read the words. “Dear Mr. Rogan,” it said with unctuous politeness, “we regret to inform you that your application for a loan to cover tuition and related study costs at the University has regretfully been denied due to lack of sufficient collateral.

“Scholarship loans, we must remind you, are dependent on achieving an SAT test score of approximately . . .”

He crumpled the paper slowly in one hand. Of course his SAT scores weren’t what they should have been, could have been. How could they be, when you spent half the nights the month of the testing fixing crappy plumbing and installing fiberglass insulation and exterminating ants? How did they expect him to study, to keep up with the rich kids like Jack Blake with his free time and his personal computer and his tutor and . . . and . . .

“And I’ll always love
you
, Maggie,” murmured Louis wetly from his listening post in the hallway. “Kissy, kissy, kissy!”

“Louis!” Mrs. Rogan shouted.

Ten-year-old or no, Louis saw something then in Alex’s sudden glance that made him retreat back into the warm darkness of the hall. It wasn’t a threatening look. That he was prepared for and could have coped with. What he wasn’t ready to handle was the look of pain on the face of his invulnerable, indomitable big brother. In his preadolescent fashion he was aware that he was responsible for some of that pain, so different from the usual childish torments he and Alex exchanged. It was a numbing realization and he didn’t know how to react. He felt queasy, as if he’d just eaten something he knew he shouldn’t have.

Alex didn’t say anything to him, which was good. The expression on his face was hurtful enough. Twice embarrassed, he turned and fled from the trailer.

“Alex!” Jane Rogan moved after him and halted at the doorway. Sometimes peace and privacy could be more consoling than maternal concern. She was a good enough parent to let him go.

When you’re running real hard, fast as you can, and your mind is elsewhere, sometimes you forget to breathe. Eventually the body gets through to the brain and both combine to bring you up short. Alex slowed, wheezing and gasping, found himself halfway to the highway. Behind him colored lights flashed at the night—Starlight Starbright, Overnighters Welcome—in intermittent neon swirls.