The Spaceship Next Door (2 page)

The problem appeared to be that nobody knew what to do after having borne witness, aside from continuing to do so routinely.

When the ship first landed Annie couldn’t get enough of the entire experience. Excited people showed up every day with weird equipment and wild theories and none of them cared who they told about it: a reporter from NBC or an inquisitive thirteen-year old girl, it was all the same to most of them.
Listen to us
, they said, over and over, as often as possible to as many people as would stop to hear.

There was a breathlessness to the whole thing, as surely any minute something would happen, and the world lost its collective mind just thinking about the possibilities. It was crazy and intoxicating, and Annie loved the whole thing.

She also believed a lot of what she was told. At thirteen, the idea that adults could be thoroughly and completely wrong-headed about anything was just a growing notion. So if Derinda Lake wanted to tell her the aliens had burrowed from underneath the ship and walked among them, Annie was inclined to believe her, even if it contradicted Carter Kent’s calm assertion that the machine was clearly an unmanned probe presaging the arrival of a space fleet. Likewise, Loonie Larry and his zombie theory didn’t fit the first two theories—or any other sane theory—but she was willing to take him seriously too, for a little while.

Dobbs and Mr. Shoeman didn’t have a strong theory, or not one they were willing to share. They were more interested in collecting evidence first and then developing a conclusion.

That was all fine, except there was no evidence to collect, and every day that passed without real evidence was a day that made Mr. Shoeman and Dobbs seem that much more desperate, and more like everyone else out there in the camper rooftop city. They were all as friendly as ever, and she still liked talking to them, but she was approaching a point where her interactions were more out of pity than interest. One day she was going to grow up and leave Sorrow Falls. The only way any of them—Dobbs and Mr. Shoeman or, really anyone else in the campers—were going anywhere was if the ship did something, and Annie was growing convinced that this would never happen.

A
nnie climbed
down from the ladder, hoping the display of modest enthusiasm she’d given was sufficient. It was unfortunate that once the camera crews and print reporters stopped coming around on a weekly basis, the only people who would still listen were people like Annie, which meant in a weird way that they needed her affirmation.

Or something.

It was a dynamic she didn’t really understand. Mr. Shoeman was retired, his wife died a decade earlier, and if he had children and grandchildren, he didn’t talk about them. (His relationship to Dobbs was a complete mystery. They weren’t related by blood and that was all she knew.) It was possible he had adopted her in his own way.

She already had a grandfather. Her mom’s dad. He died when she was seven, and she only remembered seeing him one time. He spent ten minutes trying to make her laugh and impressing her by making it look like his thumb was detachable. The smile on his face when he performed this trick was a little like what Art Shoeman did when he had something new to tell Annie. She didn’t quite know how to tell him she knew his thumb wasn’t really coming off, especially when he seemed to believe it was.

She walked the bike back across the street through the slow-moving traffic of perpetual rubberneckers.

“Morning, Annie,” one of the soldiers said with a smile and a wave.

“Morning, corporal,” she said back, wheeling the bike over to him.

His name was Sam Corning. He was a twenty-four year old six foot four square jawed soldier with baby blue eyes and a smile that never went away even when he stopped smiling.

Annie was going to run away with him one day, to live on a ranch in the hills of Virginia, and make babies and fresh vegetables. That he didn’t know any of this had surprisingly little impact on her plans.

“You can call me Sam, you know that.”

“What, out here in the open? People will talk.”

Annie learned to flirt by watching old black-and-white movies. She couldn’t tell yet if she was any good at it.

He laughed. “It’s corporal if you need rescuing or something, otherwise Sam is just fine. We’ve been through this.”

Sam Corning was the only soldier she’d met from the base that didn’t like to be reminded he happened to be a soldier. Annie was pretty sure that meant something, but didn’t know what.

“How’s things? Quiet?”

“As always. Saw a bug earlier; pretty sure I never saw one like it before. Probably not an alien.”

“Probably not.”

“Killed it anyway, just in case.”

“With the gun?”

Sam had an M16A2 on his shoulder, a Beretta M9 handgun on his hip, and a Bowie knife on his belt. She knew this not because of any particular fascination with guns—she had no love for them—but because he’d given her a walkthrough of his weaponry in a prior conversation.

“I used my boot. Anything exciting going on over there?”

He nodded toward Dobbs.

“I’m afraid that’s classified, Corporal Corning. How about here?”

“Equally classified. Although rumor has it someone will be going through the gate in another hour or two. My orders are to let them in and close the gate behind them.”

“Truly, this is a challenging job.”

“You want me on that wall. You need me on that wall.”

Annie laughed. She quoted
A Few Good Men
to him one time and he never quite got over it.

“So who is it?”

“Classified.”

“The president? THE PRESIDENT IS COMING?”

“No, stop shouting.”

She turned to the trailers. “HEY, EVERYONE!”

“Stop!”

“So who’s coming?” she asked, turning back. “Spill.”

“Some journalist. Doing a retrospective. Time magazine or… one of them, I forget.”

“Oooh, that’s more exciting than the president.”

“Really? To whom?”

“Pretty much everyone.”

By the third year of the spaceship occupation, everyone in town had either met the president or met someone whose job it was to keep them from meeting the president, at least two or three times. Sorrow Falls also had its share of members of congress and visiting heads of state, plus a variety of religious dignitaries. It was an understatement to say the community was jaded when it came to famous people.

On the other hand, a journalist was someone who would stop and talk to the trailer city collective. That was much more important than any president.

“Well keep it to yourself anyway,” Sam said. “No idea if people are even supposed to know.”

“A retrospective, huh?”

“I think so. Probably just talk to the usuals. Billy Pederson and everyone.”

“Right.”

There were about a dozen people from Sorrow Falls who were legitimately famous. Billy was one of them, but there was also the sheriff and his deputies, the fire chief, the guy who drove the ambulance that day, the owners of the land adjacent to the ship, and one or two other people who had come about their fame honestly, which was to say they happened to be in the right place at the right time and this could be verified independently. A dozen other people were famous for the opposite reason: they claimed to be somewhere they weren’t, or do something they hadn’t done. They achieved a temporary fame, which devolved into a public shaming. Annie knew a couple of them, and didn’t find them to be all that regretful. Fame was the be-all and end-all for some folks.

What the famous people of Sorrow Falls had in common was direct interaction with the alien spacecraft. The early days before the army came in with their military cordon and their giant fence, and daily bomber runs over the no-fly zone above, and helicopter fly-by’s, and so on, were tumultuous. A lot of people had an opportunity to see the ship up close. Those that did eventually became famous for it, even if they had nothing to say.

“Probably looking for some story nobody’s told yet,” Sam said. “As you do. Pretty much no stories left, though, huh? Not until it does something.”

“Yeah, probably not,” she said. “But he’s getting a close-up of the ship, huh?”

“So I’m told.”

“That’s a
little
unusual, right? When was the last time that happened?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess. I don’t think about it much. Maybe he was just the first to ask in a while.”

“Maybe. Well, I gotta run, but thanks for the info. Now I know what I’m doing with my day.”

Sam laughed. “You’re going to track down the one reporter in Sorrow Falls in the next two hours?”

“Oh, I won’t need two hours. C’mon, Sam, who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Fine, well when you do find him, keep my name out of it.”

She kicked her leg over the bike and pointed it toward town. “Don’t worry, soldier. I always protect my informants.”

T
he reporter was
a skinny white guy with the kind of glasses people who lived in cities tended to wear: they had almost no frames to them and looked too small to render the entire world on the other side of the eyeballs crisp for the owner of those eyeballs.

He appeared to have made a conscious effort to look rugged, countrified or otherwise non-
other
to the locals of Sorrow Falls, but couldn’t entirely pull it off. One reason for this was pretty simple: nobody in town dressed like he was dressed. People from the city didn’t understand that people living outside of the city didn’t really have a different style, or if they did it wasn’t a style you could arrive at by mimicking the fashion choices from a pickup truck commercial.

He had a red flannel shirt and jeans—the jeans were unquestionably brand-new, but he did make an effort to buy the kind that came pre-distressed—and tan leather hiking boots.

Annie had spent her entire life in Sorrow Falls, and the only people she’d ever seen dressed this way were the ones coming from outside of town and trying to fit in. It said “farmer” to a certain group of people who had never farmed.

He was in good company. The president dressed this way when he visited too. So had the French ambassador, although in his case he probably thought all Americans dressed like this: he wore a cowboy hat with it. Annie had to think for a while before she could come up with a visiting dignitary who hadn’t worn the outfit. The only two that came to mind was the vice president (a woman, who also had decent fashion sense) and the Dalai Lama.

The reporter was sitting alone in a booth in the back of Joanne’s Diner, typing at a modest pace on a laptop that would have been a spiral notebook only a few years earlier. He checked his watch every couple of minutes, and looked up every time the bell above the door announced someone’s entry or exit.

“How long’s he been here?” Annie asked Beth. Beth was four years older than Annie, and a member of the diner’s ownership family, the Welds. She was also the closest thing Annie had to an older sister, largely because the Welds were in the habit of adopting locals who helped out in the diner, and
everyone
was in the habit of adopting Annie. It was a popular local tradition.

The only sign to ever grace the diner was one that said DINER on it, but everyone called it Joanne’s. This was sort of funny for anybody familiar with the Welds, because nobody in the family was, or had ever been, named Joanne. It was true that for about fifteen years in the late middle period of the Twentieth century, the diner employed a waitress who called herself Joan, and it was also true that Joan was a very popular lady in the way some ladies could be at times (Annie took this to mean she had large breasts, but Beth had a much more salacious interpretation) and so it was very possible “the Diner” became “Joan’s Diner” and later—because that ‘s’ and ‘d’ in the makeshift title was awkward when shoved together like that—it became “Joanne’s Diner” before finally becoming “Joanne’s”. It was equally possible there was another explanation, for which no adequate historical record existed. What remained true was that there was no Joanne in the establishment, and it did not appear there ever had been.

It was a local tradition, therefore, to tell intrepid reporters who had just arrived that they absolutely must A: eat at Joanne’s, and B: ask to speak to Joanne, as she had all the best information.

It was an entertaining prank, and also served the important purpose of notifying locals when someone contributing to the official record was in the vicinity. For while there was no Joanne, her diner was the closest thing to an information hub the town had.

“About an hour. Don’t know who he’s waiting on.”

“His escort, probably,” Annie said. “He’s going to see the ship.”

Beth flexed an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

Annie shrugged, which wasn’t an answer, but it also sort of was. Annie knew people and people told her things. It was just how things were. If anyone in town knew that, it was Beth.

“Well, if that’s true he must be more important than he looks,” Beth said.

“Maybe. What do important people look like? I can never tell.”

Annie put down the half full buss pan she was ostensibly supposed to be transporting to the back of the diner. There was an industrial-sized dishwashing machine in back made by a company called Hobart that everyone just called Bart. Bart was always hungry and always complaining and occasionally—more often than not of late—needed a visit from a specialist, because Bart was getting old. There were a not inconsequential number of customers who believed there was a human named Bart in the back, who was perhaps chained there and not permitted to leave.

The breakfast rushes came in shifts, and this was a moment between those shifts, so Annie had already fed Bart.

She grabbed a coffee urn and headed to the back of the diner, winking at Beth as she went.

“Refill?” she asked, to the journo.

“No thanks,” he said, not looking up. She thought he looked younger up close, like just-out-of-college young. That didn’t make a lot of sense contextualized with his opportunity to see the ship up close, though. She expected a more seasoned individual.

Annie sat down on the opposite side of the booth and waited for him to notice.

It took a lot longer than it should have.

“Hello?” he said, confused.

“Hi.”

He saw the coffee urn and successfully associated it with the person he had just spoken to, rather than concluding she materialized in the seat somehow, which would have been cooler but far less likely.

“I really don’t want more coffee. I’ve had enough for now, thanks.”

“Oh, I know. You’re a reporter.”

He looked past her and down the length of the diner, perhaps in anticipation of discovering someone capable of explaining Annie.

“You couldn’t possibly be Joanne.”

“No, Joanne isn’t here.”

“So I was told.” His eyes went back the laptop, which was the kind of thing people did when they wanted to signal in a less-rude sort of way that the conversation they were having was over. It actually
was
rude, but it was a socially permissible rude. It had the effect of making the person they were dismissing seem like
they
were the rude ones.

Annie didn’t have a real sense of shame, though, so it didn’t work. This could have been why people told her things.

“She doesn’t actually exist,” Annie said.

“Joanne of Joanne’s Diner doesn’t exist?” he said, not looking up. He did stop typing, though.

“Now you have it.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Annie. Annie Collins.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you work here?”

“Just part time. I don’t wait tables, though, mostly I just pick up and feed Bart, answer the phone sometimes. Less during the school year.”

“Well that’s fascinating.”

She decided he was older than the college-age impression he first gave off. The way to tell was by looking at people’s necks. He was at least thirty.

“I work in the library too. Have you seen the library yet? It’s down at the south end of Main. We have municipal buildings on each end and right in the middle. It’s very
feng shui
. Probably not what the founders were thinking, but still.”

“I’m nearly positive
feng shui
has nothing to say about city planning.”

He had one of those voices that made him
sound
smart. Clean elocution, crisp word-choice. Someone people might respect but simultaneously dislike. She decided he probably wasn’t really a journalist.

“I agree, but most people around here don’t know that. Or what
feng shui
is, and if they did they probably wouldn’t know it’s mostly crap.”

“Is it?”

“I think it’s probably something invented by an interior decorator to charge more per hour.”

He looked up from the screen, which was a great triumph for Annie.

“How old are you again?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you’re Annie.”

“That’s good.”

“Annie, maybe you can tell me why you’re sitting here?”

“Because you’re a reporter.”

“According to whom?”

“Joanne.”

“I’ve never met Joanne. And you said a minute ago she wasn’t real.”

“I did, but that doesn’t mean Joanne didn’t tell me you were a reporter.”

“Are you in a special needs class of some kind, Annie?”

“What’s your name?”

“Ed Somerville.”

“Ed short for Edward?”

“Edgar.”

“I can see why you’re rolling with Ed. What time are you supposed to see the ship?”

He coughed, looking in five directions in two seconds, and closed his laptop. She hoped he remembered to hit
save
on whatever he had going on there.

“Who
are
you?” he asked.

“Annie Collins.”

“Sixteen year old Annie Collins.”

“You keep saying it like you expect me to get it wrong. Don’t I look sixteen?”

“You probably do. It’s a tough age to pin down in some people.”

“Well I am. Ask anyone. Most folks know me around here.”

“Why is that?”

“I dunno. I’m that kind of girl, I guess. Not in a bad way. Probably not in a bad way.”

“I really don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Well, we haven’t had a reporter around in a while. What’s your angle?”

“My angle?”

He was definitely not a reporter.

“You answer questions with questions a lot, that’s a terrible habit. Your angle, for the piece you’re here to write. I assume write and not telecast because I don’t see any cameras and, I mean… well, you don’t look like on-air talent.”

“Thanks?” His expression suggested he thought maybe he was losing his mind.

“So is it:
Sleepy spaceship town returns to normal
, or
Local community embraces alien fanatics,
or what?”

“I don’t have an angle yet.”

“Of course you do. Oh! I bet it’s one of those big long form pieces, right? The Atlantic Monthly or something like that?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Those always sell well. But that isn’t it either, is it? You’re just agreeing with me so I’ll stop guessing.”

“Why do I have to have an angle?”

“Because if you don’t have an angle, you’re not here for a puff piece at all, you’re here for some other reason. And
that
would mean something happened to report about, and we all know that can’t be true because there hasn’t been anything new about the ship since the day it landed. And if there
was
something new, well… I can think of a lot of people who would want to know all about that.”

He stared at her for a few beats.

“You’re sixteen.”

“Haven’t turned seventeen since the last time you asked.”

“It’s possible a sixteen year old is attempting to blackmail me right now, so I wanted to re-establish that.”

“I understand.”

“So I’m clear: you think I’m a reporter, and that I’m going to be getting a close-up of the only thing in this town anyone cares to see, and that I’m doing this because something’s happened involving that very thing. And you’d like me to know if I don’t… do something for you? You’ll tell everybody this. Do I have that correct?”

“I would never say blackmail, that’s a terrible word. I’m an innocent young woman.”

“Right. And what is the thing you would like for me to do?”

“I am offering my services,” she said. She more or less decided on this the second she said it.

“Come again?”

“Not
those
services, dude. God.”

“What kind of services?”

“As I said, everyone in town knows me and I know everyone. A reporter such as yourself would benefit from having a person such as myself around.”

“For information?”

“For all sorts of things. Everyone here’s been interviewed a dozen times. If you want to get
good
answers instead of the
usual
answers, you need someone there to call bullcrap on them when they say it.”

“I think I can detect my own… bullcrap… just fine, thanks.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe you can ask Joanne when she gets here.”

“You’d like to be my tour guide.”

“Sure, you can call it that. I prefer translator. Like in
The Killing Fields
.”

“Northern Massachusetts is a poor substitute for Cambodia.”

“But you see my point.”

“I do,” he said. “Except you’re bluffing.”

“I am?”

“Oh yes.”

The front door chime rang, and as was the case every other time this happened, Ed looked at the door. In this instance, though, he saw someone he was expecting. Annie turned around to see a man she didn’t recognize. He was in civilian clothes, but he had the sort of crispness she’d seen many times before in members of the army.

“Huh, looks like they changed the press liaison,” she said.

“Never mind him,” Ed said, as he collected his laptop and his bill and stood.

“Last chance.”

“It’s an interesting offer, Annie Collins. But I don’t need a translator.”

“And you think I’m bluffing.”

“I know you are. I know the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type who likes secrets but not gossip. But it’s a pleasure to meet you, and I thank you for the offer.”

He shook her hand, as if this had been a job interview—which it sort of had been—and headed to the front register to handle his bill. A minute later he was out the door and climbing into a black SUV.

“So?” Beth asked, when Annie returned the coffee urn to the counter. “What’s his story?”

“Not sure yet,” Annie said. “But he’s definitely not a reporter. Which makes him a whole lot more interesting.”