Otherworld (7 page)

Captain Graham Lattimer survived a rough Friday. The previous few days had been peaceful enough. The press had mostly managed to steer clear of the police station. They found Sam Petrie at home and asked all the questions they wanted to. Pops Dickey was harder to locate. In person, anyway. If people really wanted to get his story, all they had to do was turn on the television in time for
Encounters
or some other tabloid program. The farmer's story dropped a position in the
Chronicle
every day, but no one sitting in the Trumbull police station would have doubted its popularity. Graham's headaches would not go away, and the persistence of the reporters with their tendency to arrive in great numbers and shout different questions all at once, each trying to drown out the others, only made the pain worse. They showed no satisfaction with his opinion on the matter. Branding Pops a “kooky nutcase” didn't make for good news. Truth be known, most everybody was convinced that Pops was off his rocker, but no one wanted to face the facts. They wanted the centuries-old mystery solved. They wanted to get up in the morning, shuffle out the front door, and pick up the newspaper to read the headline: ALIENS ARE REAL!

Ain't gonna happen
, Graham thought. He lay motionless in bed, his temples throbbing intensely, and waited for sleep to come. The pounding in his head was as much noise as it was pain, and he wondered if he would ever doze off. The television flickered in his dark bedroom, the volume muted, of course. The meteorologist announced the forecast for the next day. Another chilly one. The closed captioning was producing unintelligible gibberish along the bottom of the screen. Graham attempted to read the man's lips. He couldn't make any of it out, but the on-screen graphics clued him in. At the end of the forecast, the captioning program suddenly became coherent, and the weatherman's parting words glared at him from the TV screen, white letters against a black background: “Be assured, it's gonna be nasty.” Graham clicked the set off with his remote control and removed a worn King James Bible from the nightstand.
Be assured
,
his mind echoed. It's gonna be nasty.

 

None of the
Spotlight Magazine
staff favored late-night meetings, especially on Fridays. Nonetheless, all arrived in the downtown office prepared and on time. Gathered around a long conference table, they each presented their work to Robbie Jensen, editor in chief, and to the staff as a whole, and they all began laying out a schedule of stories for the next several months. The task was long and tedious but six hours later, as Saturday's light began creeping through the office windows, the task was complete. Robbie accompanied Mike out to his car.

“Your piece turned out great, Mike.”

“Yep. Thanks.”

“Something the matter? You don't look so good.”

“You mean besides the fact that we were here all night on a Friday?”

“Yeah. Besides that.”

Mike gazed out past his friend. For once, the hurt came through. A wall came down. He felt just short of tears. “I saw Molly last week.”

“Oh yeah? That's great. How's she doing?”

“She's doing okay, I guess.” He breathed deep. “I messed up pretty bad, Rob. Real bad.”

“What do you mean? What'd you do?”

“I freaked. I don't know. I went in totally cool. Just wanted to take it slow, you know. Didn't want to jump right into everything and mess it all up. I just wanted to gauge the situation, you know. Just be a good guy. Not come on too strong.”

“And?”

“I screwed up. I acted like I didn't even miss her.”

“Well, that can't be that bad. I'm sure she knows you do.”

“I don't know. It wasn't just that. I just said all the wrong things.”

“Was she mad at you?”

“No, just real quiet. And then she left real quick without really saying good-bye, you know? I mean, she did say it, but it wasn't really … I don't know. I don't know even what I'm talking about. I just feel like I made the situation worse.”

“I think maybe you're just too worried. It'll be okay. Everything's gonna work out good for you guys.”

“I don't know. I feel like I've already lost her.”
I feel like I've lost everything.

“What are you gonna do?”

“It's five o'clock on Saturday morning. I'm gonna go home, eat some sugary cereal, and try to get some sleep.”

 

Steve Woodbridge performed a balancing act on the street curb in front of his church. His arms wavered up and down, preserving his equilibrium as he stepped, one foot in front of the other. Slowly. He reached the end of the curb and willingly collapsed into the grass of the parking median. Looking up at the sky, he tried to count the stars. Like a child. Just like a little boy in the backyard.

His thoughts drifted to the time of adolescence. Stickball with his neighborhood pals. Campouts. Tackle football in the abandoned lot. That was a time of innocence, a time when life was on hold. When life was carefree. The only expectation was to be a good boy. No grand ambitions. No long-range goals to mold your existence around. Not then.

“Pastor Woodbridge? That you?”

The inert figure sprawled out in the cold grass of the parking median revived and turned toward the voice. Max, the custodian, had arrived for his morning shift.

“Yeah, Max. It's me.”

“What're you doing down there?”

“Just thinking.”

Max was baffled. “You been here since yesterday?”

“Yeah.” The pastor rose to his feet and brushed the grass off his pants and coat. “I guess I should call my wife and tell her I'm okay.”

From “The UFO Riddle” by Michael C. Walsh in
Spotlight Magazine
:

The best bet is that no resolution to the Trumbull alien mutilation will be found. After years of documentation from every conceivable geographic point on the globe, the mystery of UFOs remains unsolved, and for good reason. The burden of proof lies with those who make these outrageous claims, and not one throughout all of history has had evidence solid enough to support them. The solution to the riddle of UFOs has been with us all along in the oft-heard, but oft-dismissed, voice of the skeptic: they don't exist.

 

Mike Walsh succumbed to sleep with one recurring thought in his head:
I've lost everything.

Graham Lattimer woke, pain still clanging in his skull, with a phrase left over from the previous night's news:
Be assured …

Steve Woodbridge fought off sleep during the drive home. A thought remained with him as well:
The wife's gonna kill me.

 

In the fall of 1972, a twelve-year-old boy walked along an unpaved road, holding the strong, wrinkled hand of his grandfather. The elder led his grandson down a path they took routinely every week. Decaying leaves crackled at their steps, scattering brown and orange and red autumn confetti. The morning was young, and the walk was brisk. A cool breeze nipped at their faces when they turned the corner at Main and Versailles. They passed a row of stores. Each was closed and would be for the rest of the day. Sunday. Church day.

The boy swung his arm, taking his grandfather's with him in each pendulum stroke. He looked forward to this time every week. Not so much for church but for the walk. He raised his head and studied the old man's face. It was toughened and creased by hard work and time itself. They wore matching slacks, and the fabric swished with each stride. Still gazing upward, the child watched as a smile materialized on his grandfather's face.

“Why are you smiling, Grandpa?” the boy asked, but he knew why.

“Because I know
this
is about to happen!” his grandfather declared, promptly attacking the boy with tickles.

The boy squirmed around, flailing his arms wildly, and let the laughter billow from his mouth. Tears began to stream from his eyes, but they were
good
tears. Tears of laughter. Tears of joy. After a good minute, the man released him, and they resumed their walk.

The little country church stood on the top of a hill. Its whitewashed wood appeared to glow in the morning sunlight. There were scatters of people all around, dressed in their Sunday suits and dresses. Children scampered about, and some shot marbles in the dirt. When the boy and man reached the peak of the incline, they saw a reflection of the sun occurring someplace unseen, casting its beam directly through the round stained glass window that was set in the steeple spire atop the pitched roof. The boy marveled at it. Each color came alive and pulsed.

That very morning, at the end of the church service, the preacher gave his customary invitation: “Anyone wishing to make a decision this morning, just come down this aisle. There are friends here who would love to talk with you and share with you the wonderful love of Jesus Christ.” The choir and congregation sang Hymn 282. It was not a slow hymn, which would tend to depress anyone considering answering the altar call, but a lively one: “Blessed Assurance.” And that morning, the young boy made another walk with his grandfather by his side. They didn't need a “friend” from down front. Just the front pew. And there, Graham Lattimer, age twelve, prayed with his grandfather to receive God's gift of salvation.
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of God, born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long; this is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.

Two years later, his grandfather lay in bed in the home they shared and approached death's door. Graham brought him dinner. Toast and jelly and a glass of milk. His grandfather wouldn't accept it.

“I won't need that,” he said simply.

Graham knew why. The man took his hand. He had been the boy's guardian nearly all the child's life. Graham's parents passed away when he was only six, and his father's father took him in and raised him.