Rhubarb (26 page)

Across Highway 360, taillights filtered through the grass on
the side of the road. A plume of exhaust rose like a smoke signal.

Martin’s feet crunched on shattered red plastic as he ran
across the road.

“Stewart?” he called.

The Skylark idled at an unnerving angle in the shallow
ditch. The passenger’s-side tail end had been mangled. Stewart was hunched over
the steering wheel. Martin called again, wading through the grass.

“He hit me,” Stewart said, after Martin opened the door.

“Are you all right?”

“I think so,” said Stewart. “Trying to catch my breath.”
Martin helped Stewart out, taking his oxygen tank for him. “Got off a shot at
the car, but I don’t think it did any damage. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. How long ago?” Martin held Stewart’s arm as
he took the embankment one step at a time.

“A few minutes.”

“You want to go to the hospital or anything?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Stewart.

~ * * * ~

As they approached the base of the hill, Martin hit his
brakes. Cars, pickups, SUVs, and RVs lined the road. And people, laden with
cameras and phones and flashlights. Was that a shotgun? Some conferred in
excited little knots. A teenager ran past them down the hill.

Martin rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he called
to a group.

“Another one just came through,” said a man. “The car. The
black car. One of the men in black. We all just woke up.”

“The one on the radio,” said another man. “Haven’t you been
listenin’ to
Beyond Insomnia
? There’s honest-to-god aliens comin’ and
goin’. Right up there. And we just seen one.”

The first man waved to another, who brought over a camera,
flipped out the screen, and let Martin and Stewart watch. The one-eyed Town Car
roared toward the camera. Jeffrey’s motion-blurred face appeared momentarily
through a ragged hole in the shattered windshield. Martin glanced at Stewart.
The staple gun had inflicted some damage after all. Jeffrey didn’t slow down
for anyone, or anything. The few people visible had slumped over, or had
crumbled to the ground.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” said Stewart.

Martin awoke to a buzzing, metal and plastic on wood, in a
sideways world. Some small part of him knew exactly what, even if the rest
didn’t understand why or where. He sat up, wiped drool off his cheek, and
answered his phone.

“Martin Wells?” asked a chipper voice. Martin grunted his
assent. “I’m sorry. Have I called at a bad time?”

“No. Who is this?”

“Alicia McLanahan, producer for Lee Danvers and
Beyond
Insomnia
. We spoke a couple of weeks ago about your video.”

“Yeah. Hi. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

She laughed politely. “Did you hear last night’s show?”

“Some of it,” said Martin.

“Then you probably won’t be surprised to hear that Lee is
coming out to Montana to do several nights of special shows.”

“Okay?” said Martin.

“And of course he’d like to meet you and have you on the
show,” said Alicia. “Would it be possible for you to come to Brixton either
tomorrow night or the next evening?”

“I think I’m in Brixton now,” said Martin. His surroundings
had resolved themselves into the living room of Stewart’s trailer. Cheryl’s
home. The sunlight that found its way around the curtains regretted it. This
was Stewart’s couch, Cheryl’s couch. The crocheted blanket he’d thrown aside
might have been handmade by Cheryl, or Linda, or maybe Margie, the grandmother.
Or it could have been made in Taiwan and bought at Kmart.

“Oh, that’s great, then,” said Alicia. Is it? Martin
wondered as he swiped at a pool of drool he’d left on the upholstery.

“We have a field producer, Brian, landing in Billings this
morning, and we’re making arrangements to broadcast from Herbert’s Corner. Do
you know where that is?”

“Have you ever been to Brixton, Montana?” Martin asked.

Alicia hesitated. “I’ll take that as a yes. Can I confirm to
Brian that you’ll be available either tomorrow or the next day?”

“Sure,” said Martin.

“Thank you, Mr. Wells.” She typed for a moment, and then
said, “One more thing. Lee is very much looking forward to meeting you but
would like to talk exclusively about the video and how you obtained it. On your
original call you made reference to an alien invasion. We would like to
downplay any discussion that may cause unwarranted fear or panic.”

“Unwarranted?”

“Unnecessary…”

“I know what it means, I just—you know what? Fine. The
video,” said Martin.

“Brian will explain more when he arrives,” said Alicia.
“Including the appearance contract and stipend. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but
it should compensate you for your time.”

“Fine,” said Martin, not sure what he had agreed to. Behind
the curtains, he found the Screwmobile parked where Stewart’s Skylark should
have been, or Cheryl’s Pontiac. It all flooded back. Punching Jeffrey, chasing
him down 15, Stewart’s wreck, the assembly of Wakers on the bluff.

Martin checked the time. He had two accounts expecting him
in Lewistown. And maybe the police, too. Then he needed to go back to Billings
for another load. He couldn’t remember his schedule past that. Except that he
now had to come back to Brixton to be interviewed on the radio by Lee Danvers.
Was that a good idea? And with all those people camped out there now, how were
they going to steal a truck? The stupid CEO could be in the solar system any
minute.

Martin heard his name as he looked into Stewart’s bedroom.
The “Mar” sounded like the whisper of tearing paper. The “tin” more punctuation
than syllable. Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.

The dingy gray light revealed the old man on the bed exactly
where Martin remembered leaving him. Martin rearranged the blanket over Stewart’s
socked feet and checked his oxygen. “How you doing?” he asked.

“I’ve been better,” said Stewart. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“That I didn’t get us a…” Stewart coughed and sputtered. He
moved strangely, as if part of him didn’t work any longer. Martin found a
Kleenex and tried to put it into Stewart’s hand. His rough skin felt cold and
looked unnaturally purple, as if bruised. Martin wiped the flecks of spit from
Stewart’s lips when the coughing subsided. Stewart let out a gruff but miserable
moan. “…get us a truck when I had the chance. Jeffrey’ll be warning everybody.
There won’t be another.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” said Martin. “Let me change your
oxygen.”

“That wreck did a little more damage than I thought,” said
Stewart. “Can’t really move too well.”

“Can you take off the skin thing you’re wearing?” Martin
asked.

Stewart shook his head and closed his eyes. “Won’t last long
like that.”

“What do I do?” asked Martin.

“I know you probably have appointments.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Martin. “I mean what do we
do? Are we finished?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all night, but…” He coughed a
few more times and then continued. “I don’t know. But no sense you losing your
job ’cause of me. Go on.”

“I can’t leave you like this,” said Martin.

“The hell you can’t. I’ll call you if I think of something.
Go next door,” Stewart wheezed. “Laura and Milton’ll look in on me.”

“Are you sure? They’ll probably want to call a doctor,” said
Martin.

“It’ll be…okay,” said Stewart.

Martin hesitated in the driveway, then climbed the steps and
knocked on Laura and Milton’s door.

~ * * * ~

“Martin. You look terrible,” said Eileen.

“A number five, to go, as fast as possible,” Martin replied,
taking the only free stool in a diner full of unfamiliar faces. People up from
Billings or over from Great Falls or wherever. Bleary people, in yesterday’s
clothes, not exactly the tinfoil-hat crowd, but the practical fringe smart
enough to come down off the hill and find a place for breakfast,
probably—hopefully—on their way home.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Stewart’s not doing so well,” he said.

She pursed her lips. “Deputies talked about findin’ his car
in the ditch. He injured?”

“Didn’t seem so last night,” said Martin. “I got him home.
Laura and Milton are looking after him now.”

“You know who hit him?” asked Eileen.

Martin nodded. “No deputy’ll catch him,” he said. “I don’t
know what to do.”

“I know you and Stewart were cookin’ up something,” said
Eileen. “Stewart Campion refused to set foot in Herbert’s Corner for twenty-five
years until a few days ago. Why don’t you go ahead with whatever you all were
plannin’?”

Martin shook his head.

“You were going to go after Cheryl,” said Eileen. Martin
nodded. “It’s a long way to Boise.” She glanced at the other breakfasters. “But
the last thing you want to be is stuck here in Brixton with nothing but
regrets. Take it from me.”

“What do you regret?” Martin asked.

“Oh, that’s too long a story,” said Eileen, backing away to
fetch an order off the kitchen window. “Besides, I got a houseful here.”

“You a regular?” asked the man on the next stool. His
muttonchops segued expertly into a Def Leppard T-shirt. His friend leaned over
like a second head on the man’s shoulders.

“What?”

“You know the waitresses.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Have you seen any aliens here?”

Martin had, in fact. He’d seen Jeffrey over in that booth,
he’d seen Stewart at that table, and he’d talked to at least one truck driver
who had sat right here. Heck, the whole darned place had been named after an
alien. But at least they belonged here, he thought.

“Nope,” said Martin. “There’s no aliens. The guy who built
this place made it all up.”

“Then what do you think’s happening down the road?” asked
the friend.

“On behalf of the Chamber of Commerce, thanks for spending
money in Brixton,” Martin replied and gave them a wink. Hopefully they’d think
he was an alien.

~ * * * ~

Martin plodded up the vaguely familiar stairs to a distantly
recognizable door, and was surprised when a key in his possession let him
inside. These objects in this few hundred square feet of carpet and painted
drywall couldn’t be his, couldn’t be relevant. But Martin got his laptop on,
uploaded the orders from the last couple of days, hopped in the shower, and
tried to let home soak in anyway. The sense of place returned ten minutes
later, hot water gone, when he couldn’t find a pair of clean underwear.

After jamming several quarters into the commercial Maytag in
the complex’s laundry room, Martin checked in with Stewart. Milton answered.
Stewart had slept and he’d eaten a little, and had gotten into the bathroom a
couple of times. A deputy had come by to ask questions about the wreck. Laura
had recruited a couple of other neighbors to keep an eye on him. Martin
promised to get back and help as soon as he could. Almost as soon as he’d hung
up, his phone rang.

“Hey, Marty. Did you get my email?”

“Rick? Email? No,” said Martin.

“No? I sent it yesterday.”

“The motel…” Martin paused to give his brain a moment.
“Their Wi-Fi wasn’t working.”

“Explains it. I didn’t see any orders from you yesterday,”
said Rick.

“Uploaded them a few minutes ago,” said Martin. “What’s the
email about?”

“I’m flying in tomorrow morning. You’ll pick me up bright
and early at the airport. I’m going to work with you for a few days, train you
on pitching the on-site account ordering application. Corporate’s got a name
for it now: FastLink.”

“Snazzy,” said Martin. He was being usurped by a
microwaveable sausage. “Tomorrow?”

“My flight lands at 6:30 a.m. I’ve already set up the
appointments. We’ll spend the first day in the Billings area; then we’ll head
out of town for a couple days. The itinerary’s in the email.”

“I just spent the last three hours loading up the truck for
accounts out east,” said Martin. “Do I need to restock for these different
accounts?”

“No, don’t bother. We won’t be restocking or writing orders.
Shake ’N Bake sales calls,” said Rick.

“Understood,” said Martin. Shake ’N Bake sales calls? Was
that even a thing?

“Great. I’ll see you in the morning. Bright eyed and bushy
tailed,” said Rick.

“What time will we be done tomorrow?” asked Martin.

“Why? You got a hot date?” asked Rick.

The producer Brian had called earlier that afternoon and
scheduled Martin as an official guest on
Beyond Insomnia
tomorrow night.
With any luck, Martin could get to Brixton, do the show, and get back to
Billings the next morning without having to tell Rick about it. “No, just
wondering,” he said.

Someone had tacked Papa John’s coupons on the laundry room
bulletin board. Martin ripped them down and made the call. Time for someone
else to do the driving for a change.

~ * * * ~

The next morning, Martin’s phone rang as the airport rose
into view. He winced but answered.

“Where are you?”

“Two minutes out,” said Martin.

“Are you sure you can find me at this bustling international
airport? I’m on the sidewalk outside—what is this?—Door 4? And I don’t think
there is a Door 5.”

Rick was a beer keg of a man with graying red hair, squeezed
into a department-store suit, towing a too-small carry-on—a Viking emasculated
by the times. He stuck out his thumb as Martin rolled up to the curb.

“Truck looks good,” he said, opening the passenger door.
Martin breathed a sigh of relief that he had pulled himself together enough
last night to go wash and vacuum out the Screwmobile. He had stowed the radio
box and otherwise made everything fleet inspection-worthy. “Driving okay?” Rick
asked as they put his bag in the back.