Teresa's Gift Read online

  TERESA’S GIFT

  Taylor Kole

  Without taking his eyes off the screen, Randy Johnson lifted the remainder of last night’s beer from the dirty shag carpet, and downed it while he scratched his beard. Normally, he didn’t drink before noon, but breaking news had captivated the planet. Randy turned up the volume.

  “The meteor known as ‘Teresa’ was detected less than three days ago. The world watched in horror as what was thought of as, ‘The rock to destroy India,’ broke our atmosphere minutes ago. The confirmed reports have us all heaving a sigh of relief, but also wondering, what happens next…” the anchorman said. “The meteor’s hull seems to have been protecting an inner layer as it traveled through space, melted away upon entry. Instead of disintegrating, Teresa has dispersed trillions of alien particles, each the shape and size of a tic tac. They appear to be absorbing moisture from the air and blooming into tiny pods.”

  The program swapped to a computerized mock-up displaying a box the color of polished gold.

  “Once saturated with moisture from our atmosphere, these golden seeds sprout a leaf-like appendage”—a bronze stem grew from the top of the box-shaped pod and fanned outward, resembling the apex of a spewing fountain—“that acts as an effective propeller, carrying these objects in all directions. Analysts project they will land on nearly 70 percent of the planet. What their effects will be, nobody knows.”

  What is going on?

  Randy opened the refrigerator and saw that two beers survived the night. Selecting one, he twisted off the cap and drank. Funds were tight because all this commotion caused him to drink more beers than usual. He’d need to make a store run.

  In the bedroom, he counted out six dollars, four for his normal brand of twelve-pack and two for random supplies. He shoved the money into his front pocket, stood before the television, and drained the bottle.

  A globe showed when and where the seeds would land. He had almost seven hours until tiny little aliens parachuted into his backyard.

  As he exited the dent-riddled door of his trailer, the dry heat and cool breeze of a sunny Texas afternoon seemed like a welcome mat for the invasion. After running his fingers through his somewhat knotted hair, he crossed the dusty lawn, lifted his ten-speed, and, after finding the right gears, pedaled to the store.

  Faded paint, mismatched stencils, and pockmarked asphalt told of the long and harsh existence of Bells’ Convenience and Gas. Being the only store for miles in any direction made it a meeting place for the many loners populating the rural township. The parking lot held a few more rusted trucks than usual. Inside, Bells’ sung with conversation.

  Randy bit his bottom lip and sought out the cooler. He didn’t have time for gossip. He needed to complete this errand, get home, and figure out exactly how all this would go down, so he would make a plan and save his hometown from possible anarchy.

  He nodded to those he knew as he grabbed his beer, three cans of meat ravioli, and a complimentary book of matches. After a brief wait in line, where he bit his dirty nails and his bottom lip as he piled his things onto the counter.

  The plump woman who worked the day shift had been chattering on with the man in line before him. She sure likes to talk. Randy avoided eye contact, hoping to keep her focused on adding up his total.

  As she bundled his purchase, he recalled all the years he’d known the woman and decided to include her in his safety net. “You know where I’m at, right?” he said.

  The woman paused with a can of ravioli hovering over the open plastic bag. “What’s that?”

  “I’m round the bend back there, third trailer on the left.” He nodded in the general direction.

  “Oh, yeah.” She sniffled, and finished depositing his items in a plastic bag.

  “I’m tellin ya in case things get too wild with these gold critters. If it hits the fan, you come on by. I’ma’ have things worked out, keep everyone safe.”

  With teeth set on edge, the cashier studied him a moment before bogging her head, no doubt grateful to be included in his plans.

  Pedaling down the center of the asphalt road back home, he thought about how to best prepare for the end-of-the-world chaos. This was Texas—all his neighbors had guns, and Randy knew who to pass ’em out to. He’d put Jim’s wife in charge of medical since he’d heard she worked as a nurse. He’d assign teenagers missions, planned by him, to snatch food and medicine.

  Besides organizing everything, Randy could put together their new world. He’d never had a chance to prove it, but he understood the big things. Of course, that made it right hard to focus on the small ones, hence his life spent treading water.

  Gliding the bike down his empty gravel driveway, he felt alive for the first time in years. He’d rally these folks and establish a perimeter, a defensive strategy, and a system of housing.

  Everything would be okay, but it would required serious planning, which along with pounding beers, became his sole activity for most of the day.

  * * * *

  The golden seeds landed in a variety of sediments. Yet so far, nothing had happened. They hit and lay there or, if in water, sank.

  The news showed laypeople and scientists attempting to sprout them. Being the size of a square M&M and weighing eleven ounces, they were heavy little suckers, right beautiful when viewed up-close and apparently, near indestructible.

  The first reporter to crush a seed went straight pansy. He wasted time by using his fingers. Next, he tried a pair of pliers, and then a hammer on concrete flooring, all without hurting that tiny E.T. Throughout this process, the reporter often turned to the cameraman and asked whether they should continue, carrying on about why they should quit. The seed finally burst when squeezed in a vice, oozing a golden sludge. Once it happened, the reporter turned his face away from the camera—mumbling on what sounded like the verge of tears—that they shouldn’t have done that. He was sorry. It had been stupid. He was so sorry.

  The world agreed on one thing: if you ate a seed, you died.

  Swallowing an alien pill should be a rare thing, but thousands of people had done just that. Drowsiness followed, and then the Big Sleep.

  Randy wondered what all the fuss was about? If a person was stupid to eat an alien pod that every report said would kill them, well, the world might be better off without them.

  Live local media coverage of the golden cascade started a few hours before the spores would be visible outside of Dallas. When it got close to the time for the seeds to reach Randy’s locale, he went outside.

  The trailers on Randy’s patchwork street sat on generous lots of two to five acres, set apart by their identifying model of broken-down car on the lawn. Randy had heard people talking all day long, even smelled meat on a grill. The voices got louder and more distinct as he stepped outside.

  Idiots talked. Randy kept his own council.

  He glanced across the street. Chuck and his wife lifted a beer and cup filled with vodka, respectively. Randy lifted his hand in greeting and climbed onto his roof.

  It would be harsh, but Chuck and his wife would be out of his plans. He had no use for two drunks.

  The golden drifters filled the sky, twinkling gold when the sun caught them just right, making it seem as if magic dust was being sprinkled on the world.

  The pods descended gently, swaying as if to a sweet melody only they could hear. It caught Randy up in a spell, which is why he didn’t hear his neighbor Leann approach. Widowed and in her seventies, she lived with four cats that she treated like offspring.

  “Beautiful, ain’t dey?” She said from below.

  “I ain’t really thought about it,” Randy said during a swig, he searched the sky. They were beautiful, ma-jes-tic. Truly heaven-sent.

  “Man on the radio said they’s the
souls of our loved ones.” She cupped her hands over her eyes and sought them out. “Got me hopin’ one of ’em is my Harold. I do miss him dearly.”

  Randy moved into a sitting position with his feet dangling over the edge and bit his tongue.

  Their eyes met. She parted a faint smile. “Well, I best head back. Make sure my babies is inside. Don’t want ’em eatin’ no golden treats.”

  He nodded.

  “Maybe I’ll put my blue sundress on. It got daisies on it. Harold loved that dress.” She stepped back. “G’day, Mr. Johnson.”

  When she reached twenty feet away, he hopped down, righted himself, and called to her. “Miss Dean.” Unsure if she could add value but thinking it neighborly, he continued, “If things go bad, you’re welcome to come here. I’ll make sure we all get through this.”

  She stared at him a beat. “Thanks a mighty, Mr. Johnson. But truth be told, things couldn’t get much worse for me.” A forced smile and she trotted away.

  First thing he’d do inside was click off the television. There’d be nothing new from the media. The pods would touch down within twenty minutes and fools would eat them.

  He shucked off his clothes and got in. The shower at his place was compact, the tan walls dingy. The water had more rust in it than usual, and the pressure lacked oomph, but the heated H2O tingled the skin, and he stayed in until the hot water went warm.

  Stepping out to towel off, he knew the world had changed—hundreds of aliens populated his backyard.

  Digging through his sock drawer, he found his whitest pair. Next, he donned his best Wranglers and tucked in his Winston Cup Series T-shirt. In the mirror, he saw the shape of a leader and, if he shaved, cut his hair, and whitened his teeth, the face of one.

  After snatching another beer, he plopped in front of the television, but left it off. The small thud of an alien landing on his roof sounded above him.

  Yeah, yeah. I know you’re there, he thought as he gulped from his can. They could wait. He wasn’t that guy who gushed over celebrities. Celebrities were just people, same as him.

  In his bedroom, he unplugged the radio and carried it to the kitchen. Not to listen to a guy talk about dead relatives but to rock out. The only CD he owned stayed in the player, a mix of eighties rock his nephew had burned for him about five years back.

  He forwarded to song three and downed his beer to the lead-in drum solo of Van Halen’s Hot for Teacher. After cranking the volume and fetching another beer, he tackled the dishes, starting with a pan of burned eggs, which were now orange lumps.

  The pan required elbow grease, which coated his brow in sweat. After the dishes, he cleaned mice turds from the corners of the cupboards, scrubbed the countertops, vacuumed the living room, and swept and mopped the linoleum in the kitchen.

  Five beers and an hour-and-a-half of labor left his home as clean as he could remember. He shut off the radio, popped a new brew, and briefly held it to his forehead before taking a swig.

  Those things were out there.

  He imagined all his neighbors, everyone in nearby Dallas for that matter, had rushed outside to watch them land. Some of those people would be so foolish that they’d twirl their arms out as if singing in the rain. Randy possessed the manhood to let them land, give them a chance to settle. Now the time had come for his own peek, for him to solve the cosmic riddle of why they’d come here.

  His rear door exited to an aluminum-roofed deck and spacious backyard. A creek ran along the back of the property, separating him from the snow-bird one street over.

  Maybe boiling the pods would make them do more than just look pretty? Perhaps boiling them in creek water? Had anyone tried that? He thought over the coverage: no one had.

  Before his first descending step, a golden sparkle drew his gaze to the ground. A survey of the backyard revealed dozens of golden flashes belonging to box-shaped aliens. He paced around, careful not to step on one.

  A breeze rustled his hair and matted his shirt against his lean frame. He bent to pick up a golden seed. A moment before his fingers clasped the object, something happened that caused him to jump outright, step back, and nearly scream.

  The golden alien box had spoke to him.

  Not with words but as clearly. The message had sprung into his mind.

  “Not me,” it said, meaning not to touch it.

  “Randy.” Again, a voice in his head coming from a seed, but this wasn’t directed at him. The seeds were talking to one another. Dozens of them at once.

  “It’s Randy Johnson,” one said with awe.

  “Randy,” cheered another.

  “It’s Randy.”

  “It’s him.”

  “He’s here.”

  The swell of joy washed over the backyard, and Randy.

  He wondered how he could have been so careless as to leave his beer inside. A drink would help with his process this new twist, and tamper down his blushing.

  He stepped to his right to select a different seed.

  “No, Randy,” chimed a few.

  A thought froze him. Thinking back over the media coverage, no one mentioned anything about pods communicating with people.

  He leaned to select another.

  “Not that one, Randy. Not for you.”

  Every few steps he bent and awaited advice. Finally, he found himself stooped below where they usually spoke. The silence jacked his excitement and he crept lower.

  As his index finger and thumb gripped the seed, a hundred little voices erupted into cheers, hoots, and hollers.

  Randy couldn’t help but smile and take small bows.

  Placing the golden box in the center of his palm, he admired its presence. After a moment, he nudged the brass stem with his finger. Sturdy yet flexible, with flared ends that curved inward like a threatened leaf.

  The applause around him faded.

  The reflective box looked identical to the others, but the strong connection he felt proved their kinship. Bringing it to eye level, he wondered if only he heard them? Surely there were others. If that was true, why not report it?

  The pod rested on his palm. It did nothing special, yet it appeared…kingly, magical.

  “Why are you here?” Randy asked.

  “To go inside, Randy.”

  He lifted it closer, searching for a mouth, a parting of its shimmering outer shell.

  “You want to go inside?” he said.

  “Yes, please.”

  Randy cupped his hands as if holding a trapped butterfly and took his guest indoors.

  He wiped off an already-clean plate with the bottom half of his shirt, set it in the middle of his dining table, and positioned the seed in the plate’s center.

  Randy knew that in big moments like these, you didn’t blather on with every question that came to mind. You collected your thoughts, made each word count.

  If this being possessed intelligence enough to talk, Randy might learn why these pods came here and what it was like on their planet, or star, or spaceship. Considering the possibility of becoming an alien/human go-between, he grabbed a pen and paper from the junk drawer, and situated them in front of the chair.

  Still, he stayed standing. What if this thing mind-zapped him or detonated? He should talk to someone, and let them snow he was talking with one of the seeds.

  His mother died years ago. His father called himself an “active retiree,” whatever that meant, which left his sister, Sheila.

  The house phone hung on the wall between the kitchen and the living room. As he reached for it, a question surfaced: What percentage of the world still used house phones? Who, in this day and age, didn’t own a cellular? Randy never had, never would. Perhaps not having spent a thousand dollars on a phone save some part of his brain which allowed this communication. Everything happening at that moment felt unreal, bringing up a word that always tickled Randy when he got down on himself, fate.

  He understood things better than most, all with no education, which meant no crazy-liberal influence. Being the
only super smart man in fifty miles led to his being a loner. Isolation created a lot of time to think—almost as if he was training his brain. Big thoughts about the Astros management and immigrants taking his job caused alcohol consumption. That gave him a messed-up sleep pattern, which had gotten him fired more times than he could count, which left him poor. Poverty forced him to ride a bike and stay in shape.

  Everything fit. It all made sense.

  He snatched the phone and dialed his sister’s Connecticut number.

  Sheila loved him, not his theories. Besides, her normal nine-to-five soccer-mom thinking would prevent her from comprehending how the universe had selected her younger brother to be the first person they’d talked to.

  Her husband, Mike, answered, and Randy asked for Sheila. “Pretty wild stuff, huh?” Mike said.

  Randy almost went into it with him. Instead, he kept it simple. “Sure is. You watch ’em land?” He heard another receiver lift.

  “You know I did. Your chicken sister stayed in the garage all paranoid, but you know me. I went out there, spread my arms, and spun in a circle. Didn’t I, babe?”

  “He sure did,” she said with less annoyance than Randy would have.

  “Not too bright, but the kids loved it. Who’s calling?”

  “The Randinator,” Mike said. “See you, bud.”

  “Yep.”

  One line went dead, taking tension with it.

  When his sister spoke, her voice quavered with concern. “Is everything okay, Randall?”

  It’s more than okay, he tried to say, but his mouth stayed tight. He had planned to get right into it. He had been downright amped to do so, but regardless of the effort, the words he wanted to share about alien chats wouldn’t form, so he said, “Yep.” Moment passed as he admired the floor, the empty sink, as he struggled to voice his experience. Finally, he mustered, “This is really something, ain’t it?” Perhaps he needed to push through small talk before breaking the big news about their speaking.

  “Yeah, it’s crazy up here. Me and the kids buried a few. We…” She paused. “Josie cried.”

  That’s really neat, sis, but I talked with them, he wanted to shout. Instead, he said, “They’re so golden.”