The Night Visitors(31)

“Somebody took Han Solo!” Oren cries. “Was it you, Alice?”

“The action figure Oren left here is gone,” I explain.

Alice sighs. “I’ve told you not to leave your toys outside.” And then to me, “He’s always leaving them places around the neighborhood.”

“That’s how you play the game, dummy!” Oren punctuates the sentence by kicking Alice’s leg.

“What have I said about calling people dummy?” Alice snaps back. I can see how this is going to escalate.

“Hey,” I say. “We’re all going to be frozen like Han Solo in the ice caves if we stand around here much longer. Why don’t we look for him in the house?”

“You think he’s inside?” Oren asks, eyeing me slyly, as if he suspects that I’ve hidden him somewhere. And who knows? I think a little hysterically. Maybe I have and I’ve just forgotten because I have early-onset Alzheimer’s like my mother.

“Well,” I say, “maybe the Rebel Alliance rescued him and he’s in hiding.”

“Yeah,” Oren says, his face lighting up. He takes Yoda out of his pocket. “Let’s go find him, Yoda, before Darth Vader does.” He runs down the path and up the porch steps, pounding so hard I fear he’s going to crash through the rotting floorboards. How many years has it been since anyone entered this house with that kind of eagerness? When was the last time I felt this lift in my heart?

I turn to Alice to see if she is sharing my delight in Oren’s enthusiasm, but she looks pale and drawn. “Did you take his toy and hide it?” she asks with an accusatory tone that makes me feel like I’m twelve again and have been caught dressing up the town statue of George Washington (Frank’s plans hadn’t taken into account that people would recognize the clothes we used).

“No,” I say, “but don’t worry. I think I know where there’s a spare Han Solo.”

Alice doesn’t look relieved. In fact, she looks sick. “Then who the fuck took it?”

ALICE STOMPS OFF as soon as we’re inside. I can hear her prowling the perimeter of the ground floor like an angry house cat. I leave her to it and go look for Oren, finding him in the kitchen petting Dulcie and talking softly in her ear. Or rather, Yoda is talking in her ear.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, taking the milk out of the bag, “before we start your game how ’bout helping me restock our provisions and getting dinner on.”

Oren holds Yoda to his ear and cocks his head as if listening to the wise green gnome. The gesture is so like Caleb that I pause by the open refrigerator door, the cold lapping at my legs, and hear Caleb’s voice: Better batten down the hatches, Leia, the enemy forces are on their way. All those mock battles Caleb waged . . . why didn’t I stop to wonder what he was really trying to tell me?

“What does Yoda have to say?” I ask.

“He says we’re safe for now and we need to keep up our strength. Rey is securing the perimeter so it’s a good time to eat.”

“Rey? Oh . . .” He means Alice. It must be a character from the new movies, which I haven’t had the heart to see. “Yes, I’ll get the chili started. I like mine with home fries. You could start peeling the potatoes . . . only . . .” I stop, remembering his injured arm.

“I can do it,” he says, hopping to his feet. “My mom taught me.”

“That’s not what I was worried about,” I say, getting an ice pack out of the freezer. “I’m thinking about your arm. How’s it feel?”

“Fine,” he declares, holding it up over his head. “Good as new. Besides, it’s my left arm. I peel with my right.”

“Okay,” I say warily. Abused children learn to deny their pain. I study Oren’s face for any sign of discomfort but he looks . . . happy. I put the ice pack on his shoulder. “If it starts to hurt, you stop, okay?”

I help him get positioned with the ice pack draped over his left shoulder, a paper bag on the floor, and a colander on the table for the peeled potatoes. I’d rather he took it easy, but I can see how eager he is to help. “I bet you’re a big help to your mom.”

“I guess.” He shrugs modestly. “When she was feeling poorly I tried to help out.”

“Does she feel poorly often?” I ask, sitting beside him and picking up a potato to peel.

Oren looks at my hands and makes hesitant swipes, dislodging snail-shell curls the size of my fingernail. I suspect he’s never peeled a potato in his life.

“Yeah, she used to feel bad a lot of the time, especially after she and Dad went out. She’d say she had a headache and needed the blinds down and sometimes she’d throw up.”

Drinking? I wonder. Or drugs? “Oh my,” I say. “That doesn’t sound fun. Did she go see a doctor?”

“She went to a hospital,” he says, flailing at the potato with more determination.

So rehab.

“Then she came back . . . hey, are you going to use those beans?” He points his peeler to the two cans of pinto beans on the counter. I’ve seen this kind of diversion tactic before. The topic of his mother is off the table.

“I was going to, unless you don’t like beans,” I say, letting it go.

“Oh, I like them, I just wanted to use the cans after. We can make a phone. That way we can talk to each other if we get separated.”