“The kids are probably having a great time,” said Mr. Gefelty.
No one answered him. Mr. Gefelty and his wife sat in the Dashes’ ultramodern living room. The room was made of white concrete and glass. The three of them had been sitting there, waiting for news, for four hours, and they did not have anything left to say. Mrs. Dash had prepared some party food to eat while they waited for the phone to ring. The food sat on plates, untouched. It was a dismal gathering. In the background there was music, a Moog synthesizer fluting away with its bloops and bleeps while Mrs. Dash stared through the plate-glass windows into the night.
She was dressed in a pink skirt-suit, and her hair was carefully fixed in a bell. She had tried very hard to put herself together, but she was falling apart. The flowers were wilting in chrome vases on the counters and tabletops. For days she had not left the big house with its cold cubicles and its huge, pitiless plate-glass windows.
Dolores Dash had neither husband nor boyfriend. Jasper’s father had been a beam of binary information transmitted from the region of the Horsehead Nebula. If there was a father, he was on another world.
Mrs. Dash had spent the last two days crying. She wished there was someone—human or alien—with whom she could share the worry about her son. Someone who would take her hand in his hand, or his tentacle, or his ratchety claw, and say gently, firmly, “Dolores—Dolores—everything is going to be all right.”
Instead Mr. Gefelty unconvincingly said, “Maybe the kids are someplace logical we haven’t thought of yet.”
“Ben,” said Mrs. Gefelty, “you can keep telling yourself that, but I’m terrified. And I think Dolores is too.”
Mr. Gefelty said, “They’re probably up late somewhere, watching movies and doing Mad Libs.”
His wife frowned at him and sighed. She picked at her pinkie nail with her thumbnail.
Dolores Dash stared down at the floor. By her elbow, the robotic table served more hors d’oeuvres. A platter of little beef Wellingtons rose up through a panel.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Gefelty without enthusiasm. “Beef Wellingtons. Dolores, I hope you didn’t go to any trouble, having us over.”
On small tables around them were a platter of shrimp, uneaten, a cheese board with some crackers, a plate of deviled eggs with each egg in its own divot, a bowl of hot chicken dip, a bowl of hummus, some cut vegetables, some party wieners on toothpicks, some mini-meatballs, some cocktail mushrooms, a pot of fondue, a tray of asparagus rolls, a bowl of olives stuffed with cream cheese, and triangles of spanikopita. Mrs. Dash stared at them.
“No,” she whispered almost too quietly to be heard. “No trouble at all.”
Ben Gefelty looked around at the glistening piles of food. None of them were hungry. He said, “Well, we should probably go. We don’t want to impose.”
Dolores Dash nodded. She thought of her son’s empty bedroom upstairs, the sheets still rumpled, the balsa-wood spaceship models standing on the shelves.
Mrs. Gefelty reached over and pressed Mrs. Dash’s hand. “If the kids don’t . . . if we haven’t heard by tomorrow, we’ll have you over for the day to wait.”
Mrs. Dash looked at the Gefeltys. What she said was, “That would be lovely, Susan. I’ll bring some deviled eggs.” What she wanted to say was, My boy was sent to me on a beam of light through all the lonely reaches of space, and he is all I love on this Earth.
“Don’t worry, Dolores,” said Mr. Gefelty, standing. “Bick Mulligan’s family are all on the police force. He’s made a bunch of calls and there’s an all-points bulletin out. Or whatever the police have these days. They have computers, you know. It’s not like back in the day.”
Mrs. Dash said, “That’s wonderful. I’m sure he’s got it under control.” Her voice was flat and sad.
“Dolores?” said Mrs. Gefelty. “You don’t sound so good. Are you holding up all right?”
What Mrs. Dash said was, “I’m fine, Susan. Thanks.” What she wanted to say was, I drive lonely country roads at night, longing for something to descend from the stars. I come to rest in cornfields and press my forehead against the cold glass of the windshield, praying I’ll see lights above the rows, huge beetle eyes gazing softly out at me through the stalks.
“So how does nine o’clock tomorrow morning sound for you to drop by?” Mrs. Gefelty asked. “None of us should be alone while we’re waiting.”
What Mrs. Dash said was, “Certainly. Nine o’clock sounds delightful.” What she wanted to say was, There is no time that is right to wait for news of tragedy.
“You call us if you need anything, okay?” said Mrs. Gefelty.
What Mrs. Dash said was, “Thank you. That’s very kind. Don’t worry about me.” And yet she wanted to cry to them, I wait for the radiant vision of saucer ships and silver suits in my backyard; I wait for a man’s voice, alien and yet familiar, to call across the static on the television set, which I leave tuned to dead channels; I long for the power outage, the whimpering dog, the whispering, gray bodies in the toolshed; I wait for the tractor beam to enfold me and lift me up above the Earth like an embrace.
But what Mrs. Dash said was, “It’s so nice of you both to visit me.”
There was a humming noise, and the robot table, oblivious to the departure of guests, delivered a plate of nachos and watery salsa.