January 1, 2098
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a very old man, now—a Viejo my grandparents from Spain and Cuba would have called me.
And yet, I feel so young! As if my whole life still lies before me.
It is the meteorite they have uncovered just next door, underneath Franklin Court, where Benjamin Franklin and his family once lived.
I can see it now from the window of the third floor bedroom I once shared with my brother Gus, God rest his soul. A massive cuboid, it is bigger than an old-time locomotive, and as ashen and scarred as the body of Moby Dick.
Once or twice each week, like any good neighbor, I bring café Cubanos and guava pastelitos—pastries I learned from my mother—to the scientists studying the meteorite. I act the friendly old man: not very sophisticated, but politely interested in their work. I dare not reveal what I know. They would think me a lunatic.
They tell me all their tests have been inconclusive. X-rays, spectrometers, Geiger counters, and every other diagnostic tool they can think of, none register anything whatsoever! As such, they cannot explain why the meteorite sometimes seems to glow. Nor why its surface is so pitted and gouged, even though it cannot be split, cracked, chiseled, or chipped by the hardest substances known to man. Nor why it radiates an energy that makes the skin tingle, an energy that grows stronger as storm clouds gather. Nor why metal objects are sometimes attracted to it and sometimes repelled, often at the same time.
All the scientists can do is guess. They have tested the soil, rocks, and fossils that surrounded the meteorite deep below the surface. From those tests, they speculate that it fell to earth billions of years ago, well before anyone was alive to see it. Some think it came from the farthest reaches of space, passing through galaxy after galaxy, acquiring its unique electro-magnetic properties before streaking into the molten soup that was the beginning of our planet. Then, through the ages, as the earth’s crust cooled and volcanoes erupted and tectonic plates shifted and the oceans and continents formed, as our planet heaved up its mountains and carved its rivers, the meteorite slowly migrated to its resting place and sat for ages, underneath where Benjamin Franklin would one day live.
And wouldn’t he, great scientist that he was, have been fascinated by it?
As I am fascinated by the experiences it afforded me. I can see them so clearly, as if they are movies running in the theater of my mind—as if they are happening now. And as they play out, I write them down so that, when the meteorite’s true nature is revealed, there will be a record of what began some 80 years ago, on my 17th birthday.
***
On that Saturday, I wake early to rain drumming against my window and a cold, March draft blowing through the loose panes. The sky is so gray that the white-painted steel beams forming the skeleton of what had been Benjamin Franklin’s home shine neon-bright, as if somehow super-charged.
I remember: today is my special day! I scramble out of bed, eager for it to begin. I flash on last year’s celebration: everyone—even Gus, home on leave before deploying to Afghanistan!—gathered at our old, yellow-Formica breakfast table piled with presents and the platter of patatas fritas con huevos y jamon Mom always makes for my birthday. Just the thought of those potatoes fried in olive oil and smothered in fried eggs and Spanish ham makes my mouth water.
But the image of Gus brings an empty feeling to my chest, like I’ve got no breath.
I look to the MarsScapes wall calendar above my desk with its rover-taken photos of Martian pink skies and red deserts. Inside today’s square, I’ve written the number 241, which follows yesterday’s 240 and comes before tomorrow’s 242. It’s been 241 days since a Taliban rocket blew the Army chopper carrying Gus and his fellow Green Berets out of the sky.
The ache in my chest deepens, but I’m determined not to ruin the chance of a good day. Over the last eight months, there haven’t been many. And I’m hopeful. Today, rehearsals begin for our high school’s production of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. Because I’m big and lanky and look like I could be a farmer, I’ve been cast as John Proctor, the lead. If it’s anything I’ve got a passion for these days, its acting. It’s all I “want to be when I grow up.”
I throw on old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a hoodie for rehearsal. Since farmers wear boots and my clumsy feet need to get used to the weight, I grab Gus’s old ones from basic training. In socks, carrying the boots, I pad down the two flights of stairs to the open kitchen/living room that’s the whole first floor of our small row house. Halfway down the last flight, as I clear the second floor, I see Mom, Pop, and my 12 year-old sister Penny at the Formica table.
There’s no present, or platter of food, or smell of cooking, or excited talk, and I’m so disappointed that everything in me sags. But then I really see my family: three silent people—looking as sad as I feel inside—spooning up Grape Nuts, staring out the sliding glass door at the rain pelting the bricks of our tiny back patio. Right then, I want to break into song, or prat-fall down the stairs, or even dump one of those bowls of soggy cereal over my head—anything to get everyone laughing together, like we used to.
Even though it’s Saturday, Mom and Pop are both dressed for work in their dark business suits, which means she’s going to her law office and he’s headed for the Philadelphia Historical Society where he’s the Librarian. Penny wears pink tights and a black leotard for gymnastics class. I think how everyone’s going off to do their own thing and that it’s good I have rehearsal.
And how I gotta do something to lighten this mood.
“Hey, yo, yo, yo! Mamacita! Papcita! Pennycita! Check me out!” I say, holding the boots to my ear like a boom box, sway-swaggering down the stairs, doing my best John Leguizamo. “Who’s everybody’s favorite caballero this beautiful Philly morning?”
Penny giggles. Her small, dark face—“the jewel of Somalia” Mom’s called it ever since adopting her as a toddler—beams one of her I’m-so-happy-to-see-you smiles; and that makes everything just a little bit better.
“Happy Birthday, Marcus!” she cries.
But then Mom looks at me. For some reason, she’s furious. I can tell by the way she’s got her jaw clenched. And her mane of dark-chocolate hair is pulled back from her widow’s peak in a bun so tight it looks like it hurts. Always a bad sign.
“Hush, Penny!” she scolds. “What did I just say about Marcus being in big trouble?”
“Huh? What?” I say. “What’d I do?”
“This!” Mom says, waving typed pages that look like one of her legal memos. And she’s got her prosecutor’s face on—the one she learned during her 20 years with the Philadelphia D.A.’s office.
“What? What’s that?”
“Your paper on Washington and Lincoln? The one you said you finished so I’d sign the permission slip for you to do The Crucible?”
“You printed it off the computer without asking? Yo, Mami! You spied on me?”
“Don’t even begin down that road, Marcus!” she says, pointing an accusing finger. “The only issue here is this paper, which is terrible.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Hijo,” Pop says softly, using his pet name for me. “Better to ask: what is right with it?”
“Great! That tells me a lot!” I snap before I can stop myself. I know better than to back-sass, but I’m stung, especially since, with a Ph.D. in American History, Pop knows the difference between a good paper and a bad one, which is why I was never going to show it to him.
“Lose the attitude, Marcus, and hold that temper of yours,” Mom warns. “And, both of you, stop with the “Mami”s and the “Hijo”s! In this house, we speak proper English!”
So much for John Leguizamo, I mourn as Pop begins his lecture.
“Your task, as I understood it, was to analyze which President—Washington or Lincoln—was more important to the development of our nation. Your paper begins by reciting some of the events of Washington’s and Lincoln’s lives and then goes on to say … absolutely nothing! There’s no thesis, no argument, no analysis. Nothing to tell us who you think these men were, or why they were important, much less who made the bigger contribution. It is as if you simply went to Wikipedia, summarized what you found there, and stopped. Did you even read the biographies I brought home from the historical society?”
“Yeah … but see—”
“So, no!” Mom says, slapping the table top.
Actually, I had plowed my way through a lot of what Pop brought home. But then, to save time, I’d pretty much copied from Wikipedia, which I’m disappointed Pop sussed out, since, if he did it, my history teacher probably will too.
“Marcus, what has happened to you?” Pop asks in his gentle way. “You used to be such an excellent student. But ever since Gus—”
“No excuses, Fernando!” Mom says.
“No, you are right, Marguerite, no excuses.” He turns back to me. “Marcus, how do you expect to go to a decent college with a report card full of pig tracks?”
“I don’t,” I say, my temper rising, as it always seems to do whenever school or college comes up. I don’t understand why, but it’s how I feel.
“What?” Mom says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means: I’m not going to college. There’s nothing there for me. So it’s a waste. Anyways, we can’t afford it.”
“Where’d you get that idea?” Mom says hotly, like I just ratted out some dark secret.
“From you! You’re the one always saying how much we owe: mortgage and keeping up the house and Catholic school tuition for Gus, me, and Penny, your and Pop’s old school loans, plus the loan you took so you could start your own practice—”
“Yes, so that I would make more money—”
“Yeah? And how’s that working out for you? Found anyone to share the lease on that fancy office you rented across the street from Independence Hall—”
“Young man, that is none of your concern!”
I don’t go any further. I know I’ve already gone too far.
“Marguerite, Marcus, please,” Pop tries to interrupt.
But Mom rides right over him.
“Your only concern,” she says, pointing that finger at me again, “is making the grades you need to get yourself into a good college. And you are going to a good college, even if I have to make you repeat your junior year to do it.”
“Oh no, I ain’t, Mami! And you can’t make me,” I say. “Especially since it isn’t what I want to do.”
“And what is it that you want to do, hijo?” Pop asks.
“Move to New York and be an actor. Do plays and movies and be a star—”
“An actor?” Mom splutters. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Why? What’s wrong with being an actor?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says in that sarcastic way of hers. “How about … starvation? Do you know the odds—”
“Oh, Mom! Nobody’s going to starve.”
“No, hijo? Pop asks. “Then how will you make your living while you await your big break? Assuming a break comes your way and you have the talent, skill, knowledge, and experience to take advantage.”
“I figured I’d do what everyone else does. Wait tables.”
“Be a waiter,” Mom repeats flatly. “Is that why you think my parents risked their lives to cross from Cuba in that leaky boat? Or why your father and I worked as hard as we’ve worked to educate ourselves and become respected professionals and make a home for you and send you to a good Catholic school? For you to be a waiter?”
“Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s good, honorable work.”
“Yes, Marcus, you’re right,” Pop says. “It is good, honorable work. But it is also far less than what you are capable of. And I suspect that if you come to the end of your life and a waiter is all you have ever been, you will be very disappointed.”
“No one’s saying that’s all I’ll ever be,” I snap. “All I’m saying is that waiting’s what I’ll do to make the rent while looking for acting work.”
“And what happens, hijo, if you never find such work? What will you do with no college and no other skills? And has it occurred to you that college might just teach you some of the things and afford you some of the experiences you’ll need to become a successful actor? Do you really want to so narrow your options? And what happened to your plan of becoming a lawyer and joining your mother in her practice?”
“That was never my plan!” I lie. “That was Gus’s. He’s the one who loved all that history and government and political stuff, just like you guys. Not me. Theater’s what I want.”
And it is, because the stage is the only place where I really feel like I know what I’m doing; where I don’t feel scared or embarrassed or geeky or like some big fool. It’s the one place where I’m totally focused on what I’m doing and able to forget about the bad stuff going on.
“And what about science?” Pop says. “What has happened to your love of science? Even my father and mother say you have a talent for that. Having both devoted their lives to research, they should know.”
“Enough!” Mom says, slapping the table. “There’s no more time. ‘Nando, call the Uber now or we’ll be late. I’ll drop Penny at ballet and you at the historical society before going to the office to prepare the clients for trial. We start Monday, so don’t expect to see me until late.”
She turns to me.
“As for you, Marcus, you will spend the rest of this weekend re-writing that history paper.”
“Sorry. Can’t. Got rehearsal for the play—”
“There is no play,” Mom says. “I’ve already called Father Mike and told him we’re revoking our permission because of your grades.”
“You what???”
“And he agreed. Wholeheartedly!”
“But it’s the lead!” I say, hating the whine in my voice.
“Too bad. There’s eight weeks left to the school year. Father Mike has been talking with your teachers and the feeling is that if you buckle down now, they’ll work with you in terms of your final grades, the ones the colleges will see. But you must do the work. Which means no extracurricular activities: no debate team, no science club, no play.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this! This is so unfair!”
“Hijo, it is for your own good.”
“No, it’s not! It’s got nothing to do with what I want. It only matters so you can brag how “our boy” is going to Harvard or Yale or MIT, like you did with Gus being a Green Beret—”
“What?” Mom says, looking like she’s just been punched.
“Marcus, please,” my father says, his eyes filling.
But I don’t care. First they forget my birthday? Then they spy on me? And then cut me off from the one thing I really love? All for some stupid paper about two dead guys?
“You’re not going to let me do the play?” I say. “Fine! How’s about I just get on a bus and move to New York today?”
All of a sudden, Mom doesn’t look so wounded. Standing straight with her shoulders squared, she raises an eyebrow.
“Very well, Marcus. If that’s what you want. By all means, go.”
“Marguerite—” Pop says, alarmed.
But she cuts him off with a chop of her hand; and as she does, outside a car honks three times.
“No,” she says, gathering her coat. “If Marcus wishes to run away, that’s his choice.”
“Run away?” I say. “Ever occur to you I might be running to something, like my future?”
“Oh, please!” Mom says. “The only place you’re running is away from your responsibility.”
“What responsibility?”
“To yourself. To be the best Marcus Santana you can be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Perhaps that’s something you can think about while you’re down in that basement working on that paper. That’s if you have the guts to stick around,” she says over her shoulder as she pushes Pop and Penny out the door.
“Guts?” I splutter, like I’ve just been punched. “I’ll show you guts—”
The door slams shut and I am alone.
At that moment I’m so angry and torn I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to run after them and keep arguing, especially since she’s hit me in my courage, which I’ve always worried about. Part just wants to say “Screw it,” rush upstairs, pack a bag, and split.
Frozen by indecision, I look out to the patio. The rain’s pounding the brickwork, hissing like steam.
Over the back wall, the white-painted steel beams of Ben Franklin’s “ghost house” loom. Mom and Pop love that we live next to Franklin Court with its museum dedicated to all things Franklin. Even Gus thought it was “awesome.” Me? I couldn’t care less.
“History!” I growl. “Give me a freakin’ break! And I will so go to New York!” I yell at no one except the sky.
A huge bolt of lightning strikes the top-most beam of the steel skeleton, shooting off sparks and turning the whole world white. Sky-ripping thunder shakes the house. Wind hurls rain and leaves from Franklin Court’s big mulberry tree over the patio wall and into the glass door. Another jolt of lightning hits; and all the power dies.
“Great!” I fume. “Just effing GREAT!”
Pulling on Gus’s boots without tying them, I grab the flashlight from the kitchen drawer to go to the basement and see if it’s a fuse. After that lightning strike, I’m pretty sure it’s not. But just in case.
I open the basement door, expecting nothing but darkness since there aren’t any windows down there. Instead, everything’s bathed in this strange blue light. Drawn by it, I go down the stairs in wonder. Our furnace, the hot water heater, the washer-dryer and the old table with the family computer all seem now to glow, as if they were made of sapphires.
I reach the bottom step. The light looks to be coming from the back of the cellar. So I turn; and completely stop breathing.
Our back wall of old brick and crumbling mortar is gone. In its place is something looking like it belongs in the Camden Aquarium: a wall of blue liquid, as blue as the Atlantic Ocean on a hot and sunny summer day down at the Jersey Shore.
Dazed, I approach it, squeezing past all our old junk: toys, games, and sports stuff we’ve stopped using, broken furniture Pop swears he’ll fix, boxes of books and paperwork, Gus’s footlocker and Dad’s ornate old trunk, brought by his parents when they came from Spain.
The closer I get, the brighter the wall dazzles, sparkling and shimmering, casting its sapphire sheen onto everything. Through the “water,” way off in the distance, I see a bright yellow disc. I wonder: Is that a sun? Is this ocean? It can’t be. There aren’t any fish. And what’s holding the water back? There’s no glass! The basement should be flooded to the ceiling. But it isn’t. Everything up to the wall is bone-dry.
I reach out to touch the shimmering, radiant, blue surface.
Big mistake.