Chapter 5

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Chapter 5: One and the Same

Phyllis pulled out the sofa bed for me. It didn't look very comfortable. I remember my grandparents having one that they made me sleep on when I was a kid, visiting them. Come to think, it might have been this very couch. Jesus. I hoped not. Then again, it might explain why it was so damn uncomfortable to my preteen self--my middle-aged self had thoroughly worn it out. Hmm.

Earlier, I'd asked Peter what he wanted to be when he grew up. "A spaceman," he firmly stated, putting his hands on his hips, sticking his chest out. He seemed pretty confident in his chosen profession.

Mom, on the other hand, wasn't too thrilled about it. "Why would you want to do that? Do you want to die like that poor teacher and those other astronauts?"

He frowned. "I won't die! I'll go up into space and no one's gonna stop me."

"You tell 'em," I said. Phyllis glared at me. I gave it right back. "He'll be a great astronaut." I turned back to my grandfather. "In fact, you're going to join the Air Force and become a test pilot, so you'll get to fly all sorts of airplanes and spaceships. How does that sound?"

He beamed, while all the blood drained from his mother's face. "Don't tell him things like that!" she insisted.

"Space travel's safer than driving a car, even in my time," I said. "Besides, somebody has to spearhead all those space stations and moon bases and asteroid mines. Might as well be Peter here, right?"

He didn't understand everything I said, but was he ever happy about what he did grasp.

Phyllis pulled out the sofa bed for me. I gave it a once-over, then looked at her. "Come on, you have to have something else. An inflatable bed? Something?"

Peter's space obsession was nothing new. It was something his father encouraged, apparently. As soon as the boy was big enough to form sentences he started talking about space. After Clyde died, I guess that was the only piece of him Peter really remembered.

According to Phyllis, they watched the Challenger launch live on TV. When it blew up before their eyes, he asked his mother what happened. She admitted to me that she stammered for a good ten seconds before coming up with the explanation that they'd just set off some "fireworks" and that everything was fine. That was what terrified her, I think. She indulged him up to that point, because it made him happy, but he was all she had left of Clyde and the prospect of something like that happening to her son just mortified her.

I had a hard time relating, space travel being so much more common in my time. Having such an irrational fear of it would've gotten her labeled mentally ill 60 years hence.

Phyllis pulled out the sofa bed for me. Neatly made. I wondered if anyone had ever slept on it before. Phyllis couldn't remember--"maybe once or twice?" Friends, after a party. Probably a few others, when Clyde passed on and a bunch of family came around to pay their respects.

Peter got sent to his room at 2130--that's 9:30PM to you civvies out there. He had school in the morning and she didn't want me getting him too worked up just before sleep. That's when she cut off the "test pilot" talk. All of it was true, though. My parents, the crazy missionaries? They were the outliers, the black sheep in the family. They did fine for themselves, financially, but spacing was in my blood, even if it took us Maxwells 800 years to make it to the stars. Peter Maxwell would fly just about everything under the sun, break some records while he was at it, and live long enough to see the world he helped build tear itself apart.

If I regretted anything about what I said to him, it was that. I perpetuated the cycle. I never did see him after World War III. Like my brother, he just dropped off the face of the Earth. I caught rumors here and there. With three billion people dead, it was easy to make yourself disappear. I never believed Peter actually died in the war. Too smart, too resourceful, knew too many people. I always imagined him retiring among the stars, on a little ship like mine (RIP), seeing how far he could get before the Reaper caught up with him. Would it have been wrong of me to shatter his dreams at the tender age of six?

Phyllis pulled out the sofa bed for me. A colorful pattern of flowers and vines adorned the bedspread. An eight-centimeter thick mattress promised a restless night's sleep. She almost looked like she felt bad for me. Almost.

I asked her if Peter wasn't a bit young to be in school already. At least, he seemed sharp for the average six-year-old.

"They say he's gifted," she told me. "I'm sure he got that from his father. Clyde was brilliant. Always building things, figuring things out. He'd try to argue with me about politics, religion... I didn't know what he was on about half the time, I swear. I always thought he was a little crazy. But you're right. Peter started school a year early, and he's already ahead of the other kids in his class. He could've stood to start two years early, I think. But... he'd have been so small. I hate to think what the bullies would have done to him. They already pick on him, you know?"

"Oh, they do? Did you tell him to stick up for himself?"

"I told him to go tell a teacher. He has no business fighting," she said matter-of-factly. As if life were so simple.

I scoffed. "That'll just get him labeled a teacher's pet--or worse, a fucking pussy. My parents pulled the same shit on me, and you know what? It got my ass beat, for twelve years. Took the military knocking that shit out of my head for me to stand up for myself. Teach him to pass the buck on his own self-defense and he'll never be his own man."

She paused. "You realize we're talking about a six-year-old here. They'll mop the floor with him!"

"But they'll remember he fought back. And maybe next time, they'll get bloody noses for their trouble. Or busted lips. Black eyes. Whatever. Sooner or later, it becomes more hassle than it's worth. They'll leave him alone."

"I think we'll have to agree to disagree on that," she said, folding her arms.

So, she pulled out the sofa bed for me. She left the room while I contemplated climbing into this death trap. I swear, it looked like it would fold up on a man of my bulk. I may not be taller than average, but the cybernetic bits do weigh more your typical fat, muscle, bone, and blood. I stared at it for a while, as it tempted me. Hell, I was tired. I wanted to go to sleep. But on this thing?

I must have thought about it longer than I realized, because Phyllis came out to check on me. "The light's still on," she noted. "I thought maybe you hadn't gone to bed yet."

"You thought right. You okay?" She stood in the doorway leading down the hall to the bedrooms, wearing a nightgown. Nothing deliberately sexy, mind you, though her body made it that way, and I had to remind myself that this is your fucking granny, you demented pervert! But I could tell from her eyes, the way she tilted her head, she wasn't quite right.

"I was just thinking, you know? It's been a long time since I shared my bed with anyone. I can't even bring myself to sleep in the center. Clyde's groove is still on the one side. I keep telling myself to throw that mattress away and get a new one, but I feel like every little thing like that just chips away one more piece of him. And I don't have a lot left."

"Are you..." I couldn't quite finish my sentence, at first. We made eye contact, and somehow I found the rest of the words. "Are you asking me to sleep with you?"

She broke contact and bit her lip. "You make it sound dirty. I didn't mean anything like that. I mean, you're family. It's like sharing a bed with a sibling, right?"

"Hm. I'm not really sure. This is a little different, I think."

"Look, you don't have to, but I just hate falling asleep next to the same empty spot, night after night. And you're here now. And you're family. You don't have to do anything, just lay there."

It had been a long time since I'd shared a bed with anyone, in all honesty. The very idea kind of creeped me out. But she did ask nicely. And she was right--family's family. I just needed to remember that.

"This isn't too weird, is it?" she asked, looking for approval as I followed her into her bedroom.

"I think we passed 'too weird' a while ago. Right now, I don't even care. Let's just go to sleep."

She smiled at me--possibly the first genuine smile I'd seen from her since we met.

And that's the story of how I wound up sleeping with my grand-grandmother. There must have been some other explanation for why the sofa bed always hurt my back, because old me sure as hell never used it.