The Last Place on Earth (7 page)

“This doesn't feel right,” I said.

Peter frowned at the paper and shook his head. “You want to know what's not right? The Hawkings use more energy than ninety-eight percent of their neighbors.”

“The security system uses a lot of juice.” I opened the desk drawer. There were pens, paper clips, staples, Post-it notes, and a whole bunch of packs of chewing gum, but no planner. I shut the drawer.

Peter handed me a folder labeled, simply,
HENRY
. I opened up to a fifth-grade progress report and began to read:

Henry is an unusually bright and creative child. He exhibits abstract thinking abilities and advanced problem-solving skills rarely seen in a child this age. His curiosity and gentle sense of humor make him a pleasure to teach.

Henry does, however, continue to struggle socially. He prefers to eat his lunch in the classroom and resists group activities. His frequent absences may be contributing to his sense of separation from peers.

“Did you find something?”

“Huh?” I looked up to see Peter staring at me.

“No.” I closed the folder and walked over to the file cabinet. “It's just school stuff. Do you remember where you found it?”

“It was under
H
for Henry,” Peter said.

“What folder are you looking at?”

“‘Bills Paid.' Filed under
B
. Though you could argue that it should be ‘Paid Bills' and filed under
P
. Whoa! Check it out!”

“What?”

“They've got premium cable
and
Netflix!”

I slipped the Henry file back into the cabinet, between
GARAGE DOOR OPENERS
and
HOUSE REPAIRS
. I was about to tell Peter to put his file back, too, when a label farther back caught my eye.
SHOOTING STAR SOCIETY
. Unlike the other folders, this one was bright yellow, and its label was handwritten in blue ink.

Inside the yellow folder was a single slip of paper. A small graphic of a shooting star, similar to the sun-catcher in the front window, was centered at the top. Below, it read:

Shooting Star Society

National Headquarters

1137 Hemlock Road

Big Bear Lake, California 92315

USA

Facilities for members' use only. Do not share address or information!!

“Look at this.” I handed the paper to Peter.

“What is it?”

“I don't know. But maybe that's where they are.”

“In Big Bear? But what's the Shooting Star Society?”

“Beats me.” I copied down the address and put the file back in the cabinet, checking the other labels to see if anything else seemed out of place.

“Found their cleaning bill,” Peter said. He handed it to me.

The Hawkings used Tidy Time Cleaning Service. The bill displayed the company's address, phone number, and website.

“You gonna call them?” Peter asked.

“And say what? That I broke into one of their customers' houses and—”

“Oh, please.” He took the bill, checked it, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in the numbers.

“Peter, you can't just—”

He held up a finger to shut me up.

“Helloooooo…” He looked up, realizing too late that he had no idea what to say. “I'm, um, a customer? You clean my house? Well, maybe not you yourself, but…” He cleared his throat.

I gave Peter a thumbs-up:
Smooth going, dude
.

“I was wondering … the thing is … I had a question about…” He blinked frantically, and just like that, everything fell into place. He should blink more often.

He started over, speaking with confidence this time. “My wife went away for a few days. Weeks. I thought our house was scheduled for a cleaning on Saturday, but no one showed up.”

Peter gave the Hawkings' name and address. “They're checking,” he mouthed to me.

Finally the person on the other end came back on.

“Oh.” Peter's eyebrows shot up. “Really?” His mouth dropped. “No, that's … maybe she's planning to stay away longer than I thought.” He paused. “Yes. I know these things happen all the time. I should have seen it coming.” Another pause. “Uh, not for now. If things change, I'll call you.”

He turned off the phone and gazed off, puzzled.

“What?”

“I don't think they've been abducted by aliens.”

“What did they say?”

“That Mrs. Hawking left a message on their machine. She said that her family was leaving town, perhaps for good, so she wanted to cancel her service.”

“Peter…”

“Guy said women leave their husbands all the time. I think he felt sorry for me.”

“What do you think happened?” My voice was small.

He shook his head. “I don't know. But it's not good.”

 

Ten

RANDY SHOWED UP
at nine thirty Saturday morning. He drove a silver pickup and wore a Hawaiian shirt. Of course he did.

When it came to Man-Frans, my mother didn't have a type. She just reacted to whatever type came before, assuming that different was always better. Like, there was this one guy who wouldn't stop talking, followed by another who was so quiet that I was never entirely sure he spoke English.

The Man-Fran who came before Randy was about as far from a regular, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Joe as you can get: a poet and performance artist. I'd be cool with that, but this guy was a
bad
poet and performance artist. About a month into the relationship, my mother bribed me with promises of éclairs and lattes to accompany her to a performance in an arty little café downtown, where her Man-Fran read a poem called “Crows” while gluing black feathers to his black unitard.

Not even kidding.

And then one day Crow Boy just … flew away.

All things considered, Randy wasn't that bad. But no way was I going to get attached.

“No wild parties while I'm gone!” my mother chirped as Randy carried her suitcase out to his truck. My mother is not normally a chirpy sort, but she doesn't know how to talk to us when her Man-Frans are around. Which is too bad. For all her faults, she's pretty fun to talk to when she's alone.

“Who would I invite to a party?” Peter said. “My friends are all away at college.”

Peter was out of bed at nine thirty in the morning. If Mom had been paying attention, she would have known something was up.

I said, “I only have one friend, and he's missing.”

Mom opened her mouth to say … something. That Peter should enroll in community college? That I could make more friends? That Henry was not missing, he had simply gone away without telling me?

But any of those discussions would have taken more time than she had to spare, so she closed her mouth. And she smiled a little smile, though her eyes looked kind of nervous.

She crossed the kitchen and threw her arms around me. She smelled like coffee and baby powder.

“I'll stay if you want me to,” she said, her voice low and right next to my ear.

“No. You should go.”

She took a step back and checked my face.

“I want you to,” I said. When she still looked uncertain, I added, “You deserve this.”

“Randy's a nice man.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

“Good.”

“Do I look all right?” She had on an Indian print sundress and one of her hundreds of pairs of dangling mosaic earrings.

“You look great.”

“I don't really know what people wear on cruises.…”

I shrugged. “From what I've heard about the buffets, elastic-waist pants mostly. But that dress is loose, so you should be good.”

She gave my arm a squeeze, put on a bright smile, and then she was off.

From the kitchen table where he sat slumped over a bowl of Cocoa Puffs (I said he was awake; I didn't say he was alert), Peter watched out the window as Randy opened the passenger door. Mom climbed up to the seat. As soon as Randy shut the door, she let the smile drop.

I thought,
She is starting to look old.

And then I chased the thought from my brain.

“Seven days,” Peter said.

“Small cabin,” I added.

“Poor guy.” Peter slurped his cereal.

“How long till you're ready to leave?” I asked, my thoughts already back on Henry.

Peter shrugged and slurped some more cereal. “I'm ready now.”

“You're not wearing pants.” His boxers were blue, faded, and a little tight.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess I should put something on.”

*   *   *

An hour later, we were on the road, headed for Big Bear. At the last minute, Peter had decided to take a shower, and since I was scheduled to spend about five hours in a car with him, I wasn't going to argue.

The Hawkings probably weren't at the Shooting Star Society's headquarters, but it was possible. In any case, it was the only lead we had. We took my mother's car because it was less likely than Peter's to break down and also because it had a full tank of gas. Besides, the temperature was supposed to hit a hundred degrees today, and Mom's car had working air-conditioning.

Peter started the car, turned on the AC, and stroked the worn velour next to his thigh. “I love how the seats aren't ripped.”

I fiddled with the dial. “I love how the radio works.”

It's sad when a twelve-year-old Honda Civic is your family's luxury car.

Peter put the car in reverse and zipped down the driveway. “Let's do this.”

*   *   *

In a few months, day-trip skiers would clog the roads that led to Big Bear, but today traffic was light. We made it out of town and onto the 57 freeway without any problem. We got a little swamped in truck traffic heading through Ontario on the I-10, but that was about it.

As we passed Ontario Mills, Peter said, “Wanna stop at the outlets? I still have that Tilly's gift card I got for graduation. Could use some new T-shirts.”

“No.”

“Wow. You are worried.”

“I don't have any money. But mostly I'm worried.”

Peter knew better than to say I had nothing to worry about. Instead, he just turned up the radio, and we continued our journey across the flat terrain rimmed with soaring mountains, which kept the thick, hot, dirty air down near the valley floor.

Even with the air-conditioning going full blast, it was warm in the car. Outside, the hazy smog blurred the mountains and lent the sky a yellow tinge. On a day like this, the air actually
looked
stinky—and if you don't think that's possible, you've never driven through Ontario during Santa Ana season.

At last, we made it to the base of the mountain, where blackened trees told a stark story of an earlier season's wildfires. Not that that would keep people from building more houses. Or traipsing around the forest on hot, dry days. But it's good to be reminded that yes, when it comes to man versus nature, nature wins every time.

The scorched trees gave way to dry grass and thirsty vegetation. Our radio station fizzled out. I played around with the dial till I found something else.

Before long, the dense, dark forest enveloped us. We forgot about fires and even, for a moment, why we were here in the first place. The second radio station sputtered out. After twisting the dial from country to Latin music and back to country, I gave up and turned it off.

I rolled down my window, and clean, almost-crisp air rushed inside and chased out the lowland heat. “I love mountain air.”

“We keep going on this road for how long?” Peter asked.

Since the car lacked GPS and we didn't have smartphones (not that there was reception up here anyway), I'd printed directions before we left home. I'd also checked the address on Google Maps, but the tree cover was so dense, I couldn't see what the building underneath looked like.

“Five-point-three miles. Then turn right.”

The narrow road twisted and turned in the dark hush of the towering pines. We passed country stores, a café, a gas station. We were going up, of course. Otherwise, it was hard to get any sense of direction.

At last we reached the turnoff.

“You sure this is it?” Peter eyed the rutted road.

“It's what it says.” There was no street sign, but I'd been following the route on my printed directions. This had to be right.

We turned onto the road. Peter watched his speed. Still, the car lurched and bounced. This could not be good for the Civic's shocks.

We passed one cabin set far back from the road. Then another. And then … nothing. Just lots of trees. And more bumps and ruts.

“I wish I had a smartphone,” I said. “Then I could double-check the directions.”

“I wish I had a pony,” Peter responded.

We passed a cabin set close to the road. It was all roof, shaped like an upside-down V. A painted wooden sign out front said
1135 HEMLOCK ROAD—THE MURPHY'S
(which, by the way, is an incorrect use of the apostrophe).

The Shooting Star Society was at 1137 Hemlock Road. “It should be next.” My pulse raced.

We passed an empty lot before coming to the next cabin:
1139 HEMLOCK ROAD
—
THE JONES
' (also wrong). Where was 1137? Did the numbers go out of order? We traveled down the road, checking the house numbers, and they all went up. We turned around and parked in front of the lot. Perhaps the building was set too far back to see from the road.

I opened my door. The air smelled of pine trees and wild grasses. Around us, birds chirped and branches clicked with the sound of little critters hopping around the canopy. Cute little critters. Like squirrels. Or raccoons. Or rats or snakes.

I was going with squirrels.

The dry ground crackled underfoot. It was much cooler up here than on the valley floor, but still the air felt heavy. And also, there were bugs. I swatted at the air and worked my way around the brush. The trees grew thick and tall. A pricker stabbed my toe. It stung again when I pulled it out. And I'd thought flip-flops were the perfect shoe for every occasion.