Curtis doesn’t deceive himself that his rapidly developing ability to socialize and his conversational legerdemain will distract the sisters from these subjects forever. Castoria and Polluxia aren’t fools, and sooner or later, they are going to request explanations.
In fact, recalling the aplomb with which they handled themselves at the crossroads, they are likely to demand explanations when they are ready to broach the subject. Then he’ll have to decide how much truth to tell them. They are his friends, and he is loath to lie to friends; the more they know, however, the more they’ll be endangered.
After topping off the fuel tank in Jackpot, pausing neither for one of the buffets nor to observe a suicide, they cross the state line into Idaho and continue north to the city of Twin Falls, which is surrounded by five hundred thousand acres of ideal farmland irrigated by the Snake River. Curtis knows a great many facts about the geological and human history of the city, the “Magic Valley” area, and the vast lava beds north of the Snake River, and he dazzles the sisters by sharing this wealth of knowledge.
With a population of more than twenty-seven thousand Twin Falls offers some cover, making the boy less easily detectable than he’s been since he arrived in Colorado and first became Curtis Hammond. He is safer here, but not reliably safe.
Dawn is not yet two hours old when Cass parks the Fleetwood in an RV campground. A night without rest and the long drive have taken a toll, though the sisters still look so glamorous and so desirable that the campground attendant, assisting with the utility hookups, seems in danger of polishing his shoes with his tongue.
Curtis doesn’t need to sleep, but he fakes a yawn as the twins extend the sofabed in the lounge and dress it with sheets. Old Yeller has recently learned more about the dark side of the universe than any dog needs to know, and has been a bit edgy since the shootout. She’ll benefit from sleep, and Curtis will share her dreams for a while before spending the rest of the day planning his future.
While the sisters prepare the bed, they switch on the TV. Every major network is offering exhaustive coverage of the manhunt for the drug lords who may possess military weapons. At last the government has confirmed that three FBI agents died in a gun battle at the truck stop in Utah; three others were wounded.
Reports are circulating of a more violent confrontation in a restored ghost town, west of the truck stop. But FBI and military spokesmen decline to comment on these rumors.
In fact, the government is providing so few details about the crisis that the TV reporters have insufficient information to fill the ample air time given to this story. Inanely, they interview one another on their opinions, fears, and speculations.
Authorities haven’t provided photographs or even police-artist sketches of the men they’re hunting, which convinces some reporters that the government doesn’t know all the identities of their quarry.
“Idiots,” says Polly. “There aren’t any drug lords, only evil aliens. Right, Curtis?”
“Right.”
Cass says, “Are the feds searching just for you—“
“Right.”
“—because you saw these ETs and know too much—“
“Yeah, exactly.”
“—or are they also after the aliens?”
“Uh, well, both of us, I guess.”
“If they know you’re alive, why have they put out the story that you were killed by drug lords in Colorado?” Polly wonders.
“I don’t know.” Mom had counseled that eventually every cover story develops contradictions and that instead of devising elaborate explanations to patch over those holes, which will only create new contradictions, you should instead simply express bafflement whenever possible. Liars are expected to be slick, whereas bafflement usually sounds sincere. “I just don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Cass says, “If they said you’d survived, they could plaster your face all over the media, and everyone would help them look for you.”
“I’m baffled.” Curtis is remorseful about this deceit, but also proud of the smoothness with which he applies his mother’s advice, controlling a situation that might have aroused suspicion. “I really am baffled. I don’t know why they haven’t done that. Strange, huh?”
The sisters exchange one of those blue-laser glances that seem to transmit encyclopedias of information between them.
They resort to one of their mesmerizing duologues that cause Curtis’s eyes to shift metronomically from one perfect frosted-red mouth to the other. Tucking in a sheet, Polly starts with: “Well, this isn’t—“
“—the time,” Cass continues.
“—to get into all that—“
“—UFO stuff—“
“—and what happened—“
“—back at the service station.” Cass stuffs a pillow into a case. “We’re too tired—“
“—too fuzzy-headed—“
“—to think straight—“
“—and when we do sit down to talk—“
“—we want to be sharp—“
“—because we have a lot—“
“—of questions. This whole thing is—“
“—mondo weird,” Polly concludes.
And Cass picks up with: “We haven’t wanted—“
“—to talk about it—“
“—during the drive—“
“—because we need to think—“
“—to absorb what happened.”
Sister to sister, by telemetric stare, volumes are communicated without a word, and then all four blue eyes fix on Curtis. He feels as though he is being subjected to an electron-beam CT scan of such a sophisticated nature that it not only reveals the condition of his arteries and internal organs, but also maps his secrets and the true condition of his soul.
“We’ll catch eight hours of sleep,” says Polly, “and discuss the situation over an early dinner.”
“Maybe by then,” says Cass, “some things won’t seem quite so … baffling as they seem now.”
“Maybe,” Curtis says, “but maybe not. When things are baffling they usually don’t unbaffle themselves. Theirs just, you know, a certain amount of baffling stuff that always, like, really baffles you, and I’ve found that it’s best to accept bafflement whenever it comes along, and then move on.”
Paralyzed by the intensity of the double blue stares, Curtis is motivated to review what he has just said, and as he hears his words replaying in his mind, they no longer seem as smooth and convincing as they did when he spoke them. He smiles, because according to Mom, a smile can sell what words alone cannot.
Even if he were selling dollars for dimes, the sisters might not be buying. His smile doesn’t elicit return smiles from them.
Polly says, “Better sleep, Curtis. God knows what might be coming, but whatever it is, we’ll need to be rested to deal with it.”
“And don’t open the door,” Cass warns. “The burglar alarm can’t distinguish whether someone’s coming in or going out.”
They are too tired to discuss recent events with him now, but they’re ensuring that he won’t slip away before they have a chance to make a lot of chin music with him later.
The sisters retire to the bedroom.
In the lounge, Curtis slips under a sheet and a thin blanket. The dog has yet to receive a bath, but the boy welcomes her onto the sofabed, where she curls atop the covers.
Applying will against matter, on the micro level where will can win, he might disengage the burglar alarm. But he owes the twins some honest answers, and he doesn’t want to leave them entirely mystified.
Besides, after a difficult and tumultuous journey, he has at last found friends. His socializing skills might not be as smooth as he had briefly believed they were, but he has made two fine chums in the dazzling Spelkenfelters, and he is loath to face the world alone again, with just his sister-become. The dog is a cherished companion, but she isn’t all the company that he needs. Though praised by nature poets, solitude is just isolation, and loneliness curls in the heart like a worm in an apple, eating hope and leaving a hollow structure.