Max Collins - Majic Man

She got a hanky out of her purse and did.

“All right,” I said. “Okay. Let’s see if I can fit in that trunk….”

Some other hospital personnel on Maria’s shift-nurses, orderlies, a doctor or two-were getting their cars; we waited for a clear shot, then we got out, she opened the trunk and I crawled in-just me and a spare Goodyear, in the red blush of her taillights, a big fetus in an MP’s uniform. I heard her get back in the car, shut the door, ignition key bringing the engine to life, and the Studey had a smooth ride, as she guided the buggy down the blacktops and glided up to a stop at the front sentry.

I heard some muffled conversation, friendly, male laughter, female laughter-some son of a bitch was flirting with my date!-and then we were moving again, more quickly. My muscles and bones ached, as if I had the flu-or maybe it had something to do with my 190 pounds being stuffed in a car’s trunk.

In under five minutes, the Studebaker rolled to a stop. I heard her get out, and then the lid lifted and there she was, Maria, my personal nurse, framed against a starry sky that was the same color blue as those concern-filled eyes in the heart-shaped face under the cute, cocked hat. With her in my life, what was I doing dreaming about space men?

She helped me out of the trunk, and I needed the help, my legs still rubbery, joints creaky as a rusty gate, and I found myself in the alley behind the Mission Revival-style bungalow she rented on Pennsylvania Avenue. We went in the back way and she sat me down at a Formica table in a cozy white-trimmed-red kitchen.

“I’ll put some coffee on,” she said.

“Please.”

“You need anything to eat? There’s a couple kinds of sandwiches I can make you …”

“No. No thanks.”

Maria got the coffee going, then sat beside me; if she looked any cuter in that khaki nurse’s outfit I would have done hand-springs, or bust out crying. “They’ll be looking for you soon, Nathan.”

I nodded. “Do you think anyone’s connected the two of us?”

She took off her hat, tossed it on the table, began unpinning her shining black hair; her mouth glistened with bright red lipstick. “Other than Glenn, no-and he wouldn’t say a word. He’d want to protect me and, anyway, he has to do business at the base, wouldn’t want it known he gave you that information…. Oh my God!”

She covered her mouth in horror.

“What?” I asked.

“Your spiral pad … your notes, my name, everyone you talked to, if they took that from your hotel room-”

I shook my head, no, my expression reassuring. “It wasn’t in my hotel room; it’s locked in the glove compartment of the rental. I doubt they’ve got it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“If they did, we’d have company by now.”

I put the gun on the table, where it served as a strange centerpiece; the pageboy once again brushing her shoulders, she looked at the weapon gravely.

I said, “I need to get out of this town-this state. Look, I may still have a little time, before they find that MP, or he hobbles out of that bathroom…. I better go get my car….”

She touched my hand. “What if they’re watching, what if they’re waiting …?”

“I won’t go to my hotel room-I’ll just fetch my Ford, which is out in the open, in public. They grab me, I’ll make a big loud stink.” I patted the .38. “And loud noises. … I wasn’t arrested, remember-bastards kidnapped me. That’s illegal, even in New Mexico.”

Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Have you considered going to the sheriff’s office?”

I smirked, laughed once. “You really think I should go anywhere in Roswell, but here?” I pushed my chair away from the table, stood. “Listen, Maria, you’ve been terrific … but I don’t want to get you in a jam-I’m gonna walk over and get my car, and get outa this tinhorn town. I’m not even waiting for the noon stage….”

Now she stood, clutched my MP’s shirtsleeve. “In that uniform? You know, they shoot spies for that…. Just wait. Have your coffee, first … I may have a better idea.”

“Maria, I’m running out of time.”

The coffee had stopped perking; she went over and poured me a cup. “Cream or sugar?”

“Little sugar,” I sighed, walking over to her. “What’s your better idea?”

Stirring in a spoonful, she said, “Let me change into civilian clothes, and I’ll walk over and get your car…. Where is it?”

“In that lot on Third Street, but-”

She put the cup of coffee in my hands, walked me over and forced me to sit; weak as my legs were, she didn’t have much trouble accomplishing that.

“I’ll drive it back here,” she said. “I’ve got a little garage just across the alley, where I usually park the Studebaker. I’ll tuck it away in there till you’re ready to leave.”

I was shaking my head. “Even so, I still need clothes, and going after my things in that hotel room is out of the question …”

“You’re right, that would be too dangerous, for either of us.” She looked side to side, as if an answer might be hiding somewhere in the kitchen; then her expression firmed, as if she’d found one. “I have … some things here you can wear.”

“Your husband’s?”

She nodded. “They’re in a trunk in my bedroom. May smell a little of mothballs, but they should do you fine-you must wear the same size Steve did, or darn close.”

“I can’t let you do this,” I said. “Too risky. What if you’re followed back here, and they find out you were helping me …”

“It’s no risk, not if we get you out of that MP uniform, and I dump it in a garbage can on my way over to your car. Then, if it comes to that, I simply plead ignorance: how was I to know the Air Force was after you?”

No question about it: she was making sense. Even if they had my notebook, and knew she’d spoken to me on the forbidden “saucer” subject, that didn’t mean she knew about my fugitive status.

So I got out of the MP uniform, and bundled it up in brown paper for her, while she changed into a maize-color T-shirt and blue denim slacks and open-toed leather sandals.

“You look like a college coed,” I said, handing her the bundle.

Those full cherry-lipsticked lips twisted sideways and she arched an eyebrow knowingly. “You look like a big lug in his boxer shorts.”

“That’s when I like you best,” I said.

“When?”

“When you get out of character. Who’d have guessed the sensitive waif I met last night could take charge like this?”

Her eyes lowered and her mouth quivered; I wasn’t sure whether she was taking offense or letting some nervousness show through. Quietly, she said, “Well, I am in the military, you know.”

Then, bundle under her arm, she slipped out the back way, and I sat thinking fond thoughts of her as I drank my coffee.

The trunk in her bedroom provided plenty of choices; I picked out a blue-knit T-shirt, some gray tropical slacks, and some socks with clocks on them. They did smell of mothballs at that, and I laid the clothes out on the dresser, to air out a little, and flopped onto the bed in my shorts, just to rest a wee bit before she got back. I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep, particularly after the caffeine in that coffee. But the alertness of my mind fooled me: my weary body had been right all the time.

I was asleep in maybe ten seconds.

Another dream, pleasant dream, of the small pale child/man with the big head and big eyes and silver suit, speaking soothing words, friendly, unthreatening….

I opened my eyes; it was dark and I was under cool sheets again, and someone was hovering over me-not a space creature, an exquisite creature: Maria, tousled black hair, blue eyes, red lips, creamy naked curves, bending down to kiss me on the mouth.