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Space. Roger Reid
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That Monday night in a barbeque restaurant in Huntsville, Alabama, there was a lot of thinking going on.
As soon as he made his accusation, Stephen Warrensburg made a sharp right, a quick left, and then he traveled the length of the table, the length of the room, and straight out the door. His eyes never blinked, his head never turned, his body never shifted. He was one with the machine that was his wheelchair.
My dad, Robert James Caldwell, PhD and university professor, didn’t say a word.
Dr. Herman Yao, world-renowned SETI researcher, was silent. SETI stands for the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. SETI has yet to turn up intelligence in outer space, and it looked like Dr. Yao couldn’t find it in the restaurant that night.
Mr. Dexter Humboldt, master’s degree in physics and high school science teacher, did not call the room to attention. He fidgeted like a kid in class who had been called on to give an answer to an unanswerable question.
Ivana Prokopov, Russian immigrant and former cosmonaut with a degree in planetary geology, could speak about the formation of the solar system. She did not speak about anything she saw form that night.
Sam Trivedi had PhDs in astrophysics and computer science. Sam was short for a first name that I think even Sam himself had forgotten how to pronounce. And Sam had no pronouncements for the Space Cadets that night.
Dr. Angie Warrensburg had degrees in astronomy and chemical engineering. Her official NASA title is Propulsion Engineer. In other words, she’s a rocket scientist. Her other official title is Mother of Stephen A. Warrensburg. Neither the rocket scientist nor the mother had anything to say. At least not right away.
When she did speak it was with her eyes. They glistened. Then they bubbled over.
“Angie,” my dad was the first to speak, “I . . . we . . .” He was the first to speak; he just couldn’t find any words to use.
Dr. Yao tried, “Angie, whatever we need to do to help . . . How long has it been since Ray’s death?”
“Year and a half,” muttered Dexter Humboldt.
“Obviously,” Dr. Yao continued, “Stephen still harbors a great deal of anger over his father’s death. If he needs someone to direct that anger toward . . .”
“None of us wants to be the object of anger,” Ivana Prokopov butted in, “but if that’s what it takes to help him through it . . .”
There was silence in the room again. My dad turned and caught my eye. He nodded toward the door. I can take a hint. I stood up and left the room.
Outside the door I hesitated just long enough to hear my dad say, “Angie, I . . . we love you. We loved Raymond. Whatever we can do for you and Stephen . . .”
6
I hurried through the bright lights of the restaurant’s main dining room and out into the dim light of the parking lot. I could make out the silhouetted form of Stephen in his wheelchair, his left arm extended toward the Econoline. I heard the side door slide open, and then there was a low-pitched whirr. As my eyes adjusted I began to associate the whirr with the ramp extending from the van and lowering to the ground.
“Give you a hand?” I heard a man’s voice say. In the dim parking lot all I could tell was that he was kind of hefty, just under six feet tall and seemed to be wearing a heavy sport coat. His offer of “a hand” was directed toward Stephen Warrensburg.
“I’ve got it,” Stephen replied with an implied “get lost.”
I was more than happy to “get lost,” even if it were implied and even if it were not directed at me. I turned to walk back into the restaurant.
“Caldwell.” Stephen A. Warrensburg had spotted me.
I paused; I didn’t look back.
“Caldwell,” Stephen called again. Then he demanded, “Caldwell, come here.”
I turned toward the van, “Looks like you’ve got it,” I said. The man who had offered to help stood where he had been stopped in his tracks by Stephen’s dismissive remark.
“Come here, Caldwell,” Stephen repeated.
Even an easygoing guy like me has his limits, and I began to wonder if there is a proper etiquette for kicking the butt of a guy in a wheelchair. Would I have to sit down before punching him in the nose, or could I stroll right over and smack him? He was, after all, “almost seventeen,” his mother had said. I’m fourteen. More than two years older—that has to compensate for the wheelchair, don’t you think?
“Caldwell, come over here and give me a hand.”
“Thought you didn’t need a hand,” I said with a glance toward the man in the bulky sport coat.
“Come here,” Stephen ordered.
I started toward him thinking, Maybe if I keep my right hand behind my back and punch him with my left.
“Don’t need help getting into the van,” said Stephen. “You’re going to help me with something else.”
Not “Please, help me.” Not “Will you help me?” Not “I could use your help.” He said, “You’re going to help me.”
As I approached Stephen, the man in the sport coat took a couple of steps toward us. Perhaps he sensed that I wanted to punch Stephen A. Warrensburg. Perhaps he wanted to join me.
“You boys okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” said Stephen.
I looked at the man and nodded. For an instant he seemed familiar. He stared me straight in the eye and said, “See you around.”
“Caldwell,” Stephen pulled my attention back to himself.
By this time he was motoring his wheelchair onto the ramp. “One of those Space Cadets killed my father and put me in this chair,” he said. “You’re going to help me find out who did it.”
I said, “I was in the room when you made your announcement, remember? I guess that puts me on your suspect list.”
“We both know you didn’t do it,” he said. “That’s why you can help.”
“Yeah, well, there were six others in that room. One was my dad; I know he didn’t do it. One was your own mother. I’m guessing she didn’t do it. And the rest were lifelong friends of your dad. That eliminates everybody, except . . . Oh . . . Oh, that’s right. You were there, too. Guess that puts you at the top of the list.”
“You’re lucky I need your help,” he said, “or I’d come over there right now and kick your butt.”
“I’ll come to you,” I said. “Do you want me to sit down? Do I have to tie one hand behind my back?”
Stephen extended his left hand and clicked his remote control as if he were trying to mute me or change my channel.
That low whirr filled the air as the ramp began to rise up from the ground, taking Stephen with it. When the ramp became parallel with the floor of the van, it retreated into the van.
“Caldwell, you don’t understand the greater truth,” he said. “Something happened at that observatory the night my dad died. I don’t know what it was, but I’m going to find out, and you’re going to help me.”
With that he clicked his remote and the van door closed between us.
Got to hand it to him. He’s got the dramatic effect working.
7