Something Blue, part 4
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Agnes had gone down the hall to fetch her super-secret whatsit, and
Raoul was clearing dishes off the table, so I stepped into the living
room. It was 7:05, which meant we were making good time. I was hoping to
be home by 9:00. Laugh if you like, but that’s my normal bedtime.

I hadn’t noticed earlier, but something was odd about the living
room. It had a couch, a coffee table, and two chairs, but the chairs
were facing the couch. It took a moment for me to understand why that
was unusual — there was no television.

A painting on the wall caught my eye, and I tried to make sense of
it, but couldn’t. It was an unpleasant mess of reds and blues, orange
and purples, some yellow bits and greens and whites and grays, all in no
discernible pattern. At the painting’s corner, it was signed — Agnes
Jackson.

Giving up on the artwork, I sat on the couch, which was old, a subtle
tan plaid, and very, very comfortable. Then nothing happened, and
nothing else happened. Agnes was taking her sweet time, but finally our
hostess with psychosis returned, carrying a bottle of wine, two plastic
cups, and a blue thing shaped like an egg but about triple the size. She
poured wine for Raoul, and then handed me the blue thing without a
word. She settled into one of the matching chairs, poured wine for
herself, and watched me like the Super Bowl.

What she’d given me was dusty blue in color, almost gray, and about
the size of a snow globe. It was oval-shaped but flat on the bottom,
with a handle at the top. It wasn’t particularly heavy, or particularly
interesting.

Raoul returned from the kitchen, with cheesecake and forks and paper
plates on a tray. When he noticed the blue thing in my hand, he cocked
his head, puzzled, and said to his aunt, “The blue thing? This is all
about the blue thing?”

Agnes held her index finger over her lips, the universal sign for
shush. She was still staring at me. Raoul shrugged and sat in the other
chair, and they both looked at me, looking at the blue oval.

It had no buttons or lights or cords. I couldn’t judge what it was made of, but it wasn’t metal or plastic. Perhaps, I thought, it’s made of solid boredom. It looked like something pantyhose might have been sold in. There was nothing about it to merit more than ‘huh’.

“It’s a knickknack,” I said.

“I bought it at a souvenir stand in Roswell, New Mexico.”

I said, “Oh,” but what I was thinking was, Please, not Roswell.

“Do you know about Roswell?” she asked.

If Agnes was a flying-saucer kook, I wanted to flush that nonsense
right away. “Roswell is Wingnut City, USA,” I said. “Whole lot of
nonsense about space aliens. Some not-too-bright people believe a UFO
crashed near the town, right?”

“Yes,” said Agnes. “That’s what not-too-bright people believe, but we
know better, don’t we?” I wasn’t sure what she meant to imply. She’d
said she played poker, and she had a face for it.

“Agnes,” I said politely but with a sigh, “did you invite me here to talk about space aliens?”

“No, I invited you here for a second opinion,” she said, “and a third opinion,” she added, glancing at Raoul.

“You want our opinions,” I said, “on what?” Agnes frowned like that
was a stupid question, and pointed at the blue thing, which I’d already
forgotten.

“It’s something blue,” I said. “I’m not impressed.”

“Drop it,” Agnes said.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. Agnes
arose from her chair, approached me, and took the blue thing from my
lap. She held it as high as she could reach, and said, “This will be
weird, but trust me, it gets weirder.”

She dropped it, and when it hit the floor, the blue thing did not
bounce or roll like you’d expect. It simply landed on its flat side, and
then it said, “Hey, dummy, be careful. It’s breakable.”

I leaned forward for a closer look, and Raoul accidentally kneed me
in the head. He’d popped out of his chair to get a better look at the
blue thing that talked, and — freeze frame — while he’s apologizing for
kicking me, let me mention that in addition to the oval speaking at all,
its voice was craggy and ancient and might have been sick. Every
syllable sounded like it had been dipped in tobacco-speckled mucus.

“Aunt Agnes,” Raoul said, “what the hell?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“You showed me this blue thing when I was a kid, but you never told
me it was anything but blue.” He picked it up off the floor. “You never
told me it talks.”

“It only started talking a few weeks ago,” Agnes said, and glanced at
the clock on the wall. “And now, if we haven’t broken it, it’s about to
talk again.” All three of us watched the blue thing in Raoul’s hand,
until it said something more, as she had predicted.

In a voice that desperately needed a cough drop, it said: “Scan complete, nothing’s broken, but next time don’t be an idiot.”

We all looked at each other, and I said, “Agnes, what is this thing?”

She shook her head, no.

“Does it do more than talk?”

She said, “Oh, yeah. ‘You will experience things you wouldn’t believe
if I told you’.” She said that like she was quoting someone.

“Hmm,” I said, and reached out to Raoul. “Can I see it again?”

He handed me the blue thing, and I turned it over, pushed at it,
pulled on the handle, and tried twisting it left and right. “Take your
time,” Agnes said. I scrutinized it from every angle, but found no
hidden controls or access ports, no hint at the thing’s purpose. Same as
earlier, it was just a grayish-blue oval with a flat bottom and a
handle. The only thing that had changed was, it was no longer boring.

“Aunt Agnes,” Raoul said, “what does it do?”

“It blows your mind like Dorothy’s tornado in Kansas,” she said,
sitting down again, “but before we get to that — we have an agreement,
right? We’re not taking it to the authorities.”

“You don’t like the authorities, do you, Agnes?”

“They put me in prison, so no, I don’t like the authorities, and
absolutely wouldn’t trust them with this — so no Mully, no Sculder. Not
tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. Are we all still agreed about that?”

“Still agreed,” said Raoul.

“It’s Scully and Mulder,” I said.

“I was making a joke to keep things light and breezy.” With her
completely neutral face, that woman was difficult to read, but nothing
that night had been light and breezy, and Agnes herself was the opposite of that.

“We’re all agreed,” I said. “No cops, no feds, no Boy Scouts, but c’mon, already — tell us what it is.”

“You misunderstand,” she said. “I don’t know what it is, and I’m
hoping that you two can help figure it out. But I’ll tell you what I do know, and then …” but she never finished that thought; she simply pursed her lips, waiting for my reply.

And I said, “OK. Let’s do this.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Now comes the part where things start to get strange. I’d said ‘no’
that night when Agnes offered wine, but I’m typing this months later,
and I need a shot of whiskey or maybe two, before telling what happened
next. Back in a bit.Next: The conclusion