Heroes of Earth. Martin Berman-Gorvine
record album she had brought him.
“No way,” he said softly, studying the head shots of four middle-aged, long-haired men against the background of an enormous crowd. There were no names under the pictures, because no one could possibly mistake John Lennon in those round spectacles, black-haired Paul McCartney, mustachioed George Harrison, and bearded Ringo Starr—the Beatles together again, in the reunion concert that could never have been, not after John disappeared back in 1971, the only, mysterious clue ever found being the words “Imagine THIS!” spray-painted on the wall of his recording studio and a plumber’s helper driven into the sheetrock wall handle first.
An artifact from a parallel world. How cool is that? He put the record player on the dining room table, plugged it in, and carefully took the first of the three shiny black disks in the impossible reunion album out of its paper sleeve. There was no dust on it, no hint of scratches.
How much would this be worth, if you could sell it? If the League didn’t stop you. Arnold pushed the thought aside, switched on the turntable, and lowered the needle arm onto the outer rim of the first of the three LPs in the boxed set.
Most of the songs were familiar—Grandma was a self-described “Beatlemaniac,” and a solid, throaty alto—although some were played in a minor key, lending a touch of sadness to tunes that had once been all bouncy youth.
Arnold was so mesmerized he didn’t hear Mom creeping up on him.
“What’s that you’re listening to?” she said suddenly.
Started, Arnold banged his right knee hard on the underside of the table, flipping the needle arm violently up. When it came down it made the record skip.
Nowhere man—nowhere man—nowhere man…
Arnold wanted to cry. I’ve ruined something that can never be replaced.
But Mom didn’t seem upset at all. She stepped softly toward the table on her bare, wrinkled feet, her pale blue eyes wide. “Impossible,” she whispered, picking up the box with a shaking hand. “I must be dreaming.”
Arnold found his voice. “It isn’t a dream, Mom. Gloria brought the album over. But I’m afraid I scratched it…”
“Hmm? Don’t worry about that, we’ve got some fix-it spray somewhere…” Still staring at the box, she reached out with her other hand and took the needle arm gently off the record. “So it’s true, what Dad told me about the tunnel between the worlds,” she said. “I thought I must have dreamed that, too.” Her pale, skinny knees were knocking together under her nightgown.
Arnold stood up, got a chair for her, and went into the kitchen to pour her a glass of milk. She smiled and thanked him absently when he handed it to her, but her eyes never left the picture of the concert that had never been.
“I should call your grandmother,” she said. “She has to hear these songs. And what are these new ones?”
“New ones?” Arnold looked where Mom was pointing on the box. There were two unknown tracks on the B side of the third LP, both credited as “Lennon/McCartney.”
Arnold found the right platter in its yellowed paper sleeve, put it on the turntable, and carefully lowered the needle arm into the right place in the shiny black circle before the first song. It was about courage, and John Lennon’s voice was saying he had composed it “for my little daughter, Rosie.”
Mom shook her head. “He never had a daughter. Only one son, I think,” she said, but Arnold barely heard her; he was too busy listening to the music.
Courage, girl
You’ll need courage for the road ahead
For the road full of dread
I’d give you more, girl
For this cold old world,
But all I can give you, girl,
Is your heart that’s oaken
Even when it’s broken
You’ll have your courage
The words made Arnold’s heart swell until he almost believed he could be brave. The other new song had a strong beat that gave it an almost martial air:
Fight for what is right
Struggle on, through the night
Follow your own light
Whatever others might—
“I’m home!” Alison called, slamming the door, making the needle jump out of its groove. “Hey, you have the record player out? What’s that you’re—oh, wow!” she said, picking up the boxed set and examining it. “This must be from one of Gloria’s parallel worlds!”
Arnold punched her on her left arm, the one that wasn’t holding the box. “She gave it to me, not for you! You’re always messing up my stuff!”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Come on, you two, you’re too old to fight like that. I’m sure Gloria meant you to share. Can’t you take the message of all those songs about peace and love to heart, just a little?”
She looked so frail, of course she got what she wanted, which was for everybody to sit around the table spellbound, listening to the greatest rock-and-roll concert that never was. Dad got home just when they had started again from the beginning, the part with the great old songs and the scratch Arnold had made by mistake. He just laughed when Mom mentioned the accident and asked him where the tube of spray stuff was. Instead he showed off a trick where you turned the turntable backwards by hand while bearing down gently on the needle arm to “erase” the skip.
Nowhere man, the world is at your command!
Was that the message Gloria had been trying to send him by giving him the album? That he might think he was a nowhere man, but actually great things were on the way for him? Parents and teachers, the nice ones anyway, were always trying to sell you that message, but Arnold wasn’t feeling very inspired by it right now. Hell, he couldn’t even keep for himself the one gift he’d gotten to make his suspension from school a little easier. Plus, nobody was even thinking about dinner, and Arnold was hungry.
He slouched off to the kitchen and began fixing himself a sloppy peanut butter and banana sandwich, but the gears of his mind were still turning. Gloria was certainly more than just an offbeat school librarian, so she had to be trying to tell him more than just “be the best you can be.” She’d also given him the Twain book, after all. What had that been about? The book was about how cruel and hypocritical empires were. Like the Cosmic Harmony? Put that together with the Beatles’ courage song, and the fight-for-what’s-right song, and what did you have?
Gloria’s an alien, no question about it, but obviously from a different planet from the High Ones. She must hate them as much as the Patriotic Front and the Human Defense League do. Maybe more!
The peanut-buttery knife in Arnold’s hand clattered to the kitchen floor unnoticed. “That’s why she’s here,” he whispered aloud. “She wants volunteers to help fight the High Ones. But everyone else is too scared to help her.”
For the thousandth time since he’d been suspended he thought about his humiliating encounter with Bubba and Mr. Wright. What if I’ve been looking at this all wrong? I’m the only one who has the guts to stand up to the way things are. Everyone at school complains about the strip searches, but they all meekly take their clothes off every morning. Dad’s not much better. He may talk a good game about how the old constitution didn’t allow unreasonable searches and seizures, but I don’t remember him ever going to the school to complain, not back home in Pikesville and not here, either. And Mom… Mom’s too sick to do anything, you can’t blame her.
Who was behind all the trouble? The High Ones! There hadn’t even been such a thing as terrorism before they came, or anyway not much of it.
SCOD was their fault, too. It had been founded on the symbolic date of July 4, 1976, the same day the new constitution and the new name for the country