Chapter: 7

The Proverbial "Why?"

"Alien mind control!" Trixie exclaimed. "You're pulling my leg?!"

"I assure you, I know better than to yank on your appendage," Mart snorted. "I do not desire a swift kick to the choppers."

He passed his sister his basket of tomatoes, and once he was sure she could handle its weight, he lifted the other.

"Gleeps, Mart," Trixie gasped. "That idea is just kooky. Mr. Lytell had a roll of foil too."

"No doubt," the blonde-haired boy replied. "Spider said people were pressing the panic button. Apparently, he was not embellishing."

"But I really don't get it?" his sister continued. "Even if beings from another planet could influence people's thoughts, why would they want to?"

"Ah, yes, the proverbial 'why?'" Mart sighed. "And the true answer is, no one really knows, Trix. Are the extraterrestrial's motives sinister, such as to take over the earth by influencing our elections and our politicians? Do they intend to turn humans into zombie-like slaves to mine for precious ore? Or are the sky-beings' intentions more benevolent? Such as to warn humanity of impending disaster or to keep us from destroying our planet and each other with the use of deadly weapons? The theories are vast and open to conjecture, which creates a cesspool of fear and paranoia."

"You don't swim in that murky pool, do you?" Trixie asked her brother.

"Not currently," he answered. "Let's just say I'm sitting on the concrete edge, testing the temperature of the water with my toe."

"Well, for your sake, I hope Mr. Donahue's Rock-N-Roll violet alien isn't in that bubbling soup," she laughed. "I wouldn't want you losing that Jiggly Piggly of yours."

Then, more seriously, she added, "You don't think a hat made of tinfoil might actually stop something like telepathy, do you, Mart?"

"Telepathy. Superlative word," Mart approved, grinning. Then, giving his sister a nudge with his knee toward the house, he went on to explain that the verdict on the use of aluminum wrap was still out. "There is some evidence which suggests, if well-constructed, a tinfoil chapeau might possibly simulate the effects of a Faraday cage protecting one's brain," he noted. "However, others maintain that wearing such head-wear might actually amplify communications."

"So basically, again, no one really has any proof one way or the other," the frustrated girl concluded. "I wonder if we should try putting a tinfoil hat on Bobby. Has he told you about the things he suddenly 'just knows' about our new friends?

Mart's curiosity peeked instantly. He hadn't spoken to his little brother since the night before, and as Trixie enlightened the crew-cut boy, he whistled.

"Wowzers, Trix, now that is strange!" the stunned lad admitted, unable to come up with any fancier words. "Bob didn't get that stuff from me. And he definitely didn't get it from Brian."

"I didn't think so," Trixie said as she set down her heavy load on the porch so she could open the front door. Then, as the thoughtful girl held the screen for Mart, she added, "I guess the only thing we can really do, is to accept that 'strange' is the new 'normal' here in Never Land."

At last, in the cool kitchen, Trixie and Mart deposited their bountiful harvest on the floor near the gas stove. The countertops, already loaded with blushing love apples and sparkling sterilized canning jars, were all set for the day's activities. Moms, in her flowery apron, was pouring Daddy his second cup of coffee. And Bobby, upstairs, was supposedly getting dressed and straightening his room.

"Perfect timing," Mr. Belden replied as his daughter handed him the newspaper.

Trixie pointed to the large picture on the Sun's front page, just below the headline, and said, "That's what we saw last night, Daddy. We didn't see the funny alien in the other picture, but we did see the ship in this one. I know the shot isn't very good. It's blurry and was taken from a distance. But you can still make out the series of lights if you look close enough."

Trixie's father put on his glasses and examined the photo more carefully. "You might want to see this, Helen," he suggested.

Then, as Mrs. Belden took a peek over her husband's shoulder at the black and white image, Mr. Belden, who'd been reading Paul Trent's article, let out a hearty laugh. "Say's here, Max Donahue was also an eye-witness," he told his wife. "And get this; he was assaulted by a one-eyed one-horned violet alien. The article doesn't say, but care to wager the creature was wearing short-shorts? By the way, Helen, whatever happened to your short-shorts?"

Moms chuckled and swatted Daddy with her dishtowel before glancing over at her daughter, whose head was currently whirling with wonder. Mart had left to get washed up, and Trixie knew that her brother was going to be very sorry he'd missed this part of their parent's conversation.

"Why, Peter. I've never owned a pair of short-shorts in all my life," Moms declared, blushing.

Only Trixie could tell by the smirk on her father's face that her mother had just fibbed.

"You know, as well as I do, that I don't approve of such things," Mrs. Belden went on to say, as a proper lady might.

But then Moms grinned.

"I have heard that violet aliens are reported to like them though,' she laughed, alluding to the lyrics of the song from which Mr. Donahue had stolen his testimony. " I imagine it's because they're all so 'under-growed'."

"Great," Trixie thought. "Now Moms is starting to sound like Bobby."

Then, as Mr. Belden returned his wife's grin, he commented that he'd have to look around the farm for the box containing his father's old singles. He was sure there was a copy of the record in the collection somewhere. As a boy, young Peter had listened to it over and over again. And he was positive that his family would enjoy the old rockabilly hit just as much him.

And yet, while Trixie was anxious to hear the comical tune, in retrospect, she wished the Jiggly Piggly's butcher wasn't such a comedian. Moms and Daddy would never believe their children's story now. Not unless the U.F.O. came back, and her parents got to see it with their own two eyes. And that was something the teenager wasn't so sure she wanted to happen.

So with the fun over, and work to do and places to go, Mr. Belden turned his attention to the weekend sports section, as Mrs. Belden sent her daughter upstairs to see if Bobby had managed to get himself dressed and also to remove her "confounded hat".

Trixie, of course, objected to taking off her headpiece. She claimed that she was having a bad hair day. But Daddy told the despondent girl not to talk back to her mother and reminded his daughter that no one would be home to see her hair.

Mart and Bobby were going to the barber with their father for a trim, while Trixie and her mother slaved away in the kitchen. While they were out, the menfolk planned to grab a bite to eat at Whimpey's, so Mrs. Belden wouldn't have to stop to fix them lunch when they got home.

Trixie found herself wishing she could go with the boys. Not only did one of Mike's malted-milks sound to die for, but it also meant she'd be able to escape one of her least favorite activities, which was canning.

Why just the thought of standing over a hot stove all day had her dreading the chore. Of course, come winter, it would all be worth it. Nothing tasted better on a frosty night than a casserole full of Moms' savory stewed tomatoes. But that reward came after a lot of grueling work.

Trixie knew that today her job would be to peel the tomatoes. She'd start this process by cutting an X in the bottom of each one. Next, the practiced girl would dip the red and yellow fruits into a bubbling pot of boiling water for about a minute before plunging them into a sink full of icy water to cool them. This process loosened the tomatoes' skins so she could more easily slide them off.

From there, Moms would take over, dicing some of the tomatoes and slicing others, before stuffing the juicy morsels into the prepared canning jars with a squeeze of lemon. Both mother and daughter would monitor the final step, which was the hot water bath, while they started the next batch. Trixie knew from experience that one large bushel of tomatoes filled anywhere from sixteen to eighteen quart jars, so the ladies had their work cut out for them.

Therefore, anxious to get the process rolling and over with, the cantankerous teen climbed the creaky steps to the second floor, muttering something about needing the barber to buzz off her tresses like Mart's.

Hitting the landing, Trixie was once again assailed by the booming bass and screeching treble of blaring classic rock. This time, however, the music came at her in full stereo from both sides of the hallway.

Gratefully, she could still hear (just barely) Mart puttering around in the bathroom, so she burst through his open bedroom door and snapped off his radio. Next, like a raging bull, she rushed into little brother Bobby's room to do the same, only to find the squirrely squirt, bouncing about wearing only one sneaker.

"Hey, don't dos that!" he screamed at her as she reached for the volume button on the noisy device. "Mart said nots to turn it off! Ain't it cool?!"

"Isn't it cool," Trixie corrected him hotly. "And no, it's not. What are you doing with Brian's clock radio anyway?"

"Mart gived it to me," he replied. "On accounta I knows how to tells time now, and I'm a big kid."

Trixie had to wonder what Brian was going to say when he got home from work and found that their middle brother had given away his morning alarm. "Tell you what," Trixie bargained. "I'll just turn down a bit if you promise to put on your other shoe. Where is it, by the way?" she asked, glancing about the surprisingly tidy space.

"I don't knows," the grumpy boy replied. "I thinks it's losted under the bed somewheres."

Trixie let out an exasperated moan and got down on her hands and knees to look for the missing sneaker, and in doing so, quickly discovered why the little boy's room seemed so clean.

"What'd you do? Stuff all of your toys and dirty clothes under here to hide them? That's not how we clean our room, young man," she scolded.

"Ah, I knows it," Bobby replied. "But I was in a hurry. You're not gonna tells Moms are yous, Trixie?"

Locating the elusive piece of footwear, Bob's big sister crawled out from amidst the mess and said, "No, I'm not a tattletale. But when you get home, you'd better pick this up before she sees it." Trixie knew there'd be payback if she told her mother what the child had done. In this house, rats liked to rat on rats.

So after receiving a promise that he would, Trixie helped the youngster finish getting ready and then sent him off down the staircase.

Once in her own room, Trixie begrudgingly took off the red baseball hat, which was emblazoned with a big "F", and tossed it on her dresser. The letter stood for "Fireballs", which was the name of Sleepyside's junior league team, for young people between the ages of twelve and fourteen. This year, Mart had graduated to the Senior League to play on the Comets along with Jim, so he no longer needed the cap.

Accidentally catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror on the wall, Trixie groaned and then ran her fingers madly through her matted-down mop of hair. There was no reason in trying to run a comb or brush through it. It would take hours to work out the tangles, and she didn't have that kind of time. Plus, the steam from the boiling water in the kitchen was only going to make her unruly curls kink right back up.

As far as Trixie was concerned, hair was a curse. Her Achilles' heel, as one might say. And Moms just didn't understand. The forlorn girl may have gotten her lovely blonde color from her mother, but its uncontrollable texture came from her father's side of the family.

Moms had beautiful sleek hair like Honey and Di. As did most of the other girls Trixie knew from school. And that made the young lady different and opened her up to ridicule.

Of course, it didn't help that Trixie was also shorter and a smidge stockier built than most of her friends. But it wasn't like there was anything she really could do about it. The teen couldn't make herself grow taller or shrink the size of her bones. And no matter how hard she tried, Trixie just couldn't seem to get her hair to behave, either. It was just awful.

But in elementary school, it had been even worse. Back then, the other girls had talked about Trixie behind her back, and the boys had teased her directly to her face. The children had taunted the poor child by calling her names like Poodle Head and Blubber Belden. And when Trixie had tried to tell Moms about it, her mother had said things such as "the girls are only jealous" and that "the boys really like you". Oh, and not to forget, there'd also been Moms' favorite reply, which was that her daughter was simply "imagining things".

Only Trixie hadn't been making things up. And thankfully, Brian had sympathized with her plight. For he'd taught her not to yell back at the other children in anger, as it only made them harass her more. And he'd also passed on the skill of laughing at oneself, which to his sister's surprise, had actually helped her become a more popular, outgoing person.

But still, inside, the little girl had hurt. Oh, how she'd hurt! And all the pretending that she hadn't had left big Trixie with a lot of unhealed wounds. And for whatever reason, lately, Moms seemed to enjoy rubbing salt in those old sores.

Of course, her mother also still believed in fairytales and was certain that her awkward tomboy of a daughter would one day turn into a beautiful swan. But from what Trixie could tell, outside of Never Land, ugly ducklings grew up to be plain old ducks. To become a swan, as her dear brother Mart had once so lovingly pointed out, one must first be born a cygnet.

And Trixie was sure she was no cygnet. Cygnets didn't have a head of snarls or a kitchen full of tomatoes waiting on them. So letting out a resigned sigh, she looked in the mirror one final time before stuffing all of her insecurities back inside and giving herself a little laugh.

At about two fifteen that afternoon, Bobby came racing through the kitchen door, with his father and bigger brother, following close behind. "Heys, everybody! Heys! I'm gonna be on TVs! The excited lad cried. "Did you hears me?! I'm gonna be on TVs!"

"We couldn't help but hear you," Mrs. Belden chuckled, looking approving at the young man's trim. Then wiping her hands on the dishtowel she'd tossed over her shoulder, Moms gave Daddy a welcome home kiss.

Hungrily eyeing the Whimpey's carryout bag in the older boy's hand, Trixie said, "Is that true?"

"Indeed it is," Mart said, handing her the sack. "By six-thirty this evening, everyone in the state of New York will have heard about our visitors from Play-At-Ease with their three sisters and boy cow."

"Yeah, I'ms gonna be on the nightly news," Bobby went on to explain to his sister. "And Daddy's gonna DV it so yous can watch it later on accounta you'll bes doin' your Bob-White stuff."

"Wow!" Trixie said with an impressed smile. "I'll be anxious to see it!"

"Is thoughts so," the little boy said as he pulled out a chair and plopped down at the table.

"Yous should have been there!"

As Mart joined his chubby sibling, he added, "Yeah, you missed all the excitement, Trix. White Plains Channel 4 Action News was at Whimpey's interviewing our outstanding citizens about last night's U.F.O. sighting. The joint was packed. And I mean like sardines."

"Peoples were all over outsides too!" Bobby went on gleefully. "They were haven' a big party! I asked Daddy whose Birthday it was, but he don't knows. Some of 'em weres wearin' shiny silver hats, too. Marts and me named 'em Baked Potato Heads. It was real funny. Only Daddy said nots to call 'em that. But he still laughed. Kinda like he's doin' nows."

Mrs. Belden turned to her husband and shook her head. "Your father's right. And he shouldn't be laughing. It's not nice to call people names," she reminded the both of them.

"I's knows it," Bobby said. "And I stopped doin' it. Well sorta. But Daddy said you might gives me some foil if I asked real nice? Brian's good at foldin' hats, so wes thoughts he could make us some sos we can party too! Daddy says he's gots a real good ol' record 'bout aliens thats we's can dance too. Sos can you gives me some foils for Brian, Moms? Yous looks very lovely todays."

Moms lifted her eyes to the ceiling, sighed, and then again glanced over at her mischief-making husband. Something definitely had gotten into him. She hadn't seen this side of Peter in many, many years.

"No," she told her youngest son sternly. "I won't have you wasting all of my aluminum foil. You and your father can 'party' without wearing silver hats."

Bobby frowned and kicked the table leg.

"Ah Helen, don't be such a party pooper," Mr. Belden chuckled. "Can't we have a little foil?"

"NO!" Mrs. Belden cried as her children laughed. "Trixie, back to work," she ordered out of exasperation. "The rest of you, I want you out of my kitchen, NOW!"

But before Mr. Belden left, Trixie's father slipped her a five-dollar bill and whispered something in his daughter's ear. Smiling, Trixie tucked the money into her pocket. She kind of liked her new father!

As the ladies resumed their canning ritual, Trixie woofed down her burger at the counter while Moms nibbled way on a fry or two. They were making good progress on Mart's mountain of tomatoes, and the encouraged girl was sure they'd be finished in plenty of time for her to reach Lytell's Store before it closed.

Honey had called a little while back to let Trixie know that Regan was still leery about letting the girls take the horses. So bikes it'd be, and at least this time, Trixie would be riding hers, so the shopkeeper's petunias should be safe.

But even though the teens were likely to make it to the shop on schedule, Trixie knew they could still be late for their meeting if Mr. Lytell were in one of his usual dawdling moods. So once she'd helped Moms remove the last of their daily harvest from great grandmother's speckled lobster pot, Trixie headed off to see if she could round up another fifty cents in dues.

Jim was a stickler when it came to Bob-White fines. And even though Trixie was his special girl, her co-president would never let her get away with taking the fee out of the girl's jam money. Brian, too, had made it clear that as treasurer, he wasn't accepting I.O.U.s anymore. So the strapped girl had to come up with the extra money somehow.

But where? A little voice coming from her left shoulder suggested that she might be able to slide a few cents out of her baby brother's piggy bank when he wasn't looking. Trixie would repay it, of course. Only the other little voice, the one on her right side, reminded her that it would still be stealing. So, in the end, Trixie made the right choice and decided against it.

Heading for the living room to check under the couch cushions, she swung by the coat closet and was lucky enough to come up with a nickel and two pennies in the pocket of her winter jacket. Added to the quarter, which the desperate girl was soon to discover under Cap'n Brian's favorite roosting place, she only needed eighteen more cents, and she finally located that at the bottom of her discarded school book bag.

Now nearly set, Trixie changed into her bathing suit and then pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and a tank-top over top of it. Grabbing her cap from off the bureau, she dashed from her room, calling for Mart.

Meeting his sister at the foot of the stairs with a pair of rolled beach towels tucked securely under one arm, the hurrying boy asked Trixie if she had the cell phone. Mart had volunteered to ride to the store with the girls, and while he didn't think they'd need the phone to place a call, with "strange" being the new "normal" in Never Land, one just never knew. Besides, he had other plans for the device.

"No, I'm afraid Brian has it," Trixie told him impatiently.

Not the answer the plotting boy was hoping for, he instructed his objecting sister to hang tight as he darted back to his room. A few moments later, Mart returned with the digital camera Uncle Andrew had given him for his birthday hanging around his neck.

Recognizing the horrified expression on his look-a-like's face and the way she was scurrying to tuck her ill-behaved goldy-locks back undercover, Mart announced, "Fear not Frazzle-Head. Your empty noggin is not my intended target on this most unusual day. Let's just say my objective is more vegetable in nature."

And with that, the brother-sister pair set off into the heat of the afternoon, not knowing what kind of excitement might await.