Closet Spaceship Part 13

[NOTE: This installment contains a spoiler. If you haven’t read Another Shot yet, I suggest you read it before this blog.]

I’m sure Captain Lamont knew when I was aboard, and he didn’t go out of his way to avoid me, but he didn’t exactly seek me out either … until one day he did.

I was leaning toward a porthole in the dock area, trying to cup my hands tightly around my face so I could see the stars outside instead of reflections from the dock lights.

“You could turn off the lights,” said a voice behind me.

I have to admit that I jumped. I hadn’t heard anyone in the corridor.

“I’m supposed to be an observer,” I said, although I’d just proved how unobservant I can be.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“A recorder,” I said. “And a listener, I guess.”

I could tell he had something on his mind, but I didn’t want to scare him off so I pretended not to notice.

Lamont approached me. “Listening can be useful.”

“So can talking,” I said.

“Sometimes that’s true,” the captain said. “I want to thank you for not letting your visits become too disruptive. I think if you can keep that up, the crew might be a little less skittish.”

“I hope so.” I decided not to tell him about Sean. No need to advertise my spectacular failure there.

Lamont smiled. “Someday you might tell me how you won Nick over.”

“I don’t know that I really—wait a minute,” I said. I didn’t remember seeing the captain anywhere when I talked to Nick.

“I tend to pay attention when there’s shouting in the corridor,” Lamont said.

“Oh,” I said. So much for not being disruptive. “Sorry.”

The captain took a few steps and turned off the lights. “Have a look.”

I turned to stare at the porthole and I think I just sighed. No matter how many times I see it, that view will never get old. I wish I could describe how many stars there were or how beautiful it was with all of the glittering dots of colored light against a black that wanted to swallow them but couldn’t.

“Some people never look at that,” Lamont said. “I try to do it at least once a day.”

I nodded, although he probably couldn’t see me.

“May I ask you something?” he said in a quiet voice.

“Of course,” I said, mostly because it’s what he would have said, but also because I sensed that this was important.

“Some of the crew members have asked me,” he said. “They want to know if you can do anything … I mean, change anything that’s happened.”

Now I could understand why Lamont turned off the lights: I couldn’t see his face. Reggie would want to make Sean part of the crew, Mark would want me to give him more confidence, Nick would like me to fill up his bank account … but they weren’t the ones who were really asking.

“Oh,” I said. It was a tough question. I mean, I could change what I’ve written, but it wouldn’t be true to my characters or the story. So, in a way, I really couldn’t change it.

But how do you explain that? Especially when the captain is asking you to bring his close friend back to life, no matter how indirectly he’s asking. How do you tell him you won’t do it?

I lied: “No, I’m sorry. I can’t change what’s already happened. I only observe.”

After a moment, he said, “I’ll pass that along.”

I heard his footsteps walking toward the corridor and I didn’t have the heart to say any more. I turned to look at the view again, thinking that somehow I didn’t deserve it.

But then I thought about it some more. We’ve all known writers who’ve brought seemingly-dead characters back to life, whether it was for a book, a TV show or a movie, with varied success. Sometimes it seems forced, the writer bowing to the wishes of the readers/viewers.

Now I wonder how many writers have bowed to the wishes of another character.

The footsteps stopped.

“I’m sorry,” the captain said. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“I understand why you did,” I said, “but please don’t do it again.”

He turned on the lights so I could see his face. “I promise.”

Then he was gone.