As Thanksgiving approached, Stella announced she was going to make a big, traditional Thanksgiving dinner—a giant turkey with all the fixings. It was time to make use of the house and make it feel like a home, Stella said, and everyone was invited. This in itself was remarkable; even though we all lived in the same house, our differing schedules seldom permitted more than two of us to ever sit down and eat at the same time.

This would be a rare chance for all of to gather in the dining room and share a meal at the same time. Naturally, I informed my family I was going to stay in Ann Arbor at least through Thursday night; Mama wasn’t thrilled that I wouldn’t be home, but Avie could pick me up Friday for shopping and take me back to Detroit for leftovers with the family all weekend.

Pammy was surprisingly excited about the prospect of an Ann Street Thanksgiving; instead of traveling back to New York to visit her sister, as she usually did, Pammy elected to stay in Ann Arbor as well—and even invited Matt, who agreed to come.

“I also took the liberty of inviting Preston,” she said, “although he said he might have to work late.” Either way, this meant a full house for Thanksgiving on Ann Street.

Me, Stella and Pammy went shopping with Pammy in her new Honda, which she had bought over the summer, and acquired all the necessary ingredients. The turkey thawed in the fridge for several days, and on Thursday morning everyone convened in the kitchen to get things started. I made my Mama’s Cajun rice pilaf dish while Stella dressed the turkey and Pammy made green bean casserole. We all jammed on mashed potatoes—Trent peeled—and stuffing, and we baked three kinds of bread and two pumpkin pies.

However, when Stella pulled the turkey from the refrigerator, she let out a gasp. I should explain that the refrigerator that came with the house was old, and the freezer compartment on top was always icing over; the regular refrigeration compartment below was subject to uneven temperatures, particular as the weather outside got colder. If you set the milk too close to the wall, for example, it could freeze.

To make a long story short, because of the other food we had to cram in there, the turkey—which should have been totally thawed out by now—was too close to the wall. It was still frozen solid.

Stella cursed as she pulled the bird out and set it on the counter with a rock-like thud. The rest of us were mortified—Stella’s plans for a big meal had just gone up in smoke—and we started thinking about ordering Chinese take-out or other alternatives.

But Stella didn’t move. Her hands were still on the turkey, which was still in its plastic wrap; her eyes were closed and her face was contorted. She was so mad with herself, I was afraid she was going to lose it. But she somehow constrained herself. Instead, her muscled tensed, her fist clenched, still in contact with the turkey;. I can’t quite describe it, but her hands and arms began to glow, as if the core of her body had become molten.

“It’s okay, Stella,” I said. “We can salvage—”

Then I noticed the turkey sweating, a puddle of water forming on the counter. The plastic wrap started blistering, bursting; the bird started steaming.

“Whoa, whoa, Stella!” I cried. “Easy does it!” I put my hand on her arm to pull her away—my fingers got scorched as if I had touched a hot oven. Stella opened her eyes, took her hands of the bird, and stepped back. I put my burned fingers on the bird, expecting some icy relief, but it was almost as hot as Stella had been. Not only was the turkey now completely defrosted; it was half-cooked.

I looked at Stella. Her arms were no longer glowing. “Leave something for the oven,” I said.

With oven mitts, Pammy and I shoved the turkey into the sink. We ran some cold water over it to cool it enough to remove the plastic, then cleaned it out and stuffed it. We stuck it in a pan and started to warm up the oven to let it do the rest.

By noon, the turkey was cooking and on track for a four o’clock meal; Trent was busy watching Simon and a bit of the football pregame in the living room; and Pammy left to pick up Matt in Dearborn, about twenty-five minutes away.

Despite the collaborative effort, something about the way Stella had framed the invitation suggested to me that we were all going to be guests at Stella’s house, or maybe Stella and Trent’s house. Maybe I was hoping too strongly that this meant the former Megaton Man and See-Thru Girl were getting back together.

While Stella and I set the table in the dining room, Trent watched football and kept Simon amused with a rattle in the living room.

I whispered to Stella, “How’s it going with you and Trent, anyway?”

“Fine, I guess,” said Stella. “Why do you ask?”

“You were pretty chummy at the beginning of summer,” I reminded her, “when we all went out to dinner that night with my family. I just thought, this meal is a kind of a big production—Thanksgiving is the quintessential family holiday, after all. I was wondering if there was any intended significance.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into it, Clarissa, as far as Trent and I are concerned,” said Stella. She smiled and gave me a warm hug. “I just wanted a big gathering for once, and to show my appreciation to all my friends who’ve helped me make this transition into a new life. Besides, why else live in a house with a dining room with a big table, if you don’t use them every once in a while?”

I could think of lots of reasons—picture puzzles, for one. In the Norman Rockwell picture taking shape in my mind, Trent and Stella were at the head of the table.

“But you’re the mama and papa of the house,” I said. “You and Trent.”

Stella laughed. “That may be,” she said. “I suppose we are a family, of a sort—an extended family, all of us, I’d like to think. But that doesn’t mean Trent and I are husband and wife—or that we’re ever going to be.”

“Aren’t you planning for any little brothers or sisters for Simon?” I blurted out without thinking. “You know, somewhere down the road?”

“Not at this point,” said Stella. “And not necessarily with Trent.”

This made me wonder if the father of a first child automatically had first right of refusal on fathering a second.

“Is he that bad in bed?” I asked. “I mean, have you even tried it with Trent? Since he’s been a Civilian?”

This took Stella aback; then she laughed again. “Oh, we’ve tried it,” said Stella. “It hasn’t worked. I mean, it’s worked but it hasn’t worked, if you get my meaning. I just don’t have feelings for Trent in that way anymore. We’re just friends.”

“Friends raising a kid,” I said.

“That’s about it,” said Stella.

We had finished setting the table; Stella admired it for a moment.

“But, doesn’t Trent have feelings for you?” I asked. “It seems obvious enough to me that he does.”

“I don’t think so,” said Stella. She paused, as if considering the question for the first time. “Why? Did he say that he did?”

“No,” I confessed. “I just mean—”

“Then what makes you say that?” Her tone was suddenly interrogative.

I wanted to explain that, to my way of thinking, a biological father who loved his child as much as Trent loved Simon deserved more than a cold, scientific partnership with the child’s biological mother. But I was thinking of my own estranged biological father, wasn’t I? He must have really loved me—it was my mama who kept him out of my life.

“Trent doesn’t have feelings for me,” she said emphatically. “Neither of us wants anything more from our partnership than to see Simon grow up healthy and happy—and normal.”

That was the end of that conversation. At least Simon would know his father, and that was a lot more than I had.

In the middle of the afternoon, Pammy returned with Matt. He was a lean, medium-height white guy with long, sandy-hair with a mustache. He wore a denim jacket and severely faded jeans, and if you didn’t know he was a musician, you could have guessed—somewhere between rockabilly and jazz. Both Matt and Pammy brought bottles of wine, and after the introductions, Pammy broke out the wine glasses. With the football game murmuring in the living room, we all stood around the set table in the dining room offering various toasts.

Then, Stella essentially repeated to the group what she had said to me privately—about her desire to thank all her friends for making her new life possible—and we all drank a toast. Then Pammy made an announcement: She had just signed a contract with a major publishing house in New York for her anthology-memoir, to be released next year. We congratulated her and drank another toast. She also informed us that next semester she’d be teaching most of her classes at the Arbor State extension in Dearborn, half-way between Ann Arbor and Detroit. That meant she’d be staying at least a few days out of the week with Matt—who’d graduated from Arbor State last spring and recently ended a longtime relationship—who now kept an apartment there.

“You’re not leaving us?” Stella asked, with some concern.

“Oh, no; you can’t get rid of me that easily,” said Pammy. “But my publisher is already planning a book tour for next fall, so you might not see as much of me in the coming year.”

Trent also had an announcement: “I’m going native—I’ve signed up for a couple classes next spring,” he said. “I’ll still be the dumbest person in the house, but not quite as dumb as before.”

“That’s great,” said Matt. “Here at Arbor State?”

“Huron River,” said Trent; that was the name of the community college here in Ann Arbor. “But they’re real credit classes: Intermediate Algebra and English 101. I’m tired of just sitting in on public lectures and auditing.”

“Hey, you gotta start somewhere, man,” said Matt. “Here’s to beginning that long trek to an associate’s degree.”

I was glad; I knew Stella had been encouraging Trent to take classes for a while. We all congratulated Trent with another toast.

“I have something to announce too,” I said. “Which is, I have nothing to announce.”

We all toasted my non-announcement, which polished off that bottle.

We held off dinner as long as we could, hoping Preston would still show. But it was getting late and Pammy said we should probably get started without him. I asked Matt how he felt about almost meeting his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend, Preston Percy, who was now totally out as gay.

“Hey, y’know,” he said. “That’s cool. Either way.” I didn’t know precisely what he meant by that, but I considered it very gallant—and laid-back.

Once dinner started in earnest, we served ourselves buffet-style from the kitchen table, where the hot dishes were set up and seated ourselves at the dining room table. There was enough food for two armies. Flash bulbs went off all over the place as Stella took all kinds of pictures of the food and baby Simon.

That evening, we had planned to go to the Michigan Theater to see It’s a Wonderful Life in 35-millimeter, but after the pumpkin pie, we were all too stuffed to leave the house. Pammy, Matt, and Stella made it as far as the couch in the living room, and looked like they might never get up again.

In the kitchen, Trent started running water in the sink and I started bringing in the dirty plates and silverware from the dining room.

“You don’t have to do that, Clarissa,” said Trent. “You should sit and visit with our guest.”

“I have enough laid-back in my life already,” I said. “Besides, I’m a professional, remember? I washed dishes at the café last summer, before becoming a waitress.” I started clearing bones and whatnot into the garbage and handing them to Trent. “Besides, I wanted to tell you,” I added, “I think it’s great you’re going back to school.”

“Thanks,” said Trent. “I figure I’ve taken the autodidact thing about as far as it can go. It’s time to get me some formal book-learning.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being an autodidact,” I said. “My Daddy’s the smartest guy I know—he reads all the time. Although the I Ching reminds us the learning of the self-taught can be ponderous and one-sided, while learning among friends is congenial.”

“I’m never going to be able to compete with the intellectuals around here,” said Trent. “But maybe I’ll get smart enough to understand some of the conversations—even yours.”

“There’s no secret to understanding me—I’m a simple gal,” I said. “You’ll be able to get a better job with a degree—not that there’s anything wrong with working in a bookstore.”

“I’m not doing it for that,” said Trent. “I know I’ll always be an underemployed former Megahero; I just don’t want Simon growing up with a dumb father—even though Stella’s a smart enough parent for the both of us.”

“Simon’s got a couple great parents,” I said. “He doesn’t have to worry about that.”

Back in the dining room, I stacked up the remaining dirty dishes and silverware, and started pulling up the gravy-bespattered tablecloth.

Suddenly, I felt the dining room vibrate. The lighting fixture suspended from the ceiling wobbled slightly.

“Do you hear that?” I said, to no one in particular. But Trent was running water in the kitchen, and the others in the living room were watching the second football game and didn’t hear me. “Does anybody hear that?”

It reminded me of the hum of the Time Turntable, but not exactly. It wasn’t so much a sound I heard as a vibration I felt. Whatever it was, it was coming from the front yard.

I marched through the living room to the front door.

Stella, who was looking after Simon, looked up at me. “Clarissa, what is it?”

I went out onto the porch; it was already dark outside. From the bannister, I saw a crowd of pint-sized people at the far end of our lawn. They were backlit, almost in silhouette, in part from one of the streetlights half a block down on Ann Street.

I say in part because there was also a pulsing green glow that rose and fell along with the humming sound. It gave the group a greenish tinge, but where the glow was coming from I couldn’t discern.

“He’s too heavy,” a voice said, as the group headed along the sidewalk toward our house. “We’re not going to make it—he’s slipping. Oops.”

“You’re out of shape,” said another voice. There was maybe half a dozen of them, all struggling with some heavy load. “C’mon, just a few more meters…”

They was now on the corner of our lawn, heading toward the porch where I stood. Whatever they were carrying, they suddenly dropped it onto the lawn.

“Ooof!” said another voice. “That’s it—I give up. He can walk the rest of the way himself, the big lug.”

I moved to the far end of the porch to get a better look. From where I stood, the group looked to me like kids in costumes. There was a Jheri-curled pop star with pointy ears; a Labrador retriever in an astronaut’s suit; an elfin girl with pointy ears that could have been the pop star’s sister; a tortoise in a glass-bowl helmet; a man with an upturned collar and a skull for a head; and another girl with a cyclopean eye and tentacle arms—a squid girl. They had all been hauling some large sack or something in the direction of our house, but had given up under the weight and had dropped it at the foot of our lawn.

The last time I had seen kids on our street, they had been hauling sacks of candy; that was the first thought to occur to me now.

“You’re a bit late for Halloween,” I called out from the porch. “By a whole holiday.”

“Wouldn’t you know it?” said the Labrador retriever to the others. From his astronaut suit he produced a device about the size of a large remote control; he shook it as if trying to get it to work. “Our timing has always been off in this sector of the galaxy.”

“One lunar cycle isn’t bad,” said the tortoise, whose voice echoed inside his helmet. “It’s better than the forty solar cycles we seem to have been off since practically the beginning of this mission.”

“First Officer Pup just doesn’t know how to calibrate his Quad-corder,” complained the elfin girl, “even with the new programming sequence beamed to us from Quadrant Fleet.”

“Am I the only one who remembers we’re traveling through space, not through time?” demanded the squid girl. “The question is not whether we have the right month, it’s whether we have the right address.”

“The big guy said Ann Street,” said the skull man, motioning to the load they dropped on the lawn. “I think he’s dead, Jim.”

“Don’t call me Jim,” said the Jheri-curled pop star. “And I told you, this is the right address—we were only off by one house. I’ve been here before, remember?” He looked up at me. “Although I’ve never met you before,” he said. “You must be Clarissa; Yarn Man’s told me all about you.”

The porch light went on. Stella, who had put on a jacket and fetched me one, came out onto the porch. She put the jacker over my shoulders. “What’s going on?” she asked me. Both of us peered across the lawn, now somewhat better illuminated.

I could see now that the pint-sized people had been trying to carry a large person who now lay prone on the grass. They had been trying to carry him to our porch but had given up on account of his weight, and instead dropped him where they stood. But they still stood in front of him, blocking him from our view.

I could also that that the green, pulsing glow behind them came from the next yard. When it pulsed most brightly, it assumed the tangible shape of a dome; when it faded, it almost disappeared.

“A cloaking device,” I said. “You’re the Partyers from Mars!”

The Jheri-curled pop star took a few steps across the lawn toward me and bowed. “Captain Anton Parsec, at your service,” he said, smiling wryly. “Bony-face here calls me Jim only because he’s seen too many of your rerun earthling broadcasts.” He pointed to the figure on the ground. “I’m afraid this is as far as we can haul Bing; can somebody give us a hand?”

I ran back down the porch and across the lawn. I looked down at the figure lying prone in the grass; my eyes adjusted, I could now see the red and white scarf, the polka dotted shorts, the oversize tennis shoes and the knitted orange yarn skin.

“Yarn Man!” I cried.

My one-time lover, face-down in the grass, stirred. He struggled to push himself up on all fours, but was too wobbly to get to his feet. Instead, he started crawling—away from me and toward the hedge along the neighbor’s lawn. Then he heaved.

“Yaaalp!”

“He’s had a bit too much to drink,” said Captain Anton. “Not to mention the vast quantities of other toxic chemicals he’s absorbed.”

“If he were an ordinary human, he’d probably be dead,” said the skull-man.

Behind me, our porch light came on; Trent stuck his head out of the front door. “Clarissa, what the heck is going on?”

“It’s Bing,” I called back to him. “The Partyers from Mars brought him—he’s pretty sick.”

Trent ran across the lawn toward me.

“Yarn Man?” she said. “The Partyers from Mars?”

Stella came out of the house now too.

“Hey, See-Thru Girl,” said Anton, waving. “You’re looking good.”

Even though it was dark, I could tell Stella was surprised to see her one-time lover, whom she hadn’t seen in a year.

“Where did you find him?” asked Trent, who knelt down to check on his friend.

“A honky-tonk outside of Reno,” said the Labrador. “He said he wanted to be brought here—said there was some girl he missed his chance with—then he threw up. Thank Quad it was outside our saucer.”

“That’d be you, Clarissa,” said Captain Anton. “Isn’t that romantic?”

“Aww,” I said, equally moved and disgusted.

“The earthlings can look after their friend from here,” said the elfin girl, making some kind of notation on her palm device. “I’m going to log this as ‘Mission Accomplished.’”

The pulsing green glow in the next yard became steady. The saucer, seen only intermittently before, now became a concrete object glinting dully in the Ann Street streetlights.

Slowly, the dome revolved backward, retracting partially into the saucer. Inside were the glowing lights of the control panels inside the space ship.

“What are we in a rush for?” asked the Labrador. “I smell turkey and stuffing leftovers wafting from the house.”

“You have keener olfactory sense than I do,” said the squid girl, who was holding her nose with one of her tentacles. “All I can smell is puke.”

The other Partyers were already climbing back into the saucer. The compact control room they climbed into didn’t appear as if it could hold even this small group of diminutive people. But one by one, the Partyers from Mars—almost like the reverse of clowns emerging from a tiny car—disappeared within.

Captain Anton, the last figure to remain, turned and waved to Stella. “Looking real good,” he said. He gave her a thumbs up and winked, then hopped into the saucer.

The dome closed; the humming sound I heard before returned. The tiny craft lifted off smoothly from the neighbor’s lawn, paused briefly over our front yard, tilted at us slightly as if doffing its cap, then shot away at an oblique angle down Ann Street.

I knelt down next to Trent to see what I could do for Bing, who was still face down in his own vomit in the grass. Trent seemed to be checking Bing’s wrists for a pulse, but how he expected to find one through Yarn Man’s thick, knitted cuffs was beyond me.

“Bing’s a mess,” said Trent. “Anton was right—he’s close to alcoholic poisoning.” He looked at me, wondering how this flat-chested black girl could have driven Yarn Man to drink. “What on earth did you do to him?”

“It was just a casual fling,” I protested. “I didn’t think it meant anything to him. Honest—he never even called.”

Stella looked up and down the empty street which was peaceful and quiet on a Thanksgiving night. “We’ve got to get him into the house before any of our neighbors see.”

“They missed the UFO that took off,” said Trent. “If they look now, all they’ll see is a passed-out drunk who’s slightly overdressed for ski season.”

Suddenly, a shrill, piercing whistle sounded above our heads, first distant, then rapidly coming closer. We all looked up into the overcast evening sky; down from the clouds, another spacecraft was quickly descending upon us—this one in an almost perfect, vertical line.

“Another extraterrestrial,” I said. “They’re dropping like flies!”

“That’s no extraterrestrial, Clarissa,” said Trent, grimly. “Just a plain, old, garden-variety terrestrial, in this case—Preston Percy.”