Adult Children of Alien Beings by Dennis Danvers

 
    My parents weren’t like your parents, okay? The ones in the Mother’s Day cards and the Father’s Day cards. Who are those people?
    My mother never drove. I never took lessons in anything. She told me as a child it was important to spend as much time alone as possible, preferably in the woods, maybe up in a tree or on a hilltop, while I was still open to the overwhelming mysteries of the universe. She didn’t start there; she worked up to it gradually. “Go outside and play” became increasingly ambitious and nuanced. The alternative was to be constantly underfoot. Mom needed her space before everyone said that. She started smoking because my older brother and I said it would make her look cool like the other younger mothers. Next day she bought a pack. She alternated between regular and menthol, pack a day.
    My dad never had trouble showing emotion. He loved me like nobody’s business. I learned from observing him that at the end of sappy movies, if your face isn’t wet with tears, you haven’t been paying attention or you don’t have a heart. Not to have a heart was the worst. He asked me once if I wanted to learn how to fight, and I said no, and he said that was good because he didn’t know how. He was big and strong though he never worked out or did any exercise and ate anything he wanted. Mom was the same.
    Dad loved to tell dirty stories. He did voices and everything. Mom loved to hear them. He made her laugh so hard, you could barely make out what she was saying: “Not … in front of the … k-k-kids … Bob!” Put that in a Father’s Day card: Thanks for all the smut. Knowing filthy jokes was every bit as useful as knowing how to fight, and Mom was definitely right about that treetop.
    They taught me how to cook by smell. They both did it. The spice rack covered a wall, the spices in alphabetical order. They loved highly seasoned food. They never used recipes. You put your ingredients together, sniff out the spices for a dish, and cook. They didn’t believe in cookbooks, though I’ve dedicated the several I’ve written to them. They would find this amusing, laudable. The message I got from my folks loud and clear? The kid who’s just like his mom and dad? You have to wonder about that kid. You have to adapt, evolve, sniff out your own way in this world if you hope to prosper.
    They’re both dead. They fell down an abyss while vacationing in New Mexico the year I graduated college. I only bring them up because at sixty-six, what I call semiretired, I’ve been digging into the family history, trying to unlock the secrets of my past like those celebrities on television. The thing is, Mom and Dad don’t have any. History. Now you see them, now you don’t. The entire family history narrated to my brother and me when we were little was a complete fabrication. They seem to pop into existence the year before my older brother was born. That’s when they started paying utility bills. They claimed to come from Colorado, but Colorado never heard of them.
    I make the mistake of calling my brother with this information. He doesn’t see the big deal. Dad was always a bit of a storyteller. Maybe he didn’t get all the details right.
    Their birth certificates are phonies, all their papers before my brother was born, even their marriage license. I had them examined by an expert. I’m back living in the house my brother and I grew up in, and all their stuff’s still up in the attic.
    My brother moved away as soon as he thought I could handle things on my own, marrying and moving to his new wife’s town. He’s done that a few times since, different wives, different towns, while I’ve just moved all over town with different wives.
    Mostly, the house has been rented out over the years. I didn’t want to sell it. I lost my last wife when it happened to be vacant, so I moved in. Lost, as in, she