Adult Children of Alien Beings by Dennis Danvers Page A

left. That was four years ago.
    â€œWhat kind of expert?” my brother said. “Who believes experts?”
    I gave up on my brother. I kept looking for our past.
    Which led me to this guy, Dr. Deetermeyer, another expert. He’s looked over all my documents regarding my parents, as well as examined surviving articles of clothing belonging to them—my mother’s favorite scarf and one of my father’s cardigans—if you want to call snuffling them like a hound dog an examination. His office at the university is cave-like with six-inch pipes crisscrossing the ceiling, thick with yellow paint like lemon chiffon. The bookcases are crammed chaotically with books, papers, sandwiches, soda cans, videotapes, and tiny hand-painted soldiers from ancient armies. There’s a Rousseau print of some colorful craziness in the jungle and four or five framed degrees from prestigious universities. His first name is Simon. His middle name is Emmanuel. He’s at the end of a long, narrow, buzzing-fluorescent-lit basement hallway with no other doors. There’s nothing else but a bulletin board with band flyers from 2004 and numerous opportunities to study abroad. I almost didn’t knock. It smells like burnt coffee and rotten citrus and the faintest whiff of pot. The lone window is ancient frosted safety glass, tilted open a crack to reveal a hurried blur of student legs moving by, mostly bare. It’s a warm October day.
    â€œYour parents were aliens,” he says. “Part of an exploratory expedition that arrived in the United States shortly after the outbreak of World War II and departed in 1969.”
    â€œAliens.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd that makes me and my brother?”
    â€œAliens.”
    What to say to a totally tenured nutjob? I’m trying to remember who sent me to this guy. That weirdo at the Department of Historic Resources? Odd, to say the least. The past seems to do that to people. I should’ve left it alone.
    â€œIce cream,” Deetermeyer says.
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œThey loved it, all year round.”
    â€œSo what? Lots of people love ice cream.” I start to rise. I have a hungry parking meter waiting. I gave my last quarter for this nonsense.
    â€œPeppermint.”
    That stops me. For my parents there was only one ice cream flavor, peppermint. Since it’s not readily available all year round, they stocked up every Christmas, loading a big box freezer full to overflowing in the basement. Dad, who did all the grocery shopping since Mom didn’t drive, sometimes took me along to help load up the cart. We both wore gloves for the occasion, like cartoon characters.
    â€œWith chocolate sauce,” Deetermeyer added with a little nerdy gotcha smile.
    â€œHow did you know that?”
    â€œIt’s an alien delicacy. They love peppermint and chocolate together. They love all the mints, but like peppermint the best. That’s what they found of greatest value here, mint and chocolate.”
    â€œThis is stupid. I’m human. I’ve been to doctors my whole life—my parents too. Somebody would’ve noticed if I was an alien.”
    â€œYour form is human; your essence, alien.”
    â€œWhat the fuck does that mean?”
    â€œYour parents’ bodies were alien adaptations of the human form using human DNA. Certainly, to the medicine of the time, they would’ve seemed perfectly normal, as would their offspring, but they preserved and passed on their alien nature to you in a thousand subtle ways—their legacy. They reproduced at a somewhat higher rate than the general population. They were, after all, far from home and lonely. They were always deployed in male/female pairs. Clearly the pair bond is exceptionally strong among them.”
    He seems absolutely serious. “Clearly. This, uh, alien essence you spoke of? How might that manifest itself in the, uh, offspring?” I try to keep