left. That was four years ago.
âWhat kind of expert?â my brother said. âWho believes experts?â
I gave up on my brother. I kept looking for our past.
Which led me to this guy, Dr. Deetermeyer, another expert. Heâs looked over all my documents regarding my parents, as well as examined surviving articles of clothing belonging to themâmy motherâs favorite scarf and one of my fatherâs cardigansâif 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. Thereâs 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. Heâs at the end of a long, narrow, buzzing-fluorescent-lit basement hallway with no other doors. Thereâs nothing else but a bulletin board with band flyers from 2004 and numerous opportunities to study abroad. I almost didnât 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. Itâs a warm October day.
âYour parents were aliens,â he says. âPart of an exploratory expedition that arrived in the United States shortly after the outbreak of World War II and departed in 1969.â
âAliens.â
âThatâs right.â
âAnd that makes me and my brother?â
âAliens.â
What to say to a totally tenured nutjob? Iâm 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 shouldâve left it alone.
âIce cream,â Deetermeyer says.
âWhat about it?â
âThey loved it, all year round.â
âSo what? Lots of people love ice cream.â I start to rise. I have a hungry parking meter waiting. I gave my last quarter for this nonsense.
âPeppermint.â
That stops me. For my parents there was only one ice cream flavor, peppermint. Since itâs 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 didnât drive, sometimes took me along to help load up the cart. We both wore gloves for the occasion, like cartoon characters.
âWith chocolate sauce,â Deetermeyer added with a little nerdy gotcha smile.
âHow did you know that?â
âItâs an alien delicacy. They love peppermint and chocolate together. They love all the mints, but like peppermint the best. Thatâs what they found of greatest value here, mint and chocolate.â
âThis is stupid. Iâm human. Iâve been to doctors my whole lifeâmy parents too. Somebody wouldâve noticed if I was an alien.â
âYour form is human; your essence, alien.â
âWhat the fuck does that mean?â
âYour parentsâ bodies were alien adaptations of the human form using human DNA. Certainly, to the medicine of the time, they wouldâve seemed perfectly normal, as would their offspring, but they preserved and passed on their alien nature to you in a thousand subtle waysâtheir 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.â
He seems absolutely serious. âClearly. This, uh, alien essence you spoke of? How might that manifest itself in the, uh, offspring?â I try to keep
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