a neutral expression. I notice that what I took to be ancient armor on the tiny soldiers might be their limbs and torsos; their weapons, household appliances from distant worlds.
He tilts his head back, aligning his trifocals to draw a bead on me. Heâs used to skeptics. âJust you and your brother?â
âThatâs right.â
âYouâre the younger, I imagine, the Quester?â
My brother wonât even look for his car keys. âI guess you could say that.â I am the one who came down a narrow hallway to discover this loon, not exactly the quest I had in mind.
âIndeed. Gender and birth order are highly determinant in alien families. Stop me when Iâm mistaken: You and your brother are four to five years apart, widely divergent in your views. You live in separate cities and prefer it that way. Presidents you hated; he lovedâpolitical polar opposites, you canât seem to agree on anything. You share some telltale traits, however. Youâre both inordinately fond of animalsâdogs, cats, birds, any animal really. Alien males almost never hunt, though the elder is likely to own several guns. Youâre both cynical about most things, but sentimental in love. Youâre typically serial monogamists. Your wivesââ
I hold up my hand. âEnough. So you want to tell me why aliens came here and what I should do about it?â
âAs for why, youâll have to wait for the aliens to return. Thereâs no shortage of competing theories to occupy you in the meantime.â He smiles like this prospect is supposed to cheer me up. âTo help you deal with this startling discovery youâve made about yourself, there is a support group, ACAB, that does lots of fine work. Much, if not all my research, is based on in-depth interviews with its members. Perhaps, when youâre ready, we might conduct such an interview.â He sifts through the detritus on his desk to unearth a slender pamphlet. Adult Children of Alien Beings. He staples his card to it, like heâs handing out an assignment.
I snatch it from his hand and flee his office, but he leans out his office door and calls after me, âEmail me with any questions. Stop by anytime!â
I sprint up the narrow stairs into the street. I examine the card. His name and information, the university logo. The Department of Secret History. Thereâs a sign by the basement stairwell that reads the same, looks like all the other signs up and down the street. I had no idea the university had such a department. Makes sense, I suppose, that I wouldnât. These houses used to be the mansions of the idle rich. Theyâve seen their share of séances and crackpot rituals. That their basements now house such mysteries seems appropriate somehow. Who else has time for them but the rich and universities?
I donât have time to ponder this further because the meter cop is about to write me a ticket even though Iâm right here, keys in hand, and we both watch the time run out together. It takes forever to talk him out of it. He makes a big deal, like world justice depends on me paying for my parking crimes. Several cars pass, coveting the spot while we bicker. He manages to be a total asshole before he finally relents. I get into my car, rattled from both encounters, loon and asshole. Sometimes I just donât understand people!
As the thought flits through my brain, I freeze, frozen in the process of shifting into Reverse.
Sometimes I just donât understand people.
I drop back into Park. Dad said that all the time. I can hear him saying it. It was like the chorus of my childhood. Like he really meant it, felt it deeply. And Mom would put her arm around his shoulders and murmur, âItâs all right dear. Everything will be fine. Youâll see. It will all work out.â And he would look at her like she was the only one on the planet who truly understood him.
Maybe she was.
I
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