Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

  Why would anyone make a machine like a snake? Maybe Haldeman would find enough pieces to discover what these machines were for and how they travelled.

  CHAPTER 20

  Indian summer

  Gene drove alone to his parents’ farm, the haunting ‘Space Oddity’ playing on the radio as he planned what he would say. Someone on the radio was going on about this folk festival, Woodstock, which made him remember concerts before Molly was ill; he smiled to imagine Cory, garlanded with flowers, dancing among thousands of people.

  In the farmhouse kitchen, the warm heart of the house where Gene had grown up, his mother made cold drinks while his father sat, watching him, saying nothing. His mom was wheezing a little, but she kept assuring him the new medicine was working just fine.

  ‘Well, Gene, no time like now,’ his dad said, the moment Mom sat down. ‘Big news, we’re guessing.’

  ‘Okay, so, Mom, Dad, this may be a shock. Um . . . Molly and I have adopted a little boy. It’s really complicated, though.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Mom said, clasping her hands, ‘for Molly, for both of you – how wonderful! What’s his name?’

  ‘Complicated?’ said his dad. ‘Adopted when? You’ve been acting Moon-touched for months.’

  ‘We call him Cory.’ And Gene began to explain. His dad went Huh! when Gene said, ‘You have to promise to keep this a secret,’ like he had insulted him. He coughed on his drink when Gene first said ‘aliens’ and asked, ‘Like that Star Bonanza thing?’ He went a little red in the face as Gene mumbled, ‘Cory looks quite different.’ Red in the face was not good and Gene started to trip over his words, wondering how much to say. Molly would have told the story better.

  His mother just listened until Gene started on running from the FBI and hiding Cory from everyone. ‘Oh dear,’ his mom said. ‘Oh dear.’

  Gene found himself fingering the envelope with a single Polaroid snap of Cory in all his alien glory. Molly and her photographs, what a stupid risk. He’d been sure his parents would be surprised; he’d assumed they would ask questions, that it would take time for them to assimilate the news, but his father just looked angry.

  Gene stopped and his parents sat silent. Maybe they didn’t believe him.

  ‘Well, I suppose you had to do something,’ his mom said at last. ‘You must bring him here, to meet us.’ She looked at her husband, for reassurance, he guessed. His parents knew each other’s moods without words.

  ‘This has to be the stupidest darn thing anyone has ever done,’ his dad said. He drew breath. ‘Nobel Prize for Stupid.’

  ‘You believe me,’ Gene said, grasping at straws.

  ‘I may have raised a fool, but not a liar,’ he said, fingers laced as he did to hold in temper. ‘Bill Burrowes has family down there; he says Amber Grove is just crawling with army and Russian spies and FBI. One phone call and you’ll have the whole darn government after you – and what if the commies find you? What happens if Molly gets sick again? Or the boy gets ill? You gonna sneak him back into the hospital? What about the neighbours’ kids? Do you have to keep him inside?’

  ‘Well, that’s one reason we want you to know – he might like—’

  ‘Well, thanks very much. I didn’t ask to have you drag your mother into this madness. Why not tell the government? There are laws. They wouldn’t take him off you, not now.’

  ‘Well, they might,’ Mom said, touching Dad’s hand. ‘National security and everything.’

  Gene, feeling heat in his own face, said, ‘So, we can’t count on you?’ That came out wrong.

  His father looked pained. ‘I’m not going to pick up the phone, of course not. But you know, the farm hands . . . they’re good people, but they’re not family. We got neighbours dropping by, some salesman pitches up, asks to use the bathroom. You don’t want them knowing. This is every sort of trouble. You need to figure out some clean way out of the mess – maybe get some good lawyer on it – or that commie Senator you like so much.’

  ‘He’s not a commie,’ Gene said, by reflex.

  ‘Have you a picture?’ his mom said. ‘I’d like to see your Cory.’ She lifted the reading glasses she wore on a chain.

  Gene felt sick and disappointed, but was his dad so wrong, when you looked at it with his eyes? Full of doubt, he handed over the photo and his parents stared at it, their hands touching. It was quiet enough to hear the tiny tick tick tick of the clock advertising a local feed company long disappeared.

  ‘Oh,’ his mom said, at last.

  *

  Cory had been so excited, he had not slept until midnight, but he was dozing now, the rarest of occurrences, and Molly seized the time to get organised for their trip to John and Eva’s farm.

  She took some laundry into Cory’s room. He stored his stuff with military precision; he’d explain his latest system if you gave him half a chance. There he slept, in a muddle of bedclothes on the floor. He’d got excited by the idea of the airbed and he’d been practising on it for a week. She gave silent thanks that he was so happy and well. She could’ve stood there watching his calm breathing until the glaciers returned.

  The last time she’d gone to the farm, driving under grey winter skies, she had been burning with rage about Gene and that woman and she’d feared she’d do something stupid, to Gene or to herself. She’d telephoned Eva, seeking sanctuary with someone who knew and loved them both; she’d just said things were awful and she needed space. In better times, when she was pregnant, she’d been to the farm bubbling with joy.

  Now she wanted the people she loved to know Cory.

  ‘Mom was okay,’ Gene had reported, ‘and she’ll have weeks to work on Dad. It will be fine.’

  Molly could see how anxious Gene was, how he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She needed John on her side: the man who’d given her away at her wedding. It would be like losing a second father if he didn’t.

  Cory’s latest habit was coming down the stairs on the outside of the banister, because he could. Now he bounded to the breakfast table wearing his outdoor hat.

  ‘Good morning good morning good morning. Biggest expedition ever! See John and Eva and pigs and cows and chickens drive long pretty route see the state. Are ducks in creek? Are bisons on farm?’ A moment of moving tentacles and, ‘Cory big-big excited talk-too-much sorry.’

  ‘We’re excited too,’ Molly said.

  Gene took the car keys without discussion. She could see the tension in his jaw. ‘It will be fine,’ he said, out of nowhere.

  Then they were in the car, driving down Crooked Street to the junction and away.

  *

  The state was pretty in early fall, with red barns and white churches, old bridges across bright rivers. The farm stood half surrounded by orchards, trees rich with reddening apples as big as fists. As they rolled up, Cory bounced up and down. ‘Wanna see the pigs Mom-Mom-Mom and the chickens and the cows . . . what’s that bird and that one and that one?’ His head went from side to side, tentacles dancing as he picked up myriad smells.

  Gene parked behind the house, the back door opened and Eva appeared, wiping her hands on a cloth. ‘John, they’re here!’ she called.

  Molly couldn’t tell what nerves were her own and what were Cory’s as Eva bent down and lifted the hood back.

  Her smile was crooked, but it reached her eyes. ‘What a handsome fellow,’ she said. ‘Now, Cory, you can call me Grandma Eva. We’ll have some cookies and lemonade, then you can come feed the animals with me. They’re very hungry. And look, here’s Grandpa John.’

  Gene’s father wiped his hands on an oily rag. His eyes flicked wider when he saw the boy, but he came towards Cory, somewhere between a smile and a frown on his face, but not hostile.

  Eva’s arm went around those alien shoulders and she met Molly’s eyes. No description prepared you for Cory, how very odd he looked, and yet how solid
and alive he was.

  John said, ‘Now Cory, you gotta understand, a farm is not a playground. I’ll tell you how your dad got that scar under his chin . . .’

  The back of the house was old stone; the front had been extended with brick and wood. The place smelled of baking and safety. After homemade lemonade and cookies, Eva took Cory’s hand and together they walked pails of swill down to the pigs and fed the chickens. Gene led Molly into his old bedroom and they squeezed onto the world’s smallest double bed. This ancient patchwork faded to fifteen shades of green brought back good memories; they had maybe an hour before his parents fed them again. In better days they had slogged and saved enough to fill this room with books and to send Gene to college, the first in the family.

  Later, as the evening dark gathered, John read stuff aloud from the local paper – ‘Here’s excitement you don’t see in the city: man finds wallet. County Board argues over drains.’ In the kitchen, Eva fried pork chops and asked Cory to set the table while Gene hunted down a dozen books to keep the boy busy.

  The kitchen felt like the living soul of that house. Together they sat and looked at the meal – pork and potatoes and beans and fried greens of some sort and homemade bread. Molly’s mouth watered at the smell.

  Cory looked at the meat, ears down. ‘Where pork-chop come from?’ he asked plaintively.

  The adults looked at each other. None of those books for children about our friends on the farm ever spelled out that particular sticky truth. Molly knew with a sinking heart how this was going to go; Cory had been sniffing around that question for weeks and like a coward, she’d been dodging it.

  John tried to laugh it off. ‘Well, Cory, everyone knows that . . . Pigs, of course.’

  Cory’s tentacles started to wave. ‘Is pig-friend hurt Grandpa John?’ And he looked from one to another with those stunning violet eyes.

  Eva tried, ‘Well, the pig has no use for it now ’cos it’s dead, Cory.’

  Molly and Gene’s son folded his arms and said, ‘So-not hungry Gran-ma-ma-ma. So don’t eat murdered-dead-­murdered things. Poor pigs.’

  In Eva’s house, hospitality meant food and feeding meant love. To turn down your hostess’ food? That was a little like burning the flag. But Cory could do stubborn as well as any of them around that table.

  John’s face flushed red. ‘Well!’ That frown meant he wanted to make something of it with Gene, like two bulls clashing horns in the field, and Eva looked to heaven and pulled a face or two.

  Then she rubbed Cory’s head and, her voice low and gentle, said, ‘There’s no pork on the potatoes and beans, I promise.’

  ‘Potatoes, beans, applesauce pleeese,’ said Cory.

  Eva said a tense grace and they ate. Cory used a fork and didn’t look up, but they all felt the poor dead pig like a ghost at the table. With Cory’s disapproval radiating out, the rich, fatty meat tasted dull in Molly’s mouth. He had eaten ham only last week. He loved her meatloaf.

  ‘Cory, you ate seafood on your own planet.’ Shellfish, and other sea-things she couldn’t guess at, like armoured newts. ‘And the worm in the garden.’

  He burbled in his own language, then, ‘They alive-but-no-feelings. Cory feel inside how pigs feel, like people. Don’t eat things-alive-with-feelings.’

  And she realised he’d never met any animal humans ate before. He liked cats and dogs and raccoons and songbirds, but Americans don’t eat any of those.

  The homemade apple cobbler was excellent, but the conversation didn’t flow. Cory asked to be excused and went to his airbed up in the eaves, his cubbyhole.

  ‘Never mind the crank diet; he’ll grow out of it,’ John said. ‘Someone here’s got to be practical. You need a plan, Gene: a good one. How long before his people come?’

  Gene blinked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Molly said. She’d told Cory she hoped it would be soon, but in her heart she wasn’t sure she wanted the aliens to come at all. It would be good for humanity, of course, but she would lose her son. ‘When they come – if they come . . . well, they’ll want him back. Until then, we carry on.’

  John scratched his head. ‘Keeping him hidden? From the government, the spies, from your neighbours and the press. Your friends . . . right there in town?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the only way,’ Gene said.

  John leaned forward. ‘He’s going to grow, son. He’s already a ball of fire. He’ll want to see the world. Friends, school . . . what’s his future going to be? It’s not going to get any easier, is it? And what if he gets real sick . . .’

  ‘Dr Jarman,’ Gene said.

  As if either of them had the answers. ‘We’re just making it up as we go along, John,’ Molly admitted. ‘It’s not like an ordinary family, where you can plan.’

  Eva gave a tiny noise, almost a snort, and Molly remembered that she and John had found each other late in life, so much so that Gene had been a surprise.

  ‘Well, who knows how anything ends,’ she added.

  ‘He’s welcome here. Though I never expected to risk jail at my age,’ John pronounced, and Molly felt a surge of warmth and gratitude.

  Eva took his hand. ‘It’s the right thing.’

  Molly noticed Eva was getting breathless again; she needed to talk to her about that. But for now, full of relief, she just said, ‘Thank you.’ She had her mouth open to say more, but John ploughed on, monarch of the kitchen.

  ‘Or if you ever need to hide out, we have the keys to the Anthony place. Five miles north, left fork . . .’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I remember,’ Gene said. ‘More a track than a road. A real hideaway.’

  ‘Nice folks, from the city, but they don’t come much, not since their son fell serving his country. You want to use it, call us first, just in case you’re unlucky and they happen to be here. Now, you lied and that’s big trouble right there. You’ll need someone to make a deal – but you got a real high card though: young Cory. A big-city lawyer would eyeball the government for you, make an agreement. I don’t think our local guy would cut it, but he might know a name.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Molly, although the very idea terrified her. Once the government knew Cory was alive, they would hunt him down. And what would a deal even mean? The President with his lying speeches couldn’t be trusted and the squawking Dr Pfeiffer would be circling Cory like a vulture the instant he got wind of his existence. There were times when Molly thought it was all just too big and too complicated for the two of them to hold.

  Disappointed, John went on, ‘I get you don’t trust our President, but what about talking to the Governor?’ He clearly thought this was a great idea, and yes, Governor Rockefeller was liberal, on some things.

  But Gene said, ‘Rockefeller’s in bed with the war.’

  ‘You know, a heck of a lot of good people are.’ John was going red again.

  Gene said, ‘Well, perhaps there’s someone we could trust a bit more.’

  ‘Senator Fruitcake? That commie—’

  Gene and John sparred for a bit, until Cory appeared in his pyjamas. His ears were still down, but he held out his book and asked, ‘Story-please Mom.’

  Cory and Molly curled up together in the cubbyhole and she read him his story until he said, ‘Everyone mad-mad-mad with Cory. Hor-ri-ble murder-dead pig you met. Horrible-horrible.’

  She stroked his head. ‘I’m not mad at you; we just have to figure it all out, Cory-monster.’

  That night, Gene disappeared into John’s workshop and shut the door. After an hour Molly washed and went to bed, but she was still awake when Gene turned up.

  All he said was, ‘It’ll be fine.’

  Lured by coffee, she came down to breakfast to find a cheery Cory humming and playing with six brown eggs.

  ‘Cory and I went to talk to the hens,’ said Eva, with her crooked smile.

  Cory picked up an
egg and held it to his temple. ‘Fresh-fresh-fresh. Not a friend-living-thing. No feelings. Mom-Dad-please-have-chickens? In yard. Cory help feed-them clean-them no-trouble help every day promise. Cluck cluck cluck eat garbage.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Molly said. Eggs, she thought. Okay, I can do lots with eggs. She’d get real farm ones, where she could show him the damn chickens dancing the polka if she had to.

  They ate pancakes and she tried not to think of home-cured bacon. When his plate was clean, John cleared his throat. ‘Cory can help me with some chores. Then we might go down to the river. I’ll show Cory where I taught his dad to fish.’

  ‘Wear the hood up and hide if anyone comes,’ Molly said at once.

  Cory looked at her. ‘Fuss-fuss. Love-you-Mom,’ and he kissed her. The touch from the inner tentacles left a faint damp breath.

  After they were gone, Gene helped chop wood and talked to his mom about whether any of the books might be valuable while Molly did kitchen stuff and read cook books so old they were tied together with string, just like in her mother’s house. When she had lived in the city, houses full of other people and their smells and noise stood shoulder to shoulder like trees in a crowded wood. Gene had grown up a stiff walk from the nearest family and a wait in the rain or the wind or the snow at the end of the road for the yellow school bus.

  It was late afternoon by the time the oldest and youngest came back with five brown trout in the creel. Gene and Molly admired the catch in the golden sun.

  ‘Cory slipped into the water,’ said John. ‘He stayed down there for ten minutes – I thought all the fish would vanish. Our very own water creature. When he came up, he’d caught one: lying there in the water on top of his hands, not even trying to get away. Guess he hexed it or something.’

  ‘Fish cold boring thoughts, not feelings,’ said Cory, confident. ‘O-kay to eat.’