Adopted Son (10 page)

“Mr. Johnston, you are here because you chose to reveal sensitive, compartmented government information to a group of foreigners. Now, did you or did you not sign a secrecy agreement when you joined the DIA?” Ray leaned in to the microphone to speak, but the Senator didn’t wait for an answer. “We are here today to examine the implications of this breach of security for the American people.”

Senator Walker raised his hand. “The chair recognizes the junior senator from Kansas,” said Blaines.

“Senator Blaines, I can’t believe that you would question the motives of man like Ray Johnston. Here is a man who worked...” Senator Walker paused a seconds while he flipped through his dossier, “twenty-one years for the intelligence community without a single blemish on his record. He did what he was told to do because he believed it to be in the best interest of the people of these United States. He attempted to break this story through normal channels, but he was rebuffed. So, he did the only thing that he could do. Senator, this man here is a real American. He’s the kind of person that we need more of in this country. Begging your pardon sir, but the old way of bureaucracy and rigidity are going the way of the dinosaur. It’s a mode of thinking that has hurt us in the past and will hurt us again in the future if we allow it. Whatever this virus is, we need to stop it and stop it quickly. Waiting around for vital information to get cleared for release is a bad strategy. Mr. Johnston here has given us months, probably years, more warning than we would have had if you were running Project Beachcomber Senator. I believe that Ray Johnston’s actions may have saved the entire human race. How dare you accuse him of breaching his secrecy agreement? Hell, we should give him a medal!”

With that, a roar erupted in the crowd. Many of the people in the back began clapping and shouting at Senator Walker’s remarks. Some even stood up. Senator Blaines banged his gavel, “Order, Order,” he said, but to no avail, the people had spoken. Ray concentrated on suppressing his smile. By the time that Blaines had gotten the crowd calmed down enough to continue the testimony, Ray knew that his actions would be vindicated. Although he was no longer a company man, he still had the best interests of the American people in his heart. He knew that his actions in Geneva two weeks ago would unite the world against this threat. Part of him, only a small part mind you, was beginning to believe Senator Walker’s grandiose statement that he, Ray Johnston, had single-handedly saved the human race.

The night of the President’s announcement. A lonely road outside of Tyler, TX

Tom Miller is driving down a long, straight country road. The old, red pickup rattles and groans as he presses the accelerator. The truck wasn’t built for going fast like this. It rattled to the point where you would believe that it would fall to pieces any second now. Tom was used to it of course, and so he didn’t even notice. The night was dark. There was almost a new moon, and the sky was a flat black. You could really see the stars out here in the country, more points of light than those who have grown up in the city would believe. Tom was also used to the stars though, and he noticed them less than the rattling of the old truck. The radio was playing. There weren’t many stations out here, and even less if you didn’t like country or oldies. “...I fell into a burning ring of fire....” Tom wasn’t listening to the radio. He didn’t even really know that it was on. He was concentrated on his thoughts. “...I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher...”

“An alien.” That’s all that was going on in Tom’s mind. “An alien.” There wasn’t a lot more to say was there? It was all explained, and despite the President’s promises and explanations, he knew what was going on. Tom wasn’t a scientific man, but he was bright enough to put together logical facts. In his mind, all the pieces had fallen into place. Some aliens somewhere had decided to take over the planet, and use our women as surrogate wombs for their next generation of invaders. He was a jumble of thoughts. It was so hard to believe wasn’t it? If it hadn’t come directly from the President, in a national news conference, he wouldn’t have bought a word of it. It was too weird, too strange. This sort of stuff didn’t happen in real life. It was too much to take.

Those damn aliens, how could they do this? How could they treat his wife like that, treat him like that? He felt dirty and violated. For the last year he had wracked his brain with guilt because somehow he was deficient, somehow his bad genes had ruined his son. But it wasn’t him after all was it? It had been some sort of trick, some sort of attack. Like those cuckoo birds that hid their eggs in other birds’ nests, expecting them to sacrifice their legitimate children feeding this intruder. What was he supposed to do about his son? “My son,” Tom thought, “it isn’t my son at all, it’s some parasite, some invader. I don’t have a son.” How dare those aliens try to trick him into raising their progeny. How dare they trick him into working his hands raw in the fields to earn money to feed the little monster. How dare they trick him into loving the little beast. Yes, he had loved little James. He didn’t want to at first, but he did. He had dealt with all those feelings of failure and revulsion. He had dealt with all those feelings of inadequacy in producing a deformed baby. All this time he had been thinking that it had been his fault, that he had somehow been to blame for whatever accident had caused James’ HS. But now, only after he had spent countless nights agonizing over what went wrong, and trying to find the courage to deal with the problems and be a good father because James needed him, only now does he find out that it’s all a big scam. A big joke at his expense.

He drove on through the night down the straight country road. Past the farms that were filling with crops, past the sleeping longhorns and barbed wire fences. He didn’t know where he was going at first, he just knew he needed to get out of there. He needed to remove himself from the situation and think things out. He didn’t really know what he was going to do. He couldn’t go to his friends. He knew them; they’d accuse him of being some sort of traitor to the human race for harboring that little freak for so long. He couldn’t go to the authorities; what would they do? He wanted to drive it back to the hospital and drop it off, ‘Return to Sender;’ but that didn’t seem to be a possibility. He found himself heading south, unconsciously driving towards his parents’ farm. It was only when he was approaching the exit on the highway did he realize that’s where he had been headed all along. “Dad will know what to say,” thought Tom. Tom’s father had been a farmer for so long now. He was in his sixties and he still did all the work out there. Tom’s Mom had died a few years ago, and Tom had asked his father to move up to Tyler, but he refused. He was an independent man, he was a strong and stubborn, he was a wise man. If anyone knew what to do it would be Dad. As Tom drove up the driveway that led to the farmhouse, he could see the light was on in the kitchen. It was late and Dad was usually asleep by this time, but he was up. Tom instinctively knew that this was a subtle invitation. Maybe he saw the President’s speech, maybe Lorraine had called him after Tom had left so abruptly, but however he knew, he knew that he would be needed that night. Tom was immediately uplifted by that kitchen light.

Tom was already starting to cheer up as he stopped the car. If anyone could make it better it would be Dad. Tom started to the front door, but changed his mind when he saw how dark the living room was. He rounded the side of the house to the old screen door that led directly to the kitchen. As he approached, he could see the silhouette of his father standing in the doorway. He climbed up the three peeling green steps as Dad opened the door and welcomed him inside.

“I had a feeling that you’d stop by tonight. I’ve put on some coffee.” He stepped aside and Tom came in. As he did, the father put his callused hand on Tom’s shoulder. It was comforting. The elder Miller was not an affectionate person by nature, and this gesture was the equivalent of a big hug to Tom.

“Did Lorraine call you? Is she looking for me?” Tom said, as he sat down on the wooden kitchen chair. He sat in the same chair that he ate dinner at as a child. It was a bit more rickety now, but it still felt natural and normal. Tom’s father didn’t answer right away. He turned to the counter and poured some coffee out of an old-style, chrome percolator. He had been given a drip-machine as a gift years before, but it was still in a box in the closet. Percolators made a better brew. Once the coffee was poured, Tom’s father turned and walked to the table with a cup in each hand. He placed them on the table and sat down. “Lorraine did call, she’s worried about you. But I knew that you were coming even before that.”

“You saw the President’s speech? You know about the aliens?” said Tom.

“I did. It interrupted the ball game. What choice did I have?” He chuckled. “You must be pretty torn up inside right now, I assumed that you’d come over here. I couldn’t imagine you staying at home tonight. You always did run when things get tough. That’s why you were a running back in high school.” He lit up a cigarette.

“I didn’t know what to do Dad. It’s not my kid. It’s some kind of alien monster. I’ve been tricked.”

“What difference does that make?”

“What the hell are you talking about? ‘What difference does that make?’ ‘What difference does that make?’ That thing isn’t a baby, it’s a monster. It’s not my kid, it’s some kind of alien-virus kid, it’s... it’s... I don’t know what it is.” Tom put his head down on the table.

“What difference does that make?” repeated the father calmly. He sat back in his chair and took a sip of coffee, black of course.

Tom knew that when his Dad repeated the same thing over and over again, he was trying to get some point across. That was his way. He didn’t just come out and say what he meant, he made you figure it out for yourself. Tom looked up from the table, his head still partially covered with his hands. “What are you trying to say Dad, I don’t have time for your games. You know what difference it makes.”

Tom’s father got up and walked to the counter, and put his hand on a photo album. With his back still to his son, he said, “I promised your mother that I’d never show you this, but I think that the situation has gotten to the point where this’ll do more help than harm.” He picked up the album and brought it over to the table. Tom sat back up as his father handed him the album. “This is something your mother put together about the time that you were born. I didn’t have nothing to do with it of course, being as I’m not into that sentimental stuff, but she wanted to have some record.” The cover to the volume said “Welcome Tom Miller” in his mother’s handwriting on lavender paper with the edge trimmed to look a bit like lace. He flipped through the pages. There were some photos of his parents bringing Tom home for the first time. There was a shot of Mom getting out of the family’s old, black Plymouth carrying a sack of blankets that could only be little Tom. There was another shot of the proud parents standing in front of the door to the farmhouse. It was winter in the picture and everyone was bundled up. More pictures inside of first birthdays, Tom in the bathtub, Tom crawling on the floor, Tom’s face covered in food, that sort of thing.

“Why didn’t Mom ever show this to me before? I’ve never seen these pictures,” said Tom.

“Your mother was a sentimental woman, she wanted to keep a record for herself, she needed it for her peace of mind. She couldn’t show it to you of course, because she didn’t want you to find out her secret. So she hid all the stuff like this. I got a whole box of pictures and crap. After you got married and moved out, she looked through that box almost every night.” He took another puff on his cigarette and coughed a few times.

“What secret, what didn’t she want me to know?”

“Keep looking,” said Tom’s father. Tom kept flipping through the album. The front half was filled with pictures, but the back half was filled with records. There were pages with Tom’s immunization records, an old crayon drawing of a cow, Tom’s birth certificate. “I don’t see what I’m supposed to find in here...” Tom dropped off as he saw the document. It was an adoption record. There it was, in clear type, notarized by some long-retired Texas official. Tom had been adopted by the Millers.

“I’m adopted?”

“That’s what it looks like, don’t it?” replied the elder Miller. “Your momma never wanted you to find out. She thought that you’d go away, off on some hot-headed quest to find your birth mother. Seeing how you turned out, she was probably right.”

“Jesus Dad!” Tom slammed the book down on the table angrily and stood up. “What the hell ya spring this on me now?” He paced around the kitchen frantically. “I got my own problems to deal with. I came to you for help, now I got two problems to deal with.”

Tom’s father was unfazed by the display of emotion. He knew that Tom had a temper, he took after his old man. The elder Miller had learned how to deal with Tom a long time ago. “No, you got the same problem to deal with, you’re just on the other side. See, I’ve given you the answer. You’re just too thick-headed to get it just yet. But think about it. It’ll come to you.”

“I don’t have time for your puzzles again.” He sat back down and opened the book once more. Incredulously looking at the birth certificate, scanning for some hope, some sign that it was a fake, some kind of a joke.

Tom’s father leaned forward across the table. Tom could smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath. “You see Tom, you ain’t my son. You ain’t from my belly. You don’t have none of my ‘genes’ or whatever. But that don’t mean nothing does it? No, it don’t, and why’s that? Cause I raised you, that’s why. I made you my son. Why the hell do you think you farm corn? It is because of some daddy somewhere that you’ve never seen? Hell no. It’s because of me. That’s what’s important.” He sat back in his chair.

Tom was silent. His father continued. “You farm corn right? Whose corn is that out there in your field?”

“That’s my corn,” Tom said hesitantly.

“But that corn ain’t got none of your ‘genes.’” When he said the word ‘genes’ he always slurred it and dragged the sound out, as if in contempt for science. “But who made that corn what it is? You did. Whose sweat and blood go into that corn? Yours do. Who does that corn belong to? You. And damn if you won’t take a shotgun and defend that field against anyone who would come and take your corn away. So, whose that corn’s Daddy?”