Adopted Son Read online

  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?”

  “But that corn ain’t some alien freak.”

  “Where that boy comes from don’t mean nothing. What if your real mommy came from Israel? That don’t make you Jewish. My kin came here from Ireland. That’s don’t make me Irish. We’re Texans boy. We’re Texans from birth and by God’s will. That’s the important part. Who the hell cares what some scientist says about the boys ‘genes.’ That boy is yours and by God he’s a Texan too. You got a responsibility to raise him.”

  “Even if he’s a freak?”

  “Especially cause he’s a freak. Who the hell do you think is going to do that job if you don’t? The government?” He said the word ‘government’ with the same dismissive sneer as he said the word ‘genes.’ He moved in close once again. “Look here. I ain’t gonna be around forever you know. Somebody is going
to have to take over this here field. Somebody with the Miller name. I am not about to let this place go to the corporations. Sure, it ain’t ideal and all, but that boy is gonna have to learn to farm, and you’re the guy who’s gonna have to teach him. A year from now and those liberals will all be saying that kid ain’t no alien, he’s an ‘Alien-American.’” He chuckled. “You raise him right and he ain’t gonna be no alien no more than I go around collecting shamrocks. He’s gonna grow up to be a Texan, just like his old man. Hell boy, you can’t skip out on your responsibilities just cause you don’t like the way things turned out. I raised you better than that.” The old man leaned back in his chair and took another sip of coffee. The chair creaked.

  Tom sighed. He ran his hand over the plastic sheeting that held his adoption certificate. He felt better. The old man was right. It didn’t matter where that kid came from. He was still sort of Tom’s kid. Tom did teach him how to catch and all. And, Tom supposed, Lorraine had gotten attached to the little thing. It wouldn’t be right to just walk out. That kid needed raising. He had already dealt with the whole HS thing. He already knew that he could grow attached to someone who wasn’t perfect, someone who didn’t look like him. This was just one more step down that road. If he kept thinking that Jim was adopted, he knew that he could make a good father. He wanted to do right by Lorraine. He wanted to make his father proud. He didn’t want to let down the people that were counting on him the most.

  Tom didn’t even wait to finish his coffee. He had to get back to his farm. Lorraine and Jim would be worried about him.

  Article in the Journal of Biochemical Virology, published three months after the President’s announcement

  Morphology of Handel’s Syndrome Virus Methyl-Transferase 1 (HSLVM1), and HSLV Promoter Sequences

  Dr. Heinrich Mensen*, Dr. Nancy Collins*, Dr. James Bluefeld*, Dr. Hong Lee†, Dr. Wilma Sommers†

  *Handel’s Syndrome Research Laboratory, National Institutes of Health, Bethesda MD.

  †Department of Virology, the Johns-Hopkins University, Baltimore MD

  ABSTRACT: Based on its large genome, Handels’ Syndrome Virus (HLSV) may represent a new class of DNA viruses. While most known viruses encode between 5 and 250 genes in their genome, HSLV contains significantly more open reading frames (ORFs). Based on the amount of genetic material present, it is estimated that there are up to 500 unique ORFs in the HSLV genome. It is possible however, that much of this material may turn out to be so-called ‘junk’ DNA that is not expressed. The first gene to be isolated from HSLV is Handel’s Syndrome methyl-transferase 1 (HSLVM1). This DNAse seems to have similar morphology to other known methyl transferases in the human genome. HSLVM1 functions on a specific, highly-conserved DNA sequence in the human genome known to be associated with gene promoter binding sites. It is thought that HSLVM1 functions by irreversibly methylating promoters thereby stopping the human gene from being expressed. DNA probes have shown that the HSLV genome contains sequences almost identical to the human promoter sequences bound by HSLVM1. However, the HSLVLM1 does not attack promoter sequences in HSLV due to the presence of a highly conserved sequence that appears directly before the HSLV promoter sequences. This sequence seems to inhibit HSLVLM1 activity against promoter sequences in the viral genome.

  “Live Talk! with Bill Garcia,” broadcast nine days after Ray Johnston’s testimony before Congress.

  “...Available wherever quality products are sold.”

  Three seconds of black screen.

  Bill: And we’re back with ‘Live Talk!’ I’m Bill Garcia. We’re sitting here today with whistleblower and alien investigator Ray Johnston. Now Ray, you’ve been telling us all about this so-called ‘alien plague but what everyone wants to know is what made you come forward. Isn’t keeping secrets number one priority with your people?

  Ray: Well, Bill. Something needs to happen and something needs to happen soon. I had tried all of the usual channels and I was getting nowhere. What else could I do?

  Bill: That must have been hard for you. You spent your entire life not talking to people.

  Ray: That’s true Bill, but let me tell you, the people working in the intelligence community today aren’t the same ones that I knew when I started 30 years ago. Back then, during the Cold War, we had a purpose, a raison d’être. The men were motivated by a vital mission. Today’s agents are just bureaucrats. They can’t do anything right. The same goes for the military.

  Bill: So it was incompetence that motivated you?

  Ray: I came forward because I knew the bean counters who run the procedure for distributing declassified materials, and because I knew that beating your way through bureaucracy is like sucking molasses through a straw. I felt that the only way to get the information to the people in time was to take drastic action. I’d already wasted a whole year trying to go through the system legally.

  Bill: That was quite a risk, do you think it was worth it?

  Ray: Of course it was worth it. Now the scientists can get a handle on this problem. I’ve talked to some of the leaders in this field. They think that the disease can be stopped. But, it’s going to take time. Time we may not have. Time we certainly wouldn’t have had if I kept quiet on information of this importance. We had already isolated the virus for God’s sake! A virus that is turning our kids into monsters, and the government wanted to keep it quiet until some pen pusher in Washington who doesn’t know a virus from a jellybean could ‘review the data’ and put the proper spin on it. Hell yeah it was worth throwing away my career. This thing is bigger than me.

  Bill: The Administration has come out strongly against you, but there has been a lot of public support for your decision. The military has withdrawn their attempt to prosecute you. You’ve been honorably discharged from your duties. The press is calling you quote, “The only ‘Real American’ in the federal government.”

  Ray: hmm.

  Bill: So what are your thoughts on what to do with these HS kids? Should we round them up and shoot them?

  Ray: I’m not a sociologist. I don’t know how those kids are going to react when they grow older or how society should treat them. I don’t know what the solution is. But I’ll tell you this; the longer we wait, the more drastic our solution is going to have to be. We can’t sit around hoping things turn out ok. The answers must come and they must come quickly, or society as we know it is going to be in serious trouble.

  Bill: You know the President is still denying that the virus is extraterrestrial.

  Ray: I can’t control what the President says. The evidence is out there for people to judge themselves. I leave it to the scientists.

  Bill: Any thoughts on the future? You can’t go back to spying.

  Ray: You know, I haven’t really thought about it. My entire life I assumed that I’d be retiring on a government pension. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have some speaking arrangements scheduled for the next few weeks, but beyond that, who knows?

  Bill: Rumor has it that there’s grassroots campaign gearing up to have you run for Senator Blaine’s seat in Congress. Any truth to those rumors?

  Ray: I’ve got no desire to run for office. I see myself as more of a motivator, someone who works behind the scenes. Congress has gotten fat and weak over the years. They need some new blood. People who are willing to go out on a limb and actually do something. What we don’t need are bureaucrats who sit around all day extorting money from lobbyists and filibustering each other. Government needs to work, not discuss. We need people of action to lead this nation.

  Bill:Some ‘Real Americans’ huh?

  Ray:hmm.

  Bill: We’ve got to go to a commercial break now, we’ll be back with your calls for government whistleblower Ray Johnston on ‘Live Talk!

  Fade to black.

  Six months after the President’s announcement. Holy Trinity Orphanage, Bronx, NY

  The living room is dark at this time of night. Everyone is asleep. Well, almost everyone. It is still possible to maneuver y
our way through the maze of threadbare furniture and soiled toys by the light coming in the window from the street lamps outside. This is exactly what Sister Mary Helen is doing. Rain is falling against the windowpanes this evening. The sound is enough to blot out the noise of distance sirens and car horns that can keep the children awake at night. However, it is not loud enough to keep out the sound of a knock against the front door. The dreaded knock. It was later in the evening than most, the knocker was lucky that Sister Mary Helen was up. She usually was fast asleep at this hour. Something had kept her awake, something had made her decide to boil some warm milk before bedtime. The knocker was lucky that she was awake, or, more to the point, the child was lucky that Sister Mary Helen was awake. That was what the knock was all about wasn’t it? It was safe to assume that it wasn’t someone coming round to sell encyclopedias. This was another case of an unwanted baby being abandoned on the steps of the orphanage. These cases had been growing in regularity of late. “Perhaps...,” thought Sister Mary Helen as she walked to the door, “...we should consider hiring a night watchman. For practicality.” Mary Helen began twisting open the bolts on the outer door. She dismissed her previous thoughts about the night watchman. She knew that everything happened for a reason, and that God wouldn’t let these children down. She trusted her instincts. She knew that when the next instance occurred, God would once again revive her insomnia so that she could be there for the child.