Attention Earthlings: Family Matters
Barry was halfway through explaining to Solin why humans generally didn’t levitate their cereal when the taxi pulled up outside. The wiry old man who stepped out wore a crisp seersucker suit and a straw boater hat tilted at a jaunty angle. Uncle Ben had arrived.
“I told you I was comin’,” Ben announced, paying the driver with a crisp bill and a firm handshake. “Couldn’t wait another minute to meet my great-nephew.”
Barry’s stomach did a little flip. He’d warned the household, but warnings only went so far when your wives were… not exactly standard issue.
Verity and Bettie appeared on the porch in perfect human guise—sundresses, soft smiles, hair pinned just so. Still, the clues were there if you knew where to look. Verity’s eyes caught the light a fraction too brightly, like polished amethyst. Bettie moved with that effortless, liquid grace that made the wooden steps seem to bow in respect.
“And who are these lovely ladies?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow.
“My wives,” Barry said, deciding honesty was the only play he had left.
Ben’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Wives. Plural.”
Solin toddled out—except “toddled” wasn’t quite right. The baby was the size of a 10 year-old, Solin moved with unsettling confidence, his eyes far too knowing. He studied Uncle Ben for three full seconds, then offered a solemn little wave.
Ben crouched, knees cracking. “Well, ain’t you somethin’ else.”
The visit started tense.
Ben was old-school. One wife was plenty. Two wives who called Barry “our husband” in perfect unison made the old man’s moral compass spin like a weathervane in a hurricane. He kept shooting Barry looks that said we’re gonna talk later, boy.
Then Bettie brought out the food.
Fried chicken with a crust that could make a grown man weep. Collard greens simmered with ham hock. Cornbread so light it practically floated. Sweet potato pie with a whisper of nutmeg. By the second helping, Uncle Ben’s disapproval had melted into happy, butter-soaked sighs.
“Lord have mercy,” he muttered, patting his stomach. “If this is what polygamy gets you, I can see the temptation.”
Barry nearly choked on his sweet tea.
Later, as Ben prepared to leave, he pulled Barry into a tight hug. The old man smelled like bay rum and pipe tobacco.
“Grandpa sowed a lot of wild oats back in his day,” Ben said with a conspiratorial wink. “I guess you come by it naturally.” He stepped back and looked Barry up and down, then glanced approvingly at Verity and Bettie. “He ain’t soft around the edges anymore. You ladies keeping him in shape?”
Bettie beamed. Verity gave a small, satisfied smile that definitely contained galaxies.
Ben left in another taxi, waving until the car disappeared around the corner.
Three weeks later
The delivery truck took up most of the driveway. Four burly movers wrestled an enormous four-poster mahogany bed off the truck. The wood was dark, richly carved with intricate vines, stars, and what looked suspiciously like constellations that didn’t quite match Earth’s.
“It’s too big for my room,” Barry said, staring.
Dale, leaning against the porch rail with a soda, snorted. “Is that a bed or a parade ground? You could land a small aircraft on that thing.”
While Barry and Dale discussed storage options—maybe the barn, maybe knocking out a wall, ha ha—there came a tremendous crash from inside the house.
Barry sprinted in.
Bettie and Verity stood in a cloud of dust, cheerfully holding sledgehammers. A non-load-bearing wall between the master bedroom and the guest room was now a pile of rubble. Sunlight streamed through the new opening.
“Plenty of room now, husband,” Verity said sweetly, brushing plaster from her hair.
Bettie nodded. “Told you we’d make it work.”
The movers, clearly deciding this was above their pay grade, handed Barry a small wooden box with a brass plate that read simply: Solin.
Barry opened it.
Inside lay a perfectly fitted tiny four-poster bed—same mahogany, same carvings—scaled exactly for his extraordinary son. A small note in elegant handwriting (not human) rested on the pillow:
For when he outgrows the crib. — With love, Grandpa’s legacy
Solin appeared at Barry’s side, looked at the miniature bed, then up at his father with a slow, mischievous grin that was 100% Verity and 100% trouble.
Barry sighed, smiling despite himself.
“Welcome to the family, kid.”
Comments
Post a Comment