I’ll never know how Ed Hastings found out I was coming home. I’m sure my brother wouldn’t tell the small-town rag editor on purpose, but the old coot probably was eavesdropping outside Arch’s office when he said he was coming to pick me up.
At any rate, the ancient editor of the Oak Creek Gazette is waiting when we roll up to my parents’ house that night. “Ed Hastings, Oak Creek Gazette,” he says, shoving a recorder in my face as if I haven’t known him since I was born. “Care to answer a few questions about your alleged fall from grace?”
“Now’s not the time, Ed,” my brother tells him, resting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. I just grunt and walk toward my parents’ house.
Undeterred, Ed shouts, “Our readers are going to want answers! Will Space Agency officials be coming to town for any alleged legal proceedings? What about your reported alimony payments to the estranged Mrs. Crawford?”
My father emerges from the house and the smile melts off his face at the sight of the reporter badgering me. “Ed, enough!” Dad doesn’t shout often. The sound of him raising his voice is as unusual to me as it is effective for Ed, who backs down the walk and disappears around the corner. Dad turns to me, a smile lighting his eyes. “Good to have you back, son.”
He shuffles us inside, where the aroma of his cooking wafts over me. It’s been ages since I’ve eaten something fresh and home cooked. All our meals in the space station were calibrated, dehydrated, and tasteless, and I haven’t been able to prepare anything since I got back. “Heather took all the cookware,” I tell him, a non sequitur that doesn’t faze him.
“Your mother told me all about it,” he says, handing me a chunk of cheese. I don’t typically like to eat dairy. Human bodies aren’t meant to digest the milk of other mammals. My research into lactose intolerance confirms this. But the sharp cheddar hits my tastebuds and I know whatever negative reaction I’ll experience is worth the cost of this.
I relax into a stool at the counter while Archer tells Dad about his latest video chat with our brother Fletcher. Fletch decided to hang out in France for awhile after filming the Tour de France. “He and Ma met up for some sort of wine tour,” Archer gushes. Nobody expects me to say much, so I don’t, settling into the platter of olives and cheeses. My sister Diana arrives and kisses my cheek.
Her physical affection catches me off guard, and I stiffen at her touch. I don’t particularly enjoy being touched, but I tolerate it from my family. Assessing my response to physical contact is on my list of research goals for someday.
“Hunter! Dude, I’m talking to you.” Diana throws an olive at me.
“Sorry. I was…I wasn’t paying attention.”
“We can tell,” she says, slugging down a gulp of white wine. “Anyway I was saying I’d love to get your input on my plant samples. When you get a chance.”
Diana runs the Houseplant Haven here in Oak Creek. Her back office is a greenhouse where she’s made it clear she conducts horticulture research, but won’t tell us the details of her experiments. I raise a brow at her, curious about this sudden invitation into her lair. “You want me to see what you’re working on?”
She shakes her head. “Nice try, bro. You’re not going into my lab. But I want to show you one plant. I have a theory about light and soil composition, and I think I read your colleague was studying something similar in the space station.”
Dad and Archer groan as Diana and I begin to discuss biology. My sister also has a PhD in biology, from Princeton, but never entered academia. She returned to Oak Creek soon after graduate school and opened the tiny shop, watering people’s philodendrons when they go on vacation and keeping her actual source of income a mystery from the rest of us.
Archer sets the table and tries to steer the conversation away from our research. “I was telling Hunter there’s no room here at the house because you and Ma are taking in stragglers,” he says as he folds napkins and places the white china plates. I try and fail to remember the last time I ate food from a real plate with real silverware.
“I don’t mind,” I say, “although I’m hopeful the movers can park my storage pod here until I’m able to purchase the property Archer identified for me.”
Just then, my mother bursts in the door. She brings with her a flurry of energy, always a whirlwind. “I’m home, my darlings,” she says, kissing everyone once, but pulling me into her tiny body and squeezing me like a tube of toothpaste. “Mmmm, Hunter, I’m so excited you’re coming in to work with me!”
“I don’t know yet, Ma.”
She waves her hand and tosses her suit jacket on the stool. “Nonsense. You’re coming in with me tomorrow. I’m meeting with potential investors.”
Diana and I stare at one another. I blink a few times and try to gather my thoughts about this announcement. “Since when does Oak Creek attract big-name corporate partners?”
Ma launches into an overview of her outreach this past year while I’ve been in space. She’s really been drawing a lot of philanthropy into the college, and attracting students who go on to earn prestigious fellowships. One of her recent grads won a Pulitzer Prize and another earned a Field Medal. I start allowing myself to think a stint teaching with my mother won’t be so pitiful after all. Ma has that affect on people—allows them to feel excited, even if they’re determined to wallow in discontent. Ma knows how to interact with people. It makes sense they’d want to give her money.
When Dad serves the roasted chicken and risotto, I focus on the tender meat, the rich gravy, and the texture of the delicious food. The whole experience of eating overwhelms me. My mother is telling my siblings how she hired a new writer to help her prepare to meet these big potential donors, but I tune her out as I focus on the herbs and pepper exploding in my mouth. I don’t feel concerned about the meeting my mother wants me to attend tomorrow.
I’m no stranger to corporate goals in funding research, and these sorts of meetings are nothing new for me after a decade of high level experiments. I savor the last grain of rice on my fork, closing my eyes to let the flavor linger on my tongue. “Garlic and sage,” I mutter, identifying these earthy flavors of home.
When I open my eyes, I see the wrinkled face of Ed Hastings staring at us through my parents’ kitchen window. I fly upward out of my seat, startling my sister. Ed snaps a picture with his giant camera as I stomp over toward the door.
“Hunter,” my father’s voice is stern. “Please don’t expose yourself to additional scrutiny.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and cracks open the window. “Ed,” he says, his voice calm and stern, as if he’s refereeing a fight amongst his children rather than addressing an old busybody he already told to leave. “I’m going to need you to leave my property. I’ll see you tomorrow at Tai Chi.”
Ed scowls again and snaps another picture through the window as he disappears into the Oak Creek twilight. I can only imagine what nonsense he will print.