by Zena Uzep
“Hi, Dad,” Scott called out as he dumped his heavy book-laden backpack on the formica kitchen counter. “You’re home early. What are you cooking? It smells good.”
Paul smiled at his son as he continued stirring the contents in the large pot on the stove. “It does smell good, doesn’t it?”
“What is it?” the boy inquired again.
“BLT soup.”
The cheerful smile disappeared from Scott’s face. “BLT soup?” he repeated. “That doesn’t sound good. Where did you pick this recipe up?”
“What it sounds like and what it tastes like are two different things. Our landlady, Mrs. Zilkeman, gave it to me,” Starman replied as he scooped equal servings with a ladle into two bowls on the counter beside the stove.
The teenager took one of them and sat down opposite his father.
Paul watched as his son reluctantly dipped his spoon into the steaming, off white-colored concoction and proceeded to taste it. “Well?”
A smile quickly returned to the boy’s face. “You’re right, Dad,” he said as he hastily swallowed another spoonful. “It tastes much better than it sounds.”
“Slow down,” Forrester said with a chuckle, happy his cooking experiment succeeded. “There’s more in the pot if you want.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s a money tree?”
Startled by the unexpected question, the teen tried not to choke on the mouthful of soup. “There’s no such thing. Where did you hear about it?”
Starman’s face twisted with confusion. “Then I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“One of the women at the newspaper office approached me today. She said she was taking up a collection for Sheila’s bridal shower. She asked me if I would like to donate. She told me they’re going to give her a money tree.”
“What did you say?” Scott asked with concern.
“I said I didn’t have anything to donate.”
The boy breathed a sigh of relief. “Good answer.”
Paul had only been on Earth for three months. Scott never knew when or if his father would say something that would attract undue attention. His naivety was a constant obstacle to his “blending in.” There was still so much he had to learn about human culture.
“Thank you,” Starman replied with that child-like grin. “But we still don’t know what this money tree is. I don’t want to, as you say, stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Relax. We’ve got it covered this time. I know what kind of tree this is.”
Paul’s eyes widened and his brows shot up. “You do?” He waited for his son to explain.
“Yeah. I saw my foster mom make one once. See, everyone gives some money; it can be two or three dollars or more. Whatever you want. Then whoever is making the tree gets this small branch from a bush and mounts it to a wooden base. Eileen went through nearly the whole woods in back of town looking for just the right branch. Then she took each bill and folded them zig-zag.” Scott saw that confused look on his father’s face again. “That’s back and forth like this,” he said taking a napkin and showing him. “Anyway, you fold ‘em up real small. Then you take a piece of ribbon and tie the bills to the ends of the branch. And you spread it out like this,” he demonstrated as he held the napkin pinched between his thumb and forefinger, “so it looks like a blossom.”
“Humans are very creative,” the celestial navigator replied. “So you think I should donate some money?”
“I would, unless you want people looking at you.” The teen resumed eating. “I hope you make this again,” he said as he polished off the last of his second helping.
“Scott?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Why do they call it a bridal shower? Is it going to rain on her?”
Oh brother,the boy sighed. “I guess it’s called a shower because the bride-to-be gets showered with gifts.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else before I start my homework?”
“No,” Starman answered with a smile. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
Good.
“Scott?”
Oh, no. Now what?“Yeah, Dad?”
“Thank you for explaining. I’m glad I have you to help me.”
Scott looked at his father thoughtfully for a moment, then replied, “I’m glad, too.”
Written by Zena Uzep. If you have any comments on this story please E-mail them.