Summary: By Mike Resnick Read by Patrick Bazile Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s All stories by Mike Resnick All stories read by Patrick Bazile Rated 10 and up The Homecoming by Mike Resnick I don’t know which bothers me more, my lumbago or my arthritis. One day it’s one, one day it’s the other. They can cure cancer and transplant every damned organ in your body; you’d think they could find some way to get rid of aches and pains. Let me tell you, growing old isn’t for sissies. I remember that I was having a typical dream. Well, typical for me, anyway. I was climbing the four steps to my front porch, only when I got to the third step there were six more, so I climbed them and then there were ten more, and it went on and on. I’d probably still be climbing them if the creature hadn’t woke me up. It stood next to my bed, staring down at me. I blinked a couple of times, trying to focus my eyes, and stared back, sure this was just an extension of my dream. It was maybe six feet tall, its skin a glistening, almost metallic silver, with multi-faceted bright red eyes like an insect. Its ears were pointed and batlike, and moved independently of its head and each other. Its mouth jutted out a couple of inches like some kind of tube, and looked like it was only good for sucking fluids. Its arms were slender, with no hint of the muscles required to move them, and its fingers were thin and incredibly elongated. It was as weird a nightmare figure as I’d dreamed up in years. Finally it spoke, in a voice that sounded more like a set of chimes than anything else. “Hello, Dad,” it said. That’s when I knew I was awake. “So this is what you look like,” I growled, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and sitting up. “What the hell are you doing here?” “I’m glad to see you too,” he replied. “You didn’t answer my question,” I said, feeling around for my slippers. “I heard about Mom – not from you, of course – and I wanted to see her once more before the end.” “Can you see through those things?” I asked, indicating his eyes. “Better than you can.” Big surprise. Hell, everyone can see better than I can. “How did you get in here anyway?” I said as I got to my feet. The furnace was as old and tired as I was and there was a chill in the air, so I put on my robe. “You haven’t changed the front door’s code words since I left.” He looked around the room. “You haven’t painted the place either.” “The lock’s supposed to check your retinagram or read your DNA or something.” “It did. They haven’t changed.” I looked him up and down. “The hell they haven’t.” He seemed about to reply, then thought better of it. Finally he said, “How is she?” “She has her bad days and her worse days,” I answered. “She’s the old Julia maybe two or three times a week for a minute or two, but that’s all. She can still speak, and she still recognizes me.” I paused. “She won’t recognize you, of course, but nobody else you ever knew will either.” “How long has she been like this?” “Maybe a year.” “You should have told me,” he said. “Why?” I asked. “You gave up being her son and became whatever it is you are now.” “I’m still her son, and you had my contact information.” I stared at him. “Well, you’re not my son, not anymore.” “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he replied. Suddenly he sniffed the air. “It smells stale.” “Tired old houses are like tired old men,” I said. “They don’t function on all cylinders.” “You could move to a smaller, newer place.” “This house and me, we’ve grown old together. Not everyone wants to move to Alpha whatever-the-hell-it-is.” He looked around. “Where is she?” “In your old room,” I said. He turned, walked out into the hall. “Haven’t you replaced that thing yet?” he asked, indicating an old wall table. “It was scarred and wobbly when I still lived here.” “It’s just a table. It holds whatever I put on it. That’s all it has to do.” He looked up at the ceiling. “The paint’s peeling too.” “I’m too old to do it myself, and painters cost mon[...]
