I thought Ken Holsinger was the first normal sounding name I’d heard since I got there, but there was nothing normal about it. He was six-two and half Japanese. His name was Kenichi. His mother was a World War II bride and his father was an Austrian-American. Kate’s exotic good looks with her Romani mother were a blend of cultures and races.Grandpa Ken wanted to talk about books and music. What did I read? What did I listen to? He seemed particularly fascinated when I told him about listening to music when I paint and Kate had to relate the story of me painting the mural and how she’d watched me for hours. I had no idea how long she had watched me. She carefully told the story, though, without mentioning the actual subject of the mural. I don’t think she fooled her mother.By midafternoon, we were visiting neighbors and I’d been introduced to pretty much everyone who lived in the commune and to most of the farm animals. Kate’s normal wear of bib overalls and a T-shirt pretty much. No luck there. More tickles arose from his right knee, and then from his left big toe. It was driving him crazy. “It’s awake.” The voice reinforced the idea that he was going crazy. It was both inside his head and somehow coming from outside at the same time. “We should fly.” The second voice was different, and more distinct. It sounded quite feminine, with a musical quality. “No, it’s nice,” a third, deeper, but still feminine voice said. “It’s big. It’s a boy.” “It’s nice,” the deeper voice countered, carrying a note of finality. “Who are you?” he tried to say, but it came out as nothing more than a groaning mumble. “It can hear us!” “Fly!” “No,” the deeper voice argued. Then it said, “Can you hear me?” How am I supposed to answer? he wondered, but to his surprise, he was able to say, “Yes.” “Will you try to catch us?” His brow furrowed – a little more progress. “Catch you? Who are you?” “Will you try to catch us? Tell me or we’ll go away.” “No, I won’t try to catch you,” he.
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