of us can pronounce,” Sloane replied, and they were at the door.
I have a niece your age, Bert had said to her once. Haven’t seen her in years.
She had a clear memory of Bert getting out of his Honda Accord outside her house wearing an ill-fitting suit. Gray slacks, black shoes, a blue tie. His hair short but not too short, neither blond nor brown exactly, his eyes some middling shade of hazel. He had been so regular-looking that she could barely describe him after he left. The only thing that had been distinct about him was that one of his eyes watered, and he had dabbed at it with a folded handkerchief every few minutes.
Evan Kowalczyk of Genetrix had a handkerchief pressed to his eye when he opened his door.
“Can I help you?” he said, and Sloane’s throat tightened. She couldn’t speak. His voice was the same, just a little monotone.
“Sorry to bother you,” Esther said, jabbing Sloane hard in the side with her elbow.
“Oh! Yeah.” Sloane cleared her throat. “I’m . . . your wife’s sister’s daughter. Uh—your niece. Shauna.”
“Shauna.” He scratched behind one ear with one hand while stuffing his handkerchief in his pocket with the other. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Since you were maybe eleven.”
“Twelve, I think,” Sloane said, because it felt natural. “I was just visiting the city. Looking at schools. Grad schools. Esther is helping me decide. And I remembered that you lived here. So—”
“So we’re just stopping by for a visit,” Esther said. “If you’re not busy.”
Evan was quiet for a moment, then said, “I have time for a cup of coffee, if you’d like.”
“Perfect!” Esther smiled.
“Yes,” Sloane said. “Coffee. Sounds good.”
Esther gave her a look that said, as clearly as if she’d spoken the words out loud, Why are you acting like a robot?
He stepped away from the door, letting them inside. The foyer was cramped, only large enough to accommodate all three of them if they huddled together. They followed the creak of Bert’s—no, Evan’s—footsteps across the dark wood floor and into the living room. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and a record spun on a nearby turntable: the strumming guitar and the high, tight voice of Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.”
Sloane remembered getting into Bert’s beige Honda Accord, the kind with the headlights that popped up out of the hood of the car when you turned them on, so he could drive her to the training facility to meet the other Chosen Ones. She had asked about music, and he had directed her to the glove compartment, where three Neil Young CDs, two Neil Diamonds, and a Phil Collins awaited her. Could you be a more boring white dude? she had asked him.
She looked at Esther, whose face had gone slack, staring at the turning record.
“Not sure where you got your height,” Evan said to her, frowning.
“Neither are we,” Sloane said. She was straining to remember something, anything, about Bert’s sister-in-law, her supposed mother. “Some have suggested a milkman’s-baby situation, but . . .”
“But you’ve got your dad’s eyes,” Evan supplied. “I’ll get the coffee.”
Sloane had never been more grateful for having blue eyes in her entire life. She suppressed a hysterical giggle and turned toward the bookcase that stood next to the fireplace. The top shelf was packed with old novels: Moby Dick, White Fang, The Sound and the Fury, Catcher in the Rye. Like the entire syllabus for an Intro to American Literature class. Next to them was For the Living to the Dead with Lee on the spine. When she slipped it out to see the cover, she read the name Harper Lee.
The next shelf down was even more interesting. Monsters and Madness in Russian Folklore. Mythical Objects of Ancient Greece and Rome. The Ark of the Covenant: Fact or Fiction?
“Were you studying to be an archaeologist?” Sloane called out to the kitchen, where the coffee machine was groaning.
“No,” Evan called back. “Just a hobby. Lost its charm when magic became a reality.”
“Why?” Sloane turned to face him as he came back into the living room, her hand still hovering over the Russian folklore text.
“No mystery left in anything, I suppose,” Evan said. He was carrying the coffeepot in one hand and three mugs, his fingers through the handles, with the other. He set all of them down on the coffee table on top of a book about castles, its dust jacket marked with rings from old cups.