"But, Tom, Green Lawn Park, every Sunday, the flowers and..." LaFarge had to sit down. The boy came and stood before him and took his hand. The old man felt of the fingers, warm and firm. "You‘re really here, it‘s not a dream?"
"You do want me to be here, don‘t you?" The boy seemed worried.
"Yes, yes, Tom!"
"Then why ask questions? Accept me!"
"But your mother; the shock..."
"Don‘t worry about her. During the night I sang to both of you, and you‘ll accept me more because of it, especially her. I know what the shock is. Wait till she comes, you’ll see." He laughed, shaking his head of coppery, curled hair. His eyes were very blue and clear.
"Good morning Lafe, Tom." Mother came from the bedroom, putting her hair up into a bun. "Isn‘t it a fine day?"
Tom turned to laugh in his father‘s face. "You see?"
They ate a very good lunch, all three of them, in the shade behind the house. Mrs. LaFarge had found an old bottle of sunflower wine she had put away, and they all had a drink of that. Mr. LaFarge had never seen his wife‘s face so bright. If there was any doubt in her mind about Tom, she didn‘t voice it. It was a completely natural thing to her. And it was also becoming natural to LaFarge himself.
While Mother cleared the dishes, LaFarge leaned toward his son and said confidentially, "How old are you now, Son?"
"Don‘t you know, Father? Fourteen, of course."
"Who are you, really? You can’t be Tom, but you are someone. Who?"
"Don‘t." Startled, the boy put his hands to his face.
"You can tell me," said the old man. "I’ll understand. You‘re a Martian, aren‘t you? I’ve heard tales of the Martians; nothing definite. Stories about how rare Martians are and when they come among us they come to Earth Men. There’s something about you-you‘re Tom and yet you’re not."