The Demigod Interviews: Sean Andrews
The Demigod Interviews: Sean Andrews
Short Stories from the world of Olisbeth Mason
By
Mandy Oviatt
Copyright 2014 Mandy Oviatt
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Introduction to the Demigod Interviews by Olisbeth Mason.
Sometime after discovering my identity, and after taking an interesting adventure with Phoebe and her long-time friend Jason, I decided I wanted to work on a project, just for myself. If Arthur was going to go around tracking and seeking the Great Creatures, I would do the same with Demi-and quarter-gods. I want to trace, to see exactly how prevalent the ichors of Olympus spread.
Thus began my Demigod project. In my spare time, I seek out the children and grandchildren of gods, to determine what they know of their divine heritage, and to see what divine purpose the gods had in their creation.
Phoebe was the one to give me the idea: Gods have children for a reason, and I want to know why each god had each child.
I’ve had to be surreptitious in my acquisition of this knowledge. Not all of the demigods are willing to admit their heritage to a complete stranger, and most don’t even know their parents are divine.
What you read here is the product of my interview with Sean Andrews, born in 1962 to “Ian Andrews” and Margaret Andrews-Jefferson (nee Smith) of Webster, Texas.
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You’re here to ask me about, what was it again? Oh, you wanted to know how my family history influenced my decision to join the US Marine Corps, right? This is for a research paper, you say? Don’t get me wrong, miss, I’m glad you sought me out for your little school paper, but my story borders on the unbelievable.
You said you promise to change my name for the final product? Well, then, I guess I can tell you my tale. But be warned, miss. You are going to think I’m insane.
Essentially, I discovered late in life that my childhood was a lie. No, I’m not talking about those lies all parents tell their children: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy or that the dog ran away. I’m talking about a bigger lie, one that I only discovered when it was too late. It all started when I was ten, the day the Marines came to tell me my father passed. It is as clear in my memory as this morning’s morning coffee...
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Sean Andrews looked out the window of his living room when he saw two people in U.S. Marine Corps dress uniforms getting out of a black, official-looking sedan. It was five o’clock in the evening, and his mother was hard at work in the kitchen, working on dinner.
Sean thought that the two Marines walking to his front porch door looked suspicious. One was a tall, thin man, with bright red hair. Sean wasn’t certain, but he was partially convinced that the man was wearing shoes that were not military-issue; they looked like red Converse all-stars instead of the proper Marine dress shoes. The other was a woman. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and she stood a few inches shorter than the male.
Sean jumped to the door and answered it as soon as he heard the knock. In the kitchen, Sean heard his mother turn off the faucet
“Mrs. Margaret Andrews?” The female Marine spoke, her eyes wide. She was holding a Bible in her right hand. Glass shattered in the kitchen; his mother dropped the dish she was washing on the floor.
“C.... come in,” his mother stuttered, leaving the kitchen to enter the living room. Sean escorted the two Marines to the sofa, before running to his mother where she sat down, her legs turned to jelly. He knew what they were here for.
. “Mrs. Andrews, I’m Staff Sergeant Miles Herman,” the man spoke, with a strong foreign accent, “and this is Lieutenant Gwendolyn Martin, Chaplain’s Assistant for your husband’s Brigade...”
While the two visitors stood there, telling his mother about his father’s death in combat, Sean couldn’t help but wonder about the Marines in his house. The male Marine spoke with a British accent, sounding more like one of the Beatles than a U.S. Marine. The woman looked like his father: she had the same dark red hair, pale skin and grumble in her eyes. His father was leading troops on a march, ambushed by Northern Vietnam soldiers, blah blah saved the lives of three Marines, body burned to crisp, cremains will be returned....
“Why.” Sean barked at the marines. “Why are they sending you two?”
“Sean!” his mother fussed, “Don’t be rude!”
“No, Mrs. Andrews, It’s okay,” the female said, “He’s just lost his father. We were sent because we knew Sergeant Andrews. Sergeant served with him in an earlier tour, and our chapel worked with his brigade before he left to go overseas.” She continued speaking, explaining how the Marines were going to help Mrs. Andrews.
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What was I talking about again? The day the Marines my father died was perhaps the last happy day of my childhood. I was ten, almost eleven years old. That day determined the trajectory of the rest of my life. Because my father died, my mother had to take a second job. As I went into my teens, I started getting into trouble, and mom wasn’t around much to reign me in. I was an undisciplined, brat of a child.
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Eighteen year old Sean Andrews stepped angrily into his cell at the Webster city jail. The lights were too bright; dust permeated the air, barely concealing the stench from the small jail cell toilet. To his right sat a pile of trash, mostly bags of uneaten food, chips and apple cores. The room was longer than Sean expected, 10 x 15, with two pairs of concrete bunks attached to the walls. Growling to himself, Sean plopped down onto the bottom bunk furthest away from the toilet. The other bunk was seemingly occupied with a pile of mattresses and blankets.
Or, that’s what Sean thought it was until the pile moved, shifted into a seated position. Sean nearly jumped out of his skin when the lump moaned and sat up.
“Hey, man... what time was it when they booked ya?” The stranger had long, scruffy brown hair and a patchy beard. He stank of body odor and rotten teeth. He had a dirty, gauzy bandage wrapped around his right fist.
“1:30.” Sean said with a sigh.
“Morning or afternoon?” the bum grumbled, wiping his eyes with his un-bandadged hand.
“Morning,” Sean sighed. “It’s 1:30 in the morning.”
“Damn, I have twelve hours till I get out of here. What’cha in fer?” Sean bit his lip to stifle the strong southern accent in the other man’s voice.
“Bar fight.” Sean said, wincing in pain. His right cheek was bruised, he had blood on his knuckles, and he was fairly certain that he’d lost a chunk of his hair in the fight.
“Kid, you look too young to be getting into bar fights.” the stranger said, “By the look of you, the other guy won.”
Sean laughed, “Hell no! You should see the other guy. Broke his nose, and probably a rib.” He halfway believed he’d won the fight; the other man, who was shouting in the cell across the hallway, was easily more damaged than the young man.
“What happened?” The bum reached his right hand behind his neck to scratch his shoulder.
“You know how those things go,” he said.
“Speeding tickets.” The bum said, grumpily. The expression on his face said that he was lying.
“Speeding tickets?” Sean asked. The story
smelled worse than the cell.
“Assault.” he coughed. “When you getting out? You got someone coming in to get you?”
“Naw. My fascist Nazi stepfather won’t bail me out.” At Sean’s angered declaration, the bum snapped his head towards him.
“Tell me about this ‘fascist Nazi stepfather.’”
“He’s...” Sean hesitated. “He hates me for not being his son, always making Mom choose him over me. She won’t come get me out of jail because he threatened to leave her if she bailed me out again. I hate him. I hate her for marrying him.”
“What about your dad?”
“That baby-killer died in the war.” Sean spat, “He left us to go to war, he wasn’t drafted, Mom said. He signed up to fight, and kept volunteering to go back. I hate him for it.” Sean felt angry at the thoughts of his parents, and punched the concrete wall in frustration.
The stranger stood up and walked over to the doorway as Sean proclaimed his hatred for his parents. The room was silent for a moment, and Sean thought that was the end of the conversation. From the women’s side of the lock-up he heard a high-pitch screeching of a woman proclaiming her innocence. Across the hallway, the shouts of the man he’d beaten-up had subsided. Sean looked over to the stranger, who stood a little taller than Sean had suspected.
“Your stepfather is a Nazi? Did he fight for Germany in the Second