by Jack Blaine
“Don’t he remind you of Gregory?” The Driver looks at Helper after one of Jobee’s particularly long giggling sessions. “He’s so happy.”
Helper looks back at the Driver as though he’s just screamed.
“No,” she spits, cutting her eyes sharply between the Driver and me. “He doesn’t.”
The Driver watches her bob her head back and forth between me and him, frowning, and then his eyes get wide. You can see the actual moment when his brain makes some connection. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he shuts it.
“Who is Gregory?” I wonder what could make Helper so apoplectic.
“None of your affair.” Helper squeezes her mouth shut on something else, something she wants to say but won’t. She gets up and starts to clear the table.
“I’m not done!” The Driver watches as she whisks his plate out from in front of him.
“You are now,” she hisses.
Dinner is over.
The days are idyllic. I have never had so much time alone, to do what I will, to simply be. Jobee is calm, so easy to care for that I feel as though I am not working at all. I spend much of the time in the courtyard, sitting with him, watching him discover light and color and texture. When he first feels the spray of water from the fountain on his hand, he blinks and blinks, and then smiles the widest of his smiles. He laughs easily, and I see what the Driver has said is true: he is happy.
Even I feel something like it; if not happiness, contentment. It frightens me, that I could be close to content with such an existence. The only reason I’m not more bothered by it is that I know it’s temporary—soon enough the Sloanes will be back. And I can’t really blame myself for feeling some relief, at least. This sort of baby care is so different from what I did in the Ward, this watching how he grows into himself instead of measuring his urine output.
The strangest thing about this contentment is that it makes me want to draw more, not less. I always thought my drawings were an escape; that they helped me forget my life. And they did, but they were also an expression, I think. And this new freedom, this chance to be still and hear my own thoughts, to be able to appreciate the sound of Jobee’s soft breath, or the texture of his silken hair, these things make me want to express myself too.
I take out my three hidden drawings at night. I don’t think there are cameras in my room, but I go into the tiny bathroom and turn toward a corner just to be safe. The last three drawings I did in my old life. One is of Kris. She is sitting on my cube cot, hands folded in her lap. She’s quite beautiful, though she always denied that. She has a bow-shaped mouth, and lovely eyes. In my drawing, she is looking down, like she always used to do when we talked, at least if we were talking about anything real. I think she felt that if nobody could see her eyes, they wouldn’t be able to see her feelings. I miss Kris. I hope she’s well.
The second drawing is a study of my Jacket. I don’t remember why I chose to draw him. He looks as dirty as he is in life, and as dodgy. His hair is short, but not regulation hair. I wonder how he gets away with it, day after day, standing there at the station with his non-regulation hair, selling contraband to passersby. I know there are so many other, worse things happening that the police don’t care too much about him. But I wonder how long his luck will hold out.
The last drawing is the start of a self portrait. I’ve drawn my eyes, but I didn’t get any further. I stare for a long time at my half-reflection, peering up from the wrinkled gown wrapper, and then I set the drawings aside. I didn’t bring my pencils; I dropped them on the street like the contraband they were before I got into the Sloane’s vehicle. I’m sure nobody saw me do it. I have no paper here at the Sloanes, either. I don’t wear sterile gowns, and I don’t know what I could easily take from here to draw on without being discovered. So I can’t draw. I can only look at my last three drawings.
Night is coming on fast; I’ve already bathed Jobee, and he’s snuffling in his crib. It’s time I went to sleep, too. I pull back the sheets on my bed, still surprised by their softness, and climb in. Within minutes of closing my eyes, I am slumbering, dreamless.
Until I hear the shouting.
Chapter Nine
It’s coming from downstairs. There are at least two people yelling—one of them Helper. Her shrill screech is unmistakable. I scramble out of bed, throw on my robe, and am downstairs in a moment.
It’s dark, but I can tell the commotion is coming from the front hall. I run toward it—straight into the small table they keep against the wall there. My big toe takes the brunt of the collision, and I grit my teeth so I won’t scream. As I round the corner to the front door, I see Helper thwacking someone on the floor with her bath towel. She must have just taken a bath; she’s dressed in a robe and her hair is wet. She’s holding her robe closed with one hand and swinging her bath towel with the other. Whoever she’s hitting is cursing at her from where he lays on the floor.
Before I can get any closer the Driver pushes past me from out of nowhere. He’s carrying a club of some sort, short and deadly-looking. He raises it up high over his head, and starts to bring it down. I’ve been scrabbling along the wall to find a switch, and just as the club descends, I flick on the overhead lighting.
“Krike!” The Driver almost falls over himself. He barely stops his club from hitting its mark: the tousled head of Thomas Sloane.
“Mr. Thomas!” Helper shrieks even louder than she had when she’d thought the boy was an intruder. “What are you doing here?”
“Shhh.” The boy holds his hands over his eyes, trying to shield them from the light. His body curls in on itself. “Can you keep it down?”
Mr. Thomas is drunk.
The Driver and I saw this at the same time, and exchanged a look over his head.
“I’ll help you get him upstairs,” the Driver said.
“Help me?” I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of the mess. “Why me?”
“Well don’t look at me,” said Helper. “I’m going to bed.” And with that, she trounced off toward her room.
The Driver leaned down and got hold of Thomas under one arm. “Help me,” he said, waiting.
After a brief hesitation, I help him. The alternative seems to be leaving Thomas in the hall, and while I wouldn’t have minded that, his parents would have heard all about it when they got home.
I grab the other arm, and we start him toward the stairs.
“Unhhh.” Thomas’s head rolls onto his shoulder.
“Oh, he reeks,” says the Driver. He turns his face away from Thomas, who does, indeed, reek.
On the second floor the Driver steers us all toward one of the bedrooms. He kicks the door open with his foot and we drag the boy over to the bed.
“Get him cleaned up before you put him in the sheets—Ms. Sloane would not appreciate that mess touching her precious cotton sheets.”
“Why do I have to clean him up?” I may have been whining.
“I’m a Driver.” The Driver looked at me as though it was perfectly clear. “You’re the Helper.”
“I’m a Baby Helper.”
The Driver nodded down at Thomas. “Looks like a big baby to me.” He walks out the bedroom door.
Uhhhhhhnnnnnn.” Thomas groans. I look back down to the bed. I cannot find a way to justify leaving him here like this. He’s a mess.
The room is much grander than mine. It’s larger, and has three windows. There is an attached bathroom, and it, too, is much larger then the one in my room. I open a cupboard in the bathroom and find a cloth. I fill the basin sitting on the counter with warm, soapy water, and carry it and the cloth out to the bedroom.
He groans again, and opens his eyes briefly while I remove his shirt. It seems like most of the vomit is on that. I toss it toward the door, and begin to wash his skin clean. His eyes stay closed—he’s passed out again. I take the opportunity to really look at him.
He has fine features. His brow is high and his lips are full. His nose is straight and well-formed, well
set in his face. His long hair sweeps back from his forehead, and tumbles down to just above his shoulders in a glossy wave. He looks intelligent, while at the same time, attractive, at least when he’s unconscious. I hadn’t liked his sullen expression the only time I’d seen him awake, back at the Ward.
He stirs as I finish cleaning him. His eyes open, close, open again. They’re still that shocking blue. He looks at me with confusion, trying to work out who I am, and why I’m in his bedroom.
“Helper12.” He tilts his head at me. He seems to be having some trouble tracking me with his eyes. “Right?”
I nod.
“I think there’s a Helper12 at school, in the kitchen. I’m sure there is. She’s Helper12 there. And you’re Helper12 here.” His lip curls ever so slightly. “How do you tell yourselves apart, all you Helpers?”
I say nothing at first, but I can’t help myself, finally.
“How many boys named Thomas who can’t hold their liquor do you suppose there are, wandering around?” I wave my hand in front of his face, and his head wobbles as he tries to keep it in focus. “How do you all tell yourselves apart, little boy?” I stand to leave, but he grabs my arm.
“Do I seem like a little boy to you?” He pulls me down closer.
I let him pull, and slam my forehead into his, hard enough to hurt.
“Do I seem like a Leisure Doll to you?” Furious, I shake free and stand. Throwing the wet cloth in his face, I leave the room.
I’m still shaking when I get to my room on the third floor. I close the door behind me, and lock it. Jobee is sleeping peacefully in his crib, as though nothing has occurred. I watch him for a while, until I feel calm enough to get into my bed.
I lay in bed a long time thinking, wondering what tomorrow will bring. I can’t imagine it will be anything good.
Chapter Ten
I’m up with the sun; Jobee slept so well he sees no reason to lie abed. As soon as I have us both dressed, I sneak down the stairs, tiptoeing past the second floor hall extra quietly. I stop in the kitchen to grab some fruit and carry Jobee out to the courtyard. Soon he is happily ensconced on a blanket, sucking on his bottle, and trying to reach the dangling vines in the pot closest to him. I sit next to him, nibbling my piece of fruit, enjoying the sensation of the morning sun on my shoulders.
“Morning.”
It’s Thomas. He speaks very quietly. He’s holding a cup of some sort of steaming liquid. I don’t return his greeting. He comes closer, and I look away from him.
“Helper12.” He waits.
I say nothing.
“May I sit?”
I shrug. I can’t stop him.
He settles himself, and blows across the top of his cup. He takes a sip, sets the cup down, careful to place it out of Jobee’s reach, I notice. He sighs.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was drunk last night, but that’s no excuse for how I acted.” He waits.
I say nothing. I watch Jobee.
He sighs. “What can I do, to change it?”
He says this so softly I’m not sure he’s talking to me. I look over at him. He is talking to me; his eyes search my face. I shake my head at him. Him and his kind.
“Just leave us alone.” As soon as I’ve said the words I wish for them back. I know he could have me punished for talking to him this way. I know he could have me sent away. I need to be careful.
He starts to get up.
“You scared me,” I say, quickly.
He pauses, settles back down.
“I know. I’m sorry for that. I was rude, and . . . wrong.” He bows his head. “I wanted to thank you, too,” he says. For cleaning me up.” He chuckles. “Nobody should have to do that.”
“It’s fine,” I say. But I can’t look at him.
He is silent for a few minutes, watching Jobee gurgle. I wish he would leave.
As if he has read my mind, he gets up. “Well,” he says. He waits, then walks toward the door to the kitchen. I hold my breath until I hear nothing.
“Helper12.”
I startle—I thought he’d gone. I squint at him, holding one hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun.
“You don’t seem like one, not at all.” He says nothing else.
I bite. “I don’t seem like one, what?”
He watches me for a moment. When he speaks, his tone is serious, not mocking or mean. “A Leisure Doll.” He disappears into the kitchen.
I don’t see him for the rest of the day; I think he’s gone back to sleep. Helper serves him dinner in the dining room, but I tell her I think it’s best for Jobee and me to eat with her and the Driver in the kitchen. Later, at our dinner around the kitchen table, Helper and the Driver are full of talk.
“He’s been expelled,” says the Driver, shaking his head. “I knew it’d be trouble if they sent him back after what happened with Greg—” Glancing at me, he cuts himself off.
Helper spoons a dollop of cream over her berries. “It’s a shame. Mr. Thomas could have done some fine things.”
I wonder if they have any idea how well they eat. Berries and cream are a far cry from protein squares.
“Not anymore,” says the Driver. “At least not at that school.”
I don’t ask any questions. They won’t tell me anyway, and really, why should I care? I have enough trouble trying to figure out how to make Ms. Sloane happy with Jobee.
I bathe Jobee, and get him ready for bed. He laughs through it all, reaching for my nose, waving at me. He is so much more alert in this place. It’s because he has good food to eat, and a comfortable bed, and someone to love him. I sit back in the chair next to his crib, shocked. I love him.
I love Jobee.
I’m not sure how I feel about it. I think of all the babies I’ve cared for in the Ward. I cared for all of them well, and I hurt when they failed. I was even sad when they moved on to what ever track they tested into, though that was a lesser pain. But I don’t think I let myself love any of them, at least not with the kind of love I feel for Jobee. This love feels fierce, and frightening.
I’m staring at the floor when he knocks. The door is ajar, and his gentle tap pushes it further open, revealing him in the hall. He steps inside the room.
“I saw your light,” he whispers. “I wondered if I . . .” He stares past me at the crib. “I wanted to say good night to him.”
I’m on my feet fast. I don’t like this.
“He’s sleeping,” I say, though Jobee is clearly not sleeping. His hands are still waving above his head, reaching for who knows what. It doesn’t matter what I say anyway; Thomas is beside the crib already, peering down at Jobee. I watch him, ready to tell him to leave.
“Hey, you,” he whispers to Jobee. “You’ve got some tough road ahead, little boy.”
Jobee gurgles at Thomas, a serious expression on his face. Thomas smiles, a real smile this time; not like the ones I’ve seen so far.
He reaches into the crib. I tense, but he just smoothes Jobee’s cheek with his thumb.
“I’ll help you out.” He whispers this so softly I can barely understand it. Jobee pushes his head against Thomas’s hand. He sighs, and closes his eyes.
Thomas steps back quietly. He looks at me.
“Thanks.” He turns to go.
We both freeze at the same time, our eyes locked on the same thing. My drawings are on the changing table, where I laid them last night.
Chapter Eleven
“That’s you.” Thomas picks up the top drawing—the one of my eyes. He studies it, looking from it to my face, comparing.
I don’t know what to say. Excuses aren’t exactly leaping into my mind. I keep trying to form words, but I’m so scared I can’t seem to unstick my tongue from the top of my mouth.
Thomas thumbs through the drawings. He makes no comment when he sees the one of my Jacket, none when he looks at Kris’ portrait. He flips back to the one of my eyes.
“You know an Artist?” Thomas looks at me, eyebrows raised. Artists don’t ex
actly hang around the complexes; when they’re not attending Society parties they stay in their studios, creating commissioned portraits of Society members.
I don’t answer him.
“Interesting paper choice,” he says, fingering the creased gown wrapper.
I am silent.
He examines the drawings more. “Driver tells me that you usually eat in the dining room, with my parents.” He waits.
“I do,” I say. Your mo—Ms. Sloane, she wants William with her at meals.”
“Yet last night you ate with Helper and Driver, in the kitchen.” There’s displeasure in his tone that mirrors his mother’s voice when she isn’t getting her way.
“Yes. I assumed you would prefer your privacy. Sir.”
He looks up at me at the word sir. “You assumed incorrectly.” He narrows his eyes. “William is a part of my family now. He’s meant to be my new brother. I want to have every opportunity to get to know him. Tonight, you’ll attend him at dinner in the dining room.”
He walks out of the room, taking my drawings with him.
I want to run. I want to hide somewhere. But there’s no place to go. I wonder what he’ll do to me; how he’ll use the drawings against me. He didn’t take them with him by accident.
Jobee and I are at the dining room table when he seats himself for dinner. A place setting was laid for me, so he must have informed Helper that I would be eating with him. Jobee’s high chair, the fanciest thing I have ever seen made for a baby, is set up next to my place, as it was before the Sloanes left on their trip.
I keep my eyes on Jobee while Thomas sits down. He’s just started to eat cereal, and he loves it. It’s fun for me to watch him gobble; babies in Pre Ward usually didn’t start solids until they had already left my care. They were just getting old enough then. I’ve been worried that I might not know how to care for Jobee as he gets older than my Pre Ward charges; I know everything there is to know about babies through six months of age, but I’m not trained for anything after that—they all leave Pre Ward at six months.