EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  So­me­one be­gan to bang on the do­or. Jani­ce scrub­bed at the te­ars with the back of her hand. The thum­ping at the do­or grew lo­uder, punc­tu­ated with angry fe­ma­le yells, "Open up. Bu­il­ding su­pe­rin­ten­dent." At the so­und, the scre­ams from the bed­ro­om stop­ped.

  Jani­ce drew her­self up, went to the do­or, and ope­ned it.

  "Do you know what ti­me it is?" de­man­ded the dis­he­ve­led wo­man in ro­be and slip­pers. Her mo­uth pinc­hed shut in di­sap­pro­val-a lit­tle li­ne of a mo­uth lost in the cre­ases of fat that rol­led aro­und her chin.

  As Jani­ce sta­red at her, the thin mo­uth ma­de a lit­tle ro­und O and ga­ve out a start­led gasp.

  Oh my God, how I must lo­ok, she tho­ught. She glan­ced at her blo­ody hands clutc­hing the scis­sors. She must think I'm a mur­de­rer. She had a crazy de­si­re to la­ugh. In less than ten mi­nu­tes, two pe­op­le tho­ught she was so­me kind of ho­mi­ci­dal ma­ni­ac. She wan­ted des­pe­ra­tely to la­ugh, but she was af­ra­id that if she star­ted, she might ne­ver stop. So she to­ok a shud­de­ring bre­ath and fi­nal­ly sa­id, "It's Kitty. She just had her baby-" And she fo­und her­self sud­denly chat­te­ring away to the grim-lo­oking stran­ger, sa­ying aim­less, stu­pid things as if she had no cont­rol at all, as if a va­pid vent­ri­lo­qu­ist had ta­ken over her ton­gue. She wa­ved the scis­sors un­der the as­to­nis­hed wo­man's no­se. "-and then I was go­ing to cut the cord. But, I didn't be­ca­use-Ohmi­god. The cord. I ne­ver did-I ne­ver did cut it."

  A thin wa­il ca­me from the bed­ro­om. "I'd bet­ter see abo­ut him." She das­hed in­to the bed­ro­om aga­in. The as­to­nis­hed fat wo­man fol­lo­wed.

  Kitty lay very qu­i­et. She held the baby to her bre­ast and his tiny mo­uth ro­oted for the nip­ple. "I'm sorry, Jani­ce," she sa­id in a small vo­ice. "I lost my he­ad."

  The fat wo­man sta­red at the baby. "Scrawny lit­tle thing, isn't it? Dark. Li­ke you." She put her fa­ce clo­ser to him.

  "He's got a birth­mark." A red el­lip­se pul­sed at the ang­le of his jaw, as he pres­sed aga­inst his mot­her's bre­ast. "What are you go­ing to na­me him?"

  Kitty ran her fin­gers over his damp black ha­ir. "Sil­vio. His na­me is Sil­vio."

  The baby ce­ased his ro­oting and clo­sed his eyes. Then he ope­ned them aga­in. Jani­ce felt as if he we­re sta­ring di­rectly at her. It was silly. She knew he was too yo­ung to fo­cus yet, but he se­emed to sing­le her out. His eyes se­emed old, and so­me­how shrewd. She felt fa­ti­gue co­ver her li­ke a he­avy blan­ket. She blin­ked, then sa­id to Kitty, "I think we'd bet­ter get you two cle­aned up."

  Chapter 5

  The world had dec­la­red war on its child­ren. In an at­tempt to re­ga­in cont­rol, the shaky World Co­ali­ti­on mus­te­red its tro­ops. Go­vern­ment pro­pa­gan­dists pen­ned so­ot­hing ho­mi­li­es, sug­ges­ting that the pro­cess might so­on be ef­fec­ti­ve for ever­yo­ne. Sa­les of li­qu­or and mind-alte­ring drugs we­re se­ve­rely cur­ta­iled. Strict cur­fews we­re en­for­ced. The ranks of law-enfor­ce­ment agen­ci­es, not im­mu­ne to the war aga­inst the child­ren, buck­led un­der the work­lo­ad. The dep­ro­ces­sing con­ti­nu­ed.

  Re­li­gi­o­us le­aders, de­ad­loc­ked in in­ter­nal stri­fe, tem­po­ri­zed as a re­lent­less Shi­va stal­ked the land.

  When World­Co's pro­pa­gan­da fa­iled to de­fu­se the si­tu­ati­on, the go­vern­ment, in res­pon­se to the pe­op­le's cry of "Do so­met­hing," over­re­ac­ted. Ope­ra­ting un­der the the­ory that a me­dia spre­ading news of vi­olen­ce thro­ug­ho­ut the world pro­mul­ga­ted mo­re, World­Co si­len­ced net­works and wi­re ser­vi­ces. The me­dia, hob­bled by the bu­re­a­uc­ra­tic blan­ket that muf­fled world and na­ti­onal air­wa­ves, ga­ve out only such mes­sa­ges as World­Co de­emed fit. No news of out­si­de con­di­ti­ons re­ac­hed the city now, and so the at­ten­ti­on of Tam­pans tur­ned in­ward, fe­eding mo­re on ru­mor than on fact, as lo­cal news so­ur­ces tri­ed to co­pe with the prob­lem.

  Tho­ugh traf­fic con­ti­nu­ed to flow thro­ugh the ma­in ar­te­ri­es of Tam­pa, the si­dest­re­ets, the yards, the playg­ro­unds, to­ok on a lo­ok of neg­lect. The ope­ning of scho­ol was de­la­yed in­de­fi­ni­tely whi­le the te­ac­hers, fa­ced with eco­no­mic ru­in, gat­he­red in grim-fa­ced ses­si­ons with uni­on le­aders.

  Preg­nant wo­men, af­ra­id to en­ter the hos­pi­tals, pan­ted in la­bor in the­ir ho­mes be­hind loc­ked do­ors, at­ten­ded by tho­se they trus­ted. Of­ten the­ir trust was bet­ra­yed. Pe­di­at­ric wards fil­led with tra­uma ca­ses.

  Psycho­lo­gists and psychi­at­rists at the Uni­ver­sity of So­uth Flo­ri­da at­temp­ted to exp­la­in the ano­maly, pro­du­cing conf­lic­ting the­ori­es, whi­le ma­ra­uding bands of yo­ung men prow­led thro­ugh the stre­ets with kni­ves and cha­ins.

  The pub­lic outcry grew. Law-abi­ding ci­ti­zens de­man­ded that so­met­hing be do­ne. The ma­yor of Tam­pa col­lap­sed with a ble­eding ul­cer. The be­le­agu­ered po­li­ce, ca­ught bet­we­en the ext­re­mes of a po­la­ri­zed po­pu­la­ce, wal­ked off the­ir jobs in lar­ge num­bers.

  For a short ti­me, Tam­pa grew qu­i­et; and then as eco­no­mic con­di­ti­ons wor­se­ned, out­bursts be­gan aga­in. Pe­op­le who had ne­ver be­fo­re con­temp­la­ted the re­ality of de­ath we­re for­ced to exa­mi­ne the­ir li­ves. Small gro­ups ma­de not qu­ite sa­ne by je­alo­usy and ra­ge spre­ad the­ir hyste­ria.

  The sick fi­re smol­de­red, sput­te­red in­to li­fe, fla­med, smol­de­red aga­in. It crept in­to the ro­ots of the city and con­su­med them. The ter­ror spre­ad. No child was sa­fe.

  We­eds be­gan to press gre­en spro­uts thro­ugh the dirt hol­lows un­der playg­ro­und swings.

  Mo­ko, the chim­pan­zee, sat hunc­hed in her ca­ge in the de­ser­ted Busch Gar­dens and mo­ur­ned the de­ath of her baby, kil­led by a sing­le shot as he clung to her fur and suck­led.

  Chapter 6

  Kurt blew in­to the ne­arly fi­nis­hed oboe re­ed and lis­te­ned cri­ti­cal­ly to its high-pitc­hed crow. It felt stiff. He un­fol­ded his ro­und-tip­ped re­ed kni­fe and be­gan to scra­pe the lay of the re­ed with the ra­zor-sharp ed­ge. Ac­ross the tab­le, Eric shuf­fled dog-eared cards and de­alt him­self anot­her hand of so­li­ta­ire. In a few mi­nu­tes he tos­sed the cards in an un­tidy he­ap and lo­oked at his watch. "I wish we co­uld ha­ve go­ne with Dad."

  Kurt lo­oked up sharply, "You think he'll be all right, don't you?"

  Eric sta­red at the pi­le of cards be­fo­re he sa­id, "You know, they sa­id they wo­uldn't do the imp­lant early. Be­ca­use of the risks."

  Kurt nod­ded. They wo­uldn't do it un­less-until the pa­in co­uldn't be cont­rol­led any ot­her way. He tri­ed to ima­gi­ne the lit­tle wi­res sna­king in­to his fat­her's skull. He'd be free of pa­in then, with the push of a but­ton. But be­ing free of pa­in me­ant not much mo­re ti­me. Not much mo­re. He felt te­ars spring to his eyes. Em­bar­ras­sed, he sto­od up and stro­de briskly to the win­dow to hi­de them. The gro­unds be­low we­re de­ser­ted. He co­uld ima­gi­ne tho­usands of ot­her kids lo­oking out thro­ugh la­yers of win­dow glass on­to empty yards and playg­ro­unds. It wasn't fa­ir. His eyes squ­e­ezed shut. He wan­ted to be at the hos­pi­tal with his fat­her. He wan­ted to hold his hand, tell him it was all right, tell him… Tell him he lo­ved him.

  He sto­od at the win­dow for a mi­nu­te or two, then he spun aro­und. "I'm go­ing out."

  Eric's mo­uth ope­ned, then clo­sed be­fo­re he sa­id. "That's pretty stu­pid."

  "I don't ca­re. I'm go­ing." "Whe­re?"

  "I don't know. To-to Grand­ma. I'm go­ing to see Grand­ma." "Why?"

  "I don't know." His vo­ice ro­se. "I don't know." He threw open a dra­
wer and fo­und his lock-slot key.

  Eric was up, mo­ving to his si­de, "Are you su­re?" He pres­sed his lips to­get­her. He nod­ded. "Want me to go with you?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad and tur­ned to­ward the do­or, then stop­ped, went back and pic­ked up the lit­tle fol­ding re­ed kni­fe and slip­ped it in­to his bo­ot. Then, as Eric watc­hed si­lently, he ope­ned the do­or to the hal­lway and was go­ne.

  * * *

  He tur­ned his ra­dio off and pe­da­led si­lently thro­ugh back stre­ets and al­ley­ways to­ward Old Hyde Park. On­ce he whe­eled past an old man who sta­red at him with shoc­ked eyes and sa­id, "Go ho­me, boy! Go back ho­me."

  He ca­me to a sec­ti­on of old wo­oden ho­uses that tur­ned the­ir fa­ces in­ward to a pa­ved co­urt­yard. The­re he jum­ped off, sho­ved his bi­ke be­hind a spraw­ling hi­bis­cus bush and clat­te­red up the steps and ac­ross the gray porch of the old ho­use. He pul­led open the sag­ging scre­en and tap­ped on the do­or.

  A pa­ir of sharp eyes pe­ered thro­ugh the lit­tle win­dow. The do­or whe­ezed open. "Kurt! Go­od God. Kurt." The old wo­man se­ized him by the arm and hust­led him in­si­de. She pus­hed the do­or shut and loc­ked it. "What are you do­ing he­re?"

  He didn't know what to say. He sta­red at his fe­et and at the rug that had be­en blue on­ce, but was now a fa­ded in­de­ci­si­ve gray; he sta­red at the walls with the­ir sag­ging shel­ves fil­led with bo­oks and ma­ga­zi­nes; he sta­red at the ce­iling whe­re an in­dust­ri­o­us ho­use spi­der to­iled aga­inst gra­vity. He lo­oked anyw­he­re but at her fa­ce. Why had he co­me?

  When at last he bro­ught his eyes to hers, he felt a hard lump gro­wing in his thro­at. He bro­ke in­to unex­pec­ted te­ars and fo­und them abj­ectly hu­mi­li­ating. Wit­ho­ut wan­ting to, he be­gan to bab­ble, ex­po­sing parts of him­self he had tho­ught well-co­ve­red-the parts that we­re still frigh­te­ned lit­tle boy. It mor­ti­fi­ed him that the words ca­me tumb­ling out of his mo­uth as if they had a will of the­ir own. His ne­eds, his ho­pes, and ove­rall-abo­ve all-his fe­ars. His daddy was go­ing to die-and he was go­ing to be left alo­ne in a world too bent out of sha­pe to re­cog­ni­ze.

  She hug­ged him to her and then held him at arm's length and se­arc­hed his fa­ce. "Oh, Kurt." The top of her he­ad re­ac­hed only to his no­se. Sharply in­tel­li­gent gray eyes pe­ered out from a wrink­led fa­ce trans­lu­cent with age. She was se­venty-eight and not his grand­mot­her, but his gre­at-grand­mot­her. He had ne­ver known his grand­mot­her. She had di­ed when his fat­her was born.

  After pus­hing him down on a hard cha­ir in her kitc­hen, she bust­led aro­und set­ting things right, first set­ting her bat­te­red cop­per ket­tle to bo­il on the old sto­ve. She wo­uld "fix him a cup of tea," be­ca­use tea was her pa­na­cea for all ills, re­al and ima­gi­ned. She fil­led his hands with co­oki­es from a crac­ked ce­ra­mic jar in the sha­pe of a le­ering frog, and when his mo­uth was full and crumbs dot­ted his chin she as­ked him qu­es­ti­ons. Whi­le they tal­ked, the wa­ter bo­iled away to not­hing in the ket­tle un­til, with a lo­ud crack, the spo­ut fell off and clat­te­red on­to the sto­ve top.

  "Dam­mit to hell!" She le­aped up, scur­ri­ed to the sto­ve, and snatc­hed at the pot. On ins­pec­ti­on, the bot­tom of the ket­tle was black, but ap­pa­rently in­tact. "Mel­ted the sol­der." She de­po­si­ted the re­ma­ins in the sink and tur­ned on the cold wa­ter tap. A clo­ud of ste­am ro­se and en­ve­lo­ped her fa­ce in a bil­lo­wing clo­ud. "Damn. I've had that pot for forty ye­ars." She held the spo­ut up to the ket­tle, fit­ting it back for a mo­ment. Then she la­id it in the sink with a ru­eful grin. "I gu­ess I got my mo­ney's worth."

  "Can you fix it?" He felt va­gu­ely gu­ilty, as if the ru­in of the te­apot we­re his fa­ult.

  "Pro­bably not. Any­way, I ha­ve anot­her one." She ope­ned a ca­bi­net be­low the sto­ve and rum­ma­ged aro­und, he­ad and sho­ul­der di­sap­pe­aring in­si­de its murky in­te­ri­or. In a mo­ment she re­ap­pe­ared be­aring a dusty bat­te­red box. A shiny chro­me pot emer­ged. "Had it for ye­ars, but I ne­ver used it be­fo­re." She rin­sed it, fil­led it with wa­ter, and set it on the sto­ve. "Bet it won't last li­ke the old one did, tho­ugh."

  She sat down next to him, pat­ted his hand, and sud­denly be­gan to chuck­le. It was in­fec­ti­o­us. He felt a smi­le cre­ep to his lips. "What's funny?"

  "Me. Crazy old wo­man. Why wo­uld I ne­ed a pot to last anot­her forty ye­ars? That wo­uld ma­ke me a hund­red and eigh­te­en then, wo­uldn't it?"

  He kept on smi­ling, but his eyes wi­de­ned, and they felt wet to him. His lips be­gan to tremb­le, and he ca­ught the lo­wer one bet­we­en his te­eth.

  "Now I've do­ne it," she chi­ded her­self. "I've go­ne and ma­de you fe­el bad aga­in." She pat­ted his hand briskly, ca­using it to thump aga­inst the tab­le top. "Well, don't pay any at­ten­ti­on to me. Crazy old wo­man. I ne­ver was any go­od at be­ing a grand­mot­her." She fumb­led for her ci­ga­ret­tes, re­mo­ved a crump­led one, and lit it.

  He watc­hed, fas­ci­na­ted. The end of the ci­ga­ret­te was bent at a crazy ang­le, but it se­emed to draw well.

  "I ne­ver was any go­od at be­ing a mot­her eit­her," she sa­id thro­ugh a clo­ud of smo­ke. "Ne­ver had any tra­ining. I wo­uld ha­ve ma­de a pretty fa­ir vi­oli­nist, but when I got mar­ri­ed I had to ta­ke an exe­cu­ti­ve po­si­ti­on-First Vi­ce-Pre­si­dent in char­ge of the child­ren. The Pe­ter Prin­cip­le at work. It's a hel­lu­va thing to trust child­ren to in­com­pe­tents." She chuck­led and thum­ped his hand fondly, "For­tu­na­tely, they se­em to turn out pretty well in spi­te of it."

  He grin­ned at her. "I think the wa­ter's bo­iling away aga­in."

  "Hell and damn." She le­aped up and yan­ked the pot from the sto­ve, then be­gan to po­ur it, bub­bling, in­to the cups. Sud­denly she stop­ped, set down the pot, and sta­red out of the win­dow at the stre­et be­yond.

  "What is it?"

  A hand prod­ded the air in his di­rec­ti­on, si­len­cing him. So­met­hing held her, so­met­hing in the yard that ca­used her eyes to nar­row and ma­de a lit­tle lump of musc­le tick at the ang­le of her jaw. She bac­ked away from the win­dow to­ward the hall, then was go­ne. He he­ard the cre­ak of a clo­set do­or on its hin­ges and then a muf­fled thump. When she ca­me back, the sun glin­ted aga­inst black me­tal in her hands. She fis­hed bul­lets from a lit­tle card­bo­ard box and inex­pertly lo­aded the an­ti­que Lu­ger.

  "What is it?" he whis­pe­red. He felt a cre­eping along the back of his neck li­ke a cold bre­eze scur­rying thro­ugh his ha­ir. "Who's out the­re?" He got to his fe­et and mo­ved to­ward the win­dow.

  "Get back."

  He fell back in­to the sha­dows, then ca­uti­o­usly pe­eped out. The­re we­re fi­ve of them, fi­ve men with guns and rusty-lo­oking cha­ins slung from wi­de belts. They sto­od at the cor­ner of the ho­use ac­ross the way. A thick­set man with dirty blond ha­ir and pudgy fin­gers squ­e­ezed the last of his be­er in­to his mo­uth, then tos­sed the empty poly­bag to­ward a Bra­zi­li­an pep­per bush. It hung for a se­cond on a branch, then flop­ped to the al­ley­way be­low.

  He he­ard the snap of the Lu­ger be­ing coc­ked. She can't hold off fi­ve men with that thing, he tho­ught in dis­may. She was go­ing to get them both kil­led. "Grand­ma, no!"

  "Sh-s-sh. It's all right. I had it wor­ked on when all the tro­ub­le star­ted."

  "Grand­ma, ple­ase," he whis­pe­red ur­gently. "They don't know I'm he­re."

  "Whe­re's yo­ur bi­ke?"

  "I hid it be­hind a bush."

  So­me of the ten­se­ness went out of her fa­ce. "Thank God." But her hands still grip­ped the Lu­ger. He co­uld see the hard ang­le of her jaw thro­ugh the trans­lu­cent skin. It tig
h­te­ned, re­la­xed, then tigh­te­ned aga­in. "Scum," she sa­id, sta­ring out of the win­dow. "God­damn scum."

  The men we­re la­ug­hing at so­met­hing, a lo­ud bra­ying la­ugh that bel­lo­wed ac­ross the lit­tle yard. Then they we­re mo­ving, wal­king away to­ward the west with the sun glin­ting on the lo­ops of cha­in. In anot­her mi­nu­te, they we­re out of sight.

  Her bre­ath ca­me out in a lit­tle sig­hing gasp; her sho­ul­ders sag­ged. She la­id the gun on the co­un­ter­top and lo­oked at him with a fa­ce crump­led in­to a tho­usand folds. "I lost my Lin­da when she had yo­ur daddy. I'm go­ing to lo­se him too. But I'm not go­ing to lo­se you." She be­gan to we­ep, and this ti­me he was the one who pat­ted her hand and awk­wardly ca­res­sed the thin sto­oped sho­ul­ders.

  * * *

  When char­co­al sha­dows craw­led be­ne­ath the mo­on, Kurt left his grand­mot­her's ho­use. The branc­hes of the hi­bis­cus rust­led in the dark­ness as he ext­rac­ted his bi­ke and whe­eled si­lently to­ward the stre­et past black ho­uses with yel­low win­dow-eyes. No porch lights sho­ne.

  He kept to the si­de stre­ets, pe­da­ling qu­ickly, cas­ting fre­qu­ent glan­ces over his sho­ul­der. An owl cri­ed from so­mew­he­re just be­hind him. Cold rip­pled down his spi­ne.

  The smell of salt fil­led the air from the bay ahe­ad. He avo­ided Bays­ho­re Bo­ule­vard and rol­led qu­i­etly down back stre­ets un­der the night sha­dows of li­ve oaks hung with be­ards of Spa­nish moss. Warm air ri­sing from the land rus­hed to­ward the co­ol of the bay. The bre­eze whip­ped thro­ugh the le­aves and the moss-curls, ca­using tarry sha­dows to cre­ep and shud­der in the mo­on­light.