EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  It must be emp­ha­si­zed that this is a tem­po­rary me­asu­re.

  IT IS NE­CES­SARY FOR THE SA­FETY OF YO­UR CHILD.

  Ma­il-slots fil­led with di­rec­ti­ves:

  TO PARENTS OF CHILDREN UNDER THIRTY-SIX MONTHS OF AGE

  …will be ca­red for by skil­led ca­re­ta­kers who ha­ve pas­sed Go­vern­ment Stan­dard Test 4098: Psycho­lo­gi­cal Pro­fi­le…

  YOUR SCHOOL-AGED CHILD

  …from the ages of thirty-six months to eigh­te­en ye­ars of age are to be ac­com­pa­ni­ed by pa­rent or gu­ar­di­an to ne­igh­bor­ho­od col­lec­ti­on po­ints. Each child is to bring no mo­re clot­hing than he or she can carry wit­ho­ut un­due fa­ti­gue. Pro­vi­de yo­ur child with a pac­ked lunch and per­so­nal hygi­ene items. Do not inc­lu­de lar­ge toys or ot­her items…

  THE PROTECTED INFANT

  …and for­mu­las to be pro­vi­ded by spe­ci­al nur­ses who ha­ve pas­sed stan­dard psycho­lo­gi­cal pro­fi­le tests…

  YOUR HANDICAPPED CHILD

  …up to the age of eigh­te­en ye­ars, must be ac­com­pa­ni­ed by pa­rent or gu­ar­di­an to col­lec­ti­on po­ints de­sig­na­ted HAN­DI­CAP­PED…

  World­Co al­lo­wed li­mi­ted de­ba­te abo­ut SA­FETY DAY on its air­ways. The de­ba­tes we­re cont­rol­led, of co­ur­se, we­igh­ted with lo­gic and sub­li­mi­nal mes­sa­ge. It was un­for­tu­na­te, it was con­ce­ded, but ne­ces­sary. It was to be a tem­po­rary si­tu­ati­on.

  Sub­li­mi­nal mes­sa­ges pur­red in every part of the world, in every lan­gu­age… Ho­me in ti­me for Christ­mas… for Ha­nuk­ka… in ti­me for har­vest… for fes­ti­val… be­fo­re the ra­ins… be­fo­re the snow…

  Chapter 8

  Kurt lo­oked out of the li­ving ro­om win­dow. In the li­ve oak at the ed­ge of the empty playg­ro­und, a squ­ir­rel flir­ted its ta­il and nib­bled at an acorn. Pink dawn co­lo­red the clo­uds to the east. Be­low the ele­va­ted tracks of Tam­paT­ran, a tro­op truck had disc­har­ged its car­go of sol­di­ers. They sat on the damp grass un­der the big red-let­te­red sign:

  SAFETY DAY COLLECTING POINT 76

  It was al­most ti­me. His back­pack lay on the flo­or be­si­de him. Not much spa­ce left, but he co­uld squ­e­eze it in. He tur­ned to his open oboe ca­se, pul­led out the lit­tle re­ed kni­fe, and slip­ped it in­to his bo­ot. Snap­ping the inst­ru­ment ca­se shut, he slid it in­to the back­pack, pul­led the flap over and latc­hed it. Next to his pack, Eric's duf­fle lay half-open, a cor­nu­co­pia of clot­hes and be­lon­gings spil­ling in di­sar­ray on­to the flo­or. Eric was sho­we­ring. Car­men Kra­us still slept. She had sta­yed at the hos­pi­tal un­til la­te last night.

  Com­mit­tee stretc­hed, yaw­ned, and wag­ged his ta­il. The ef­fort ser­ved to ex­ha­ust him. He flop­ped flat on his belly, no­se bet­we­en paws, eye­lids lo­we­red to half-mast. Kurt scratc­hed the dog's he­ad bet­we­en the ears, and Com­mit­tee's eyes slid shut. A sud­den clat­ter and a fe­ma­le shri­ek from the kitc­hen bro­ught them both to the­ir fe­et.

  "What's wrong?"

  His grand­mot­her sto­od at the co­un­ter pa­wing at a scat­te­ring of yel­lo­wish discs. One flip­ped on its si­de and rol­led off on­to the flo­or whe­re it bro­ke in­to a do­zen pi­eces. The empty pac­ka­ge next to the bub­bler proc­la­imed: OM-LET­TES. She gla­red at the bub­bler. "I ha­te tho­se things. Be­li­eve it or not, Kurt, but when I was yo­ur age, a few pe­op­le still kept chic­kens." She wrink­led her no­se. "Now they don't even ke­ep fresh eggs."

  He res­cu­ed the­ir bre­ak­fast and drop­ped the dehyd­ra­ted discs in­to the bub­bler thro­ugh the cle­ar plas­ti-port she had neg­lec­ted to open.

  She pres­sed her lips to­get­her in chag­rin. "I was go­ing to fix you boys a ni­ce bre­ak­fast for yo­ur last mor­ning he­re." She bro­ke off and tur­ned to­ward the wall, blin­king away the sud­den mo­is­tu­re in her eyes. "Co­uldn't even do that. I sho­uld ha­ve sta­yed ho­me."

  Slightly em­bar­ras­sed, he pul­led out pla­tes and po­ured glas­ses of milk and cups of hot cof­fee.

  Still half-asle­ep, Eric ap­pe­ared at the do­or. He to­we­led his ha­ir dry briskly as if that wo­uld ro­use him. Kurt pul­led out the pan and slid ste­aming Om-let­tes on­to the pla­tes and put them on the co­un­ter­top bar.

  Fo­ur pla­tes, three pe­op­le. "Whe­re's Mom?" as­ked Eric.

  "Still in her ro­om." The­ir grand­mot­her ro­se. "I'll get her up."

  The boys ate in si­len­ce. They we­re fi­nis­hed be­fo­re the two wo­men ca­me in­to the ro­om. Car­men Kra­us's eyes we­re red and puffy. She had lost we­ight over the last few we­eks and stress li­nes sho­wed at the ed­ges of her eyes and mo­uth. She lo­oks old, Kurt tho­ught in surp­ri­se. As old as his grand­mot­her, in a way.

  She ig­no­red the fo­od on her pla­te and to­ok only small sips of the cof­fee. Se­ve­ral ti­mes she se­emed abo­ut to spe­ak, but each ti­me she lo­oked away, sta­ring at the wall, or at the cup she held. Fi­nal­ly she sa­id, "Aren't you two go­ing to call yo­ur fat­her-be­fo­re you go?"

  "Su­re, Mom," sa­id Eric easily. "We'll do it now." He got up and he­aded for the li­ving ro­om, stop­ped, and lo­oked at Kurt, "C'mon."

  Kurt sho­ok his he­ad al­most im­per­cep­tibly. He hadn't told an­yo­ne what his fat­her had sa­id. He co­uldn't. It ma­de him as­ha­med to think abo­ut it. He sho­ok his he­ad aga­in. They we­re all lo­oking at him. He sta­red at his fin­gers, run­ning the clo­se-clip­ped na­ils aga­inst his palms.

  His mot­her's vo­ice was un­be­li­eving, "Aren't you go­ing to talk to yo­ur daddy?"

  He felt old and at the sa­me ti­me he felt li­ke a lit­tle kid. He wan­ted to cry, but all he did was sha­ke his he­ad.

  Her vo­ice ro­se. "You're le­aving for God knows how long. And he's dying. You're not go­ing to see him aga­in, Kurt. Not ever." Her vo­ice was a shri­ek, "Now you get in the­re and call him."

  He felt his jaw tigh­ten. Cold trick­led thro­ugh him. He sho­ok his he­ad.

  She slap­ped him with all the strength she had. He sat sta­ring at her for a mo­ment, and then he sto­od up. "I can't, Mom." He wal­ked out of the ro­om and in­to the bath­ro­om and loc­ked the do­or.

  He sta­yed the­re, loc­ked away from them, un­til the wa­il of a si­ren sig­na­led that Sa­fety Day had be­gun.

  A ri­se and fall of vo­ices ca­me from his mot­her's bed­ro­om. He wal­ked in­to the empty li­ving ro­om and lo­oked thro­ugh the win­dow at the sce­ne be­low. Al­re­ady hund­reds of pe­op­le we­re gat­he­ring. It oc­cur­red to him that he and Eric co­uld be se­pa­ra­ted in that crowd. The tho­ught was un­te­nab­le. Com­mit­tee trot­ted up and nud­ged him with a cold no­se. He ruf­fled the dog's fur and hug­ged him clo­se. Then he went to a dra­wer and to­ok out Com­mit­tee's le­ash. The dog dan­ced in de­light at the pros­pect of a walk. "Not this ti­me," he sa­id softly. He wad­ded the le­ash and star­ted to put it in­to his pack as Eric ca­me in­to the ro­om. "What's that for?" he as­ked.

  "Just tho­ught I'd ne­ed it." He squ­e­ezed the thin le­ash in his hand. It was so­met­hing to tie the two of them to­get­her. "We don't want to lo­se each ot­her-get se­pa­ra­ted or anyt­hing."

  Eric lo­oked at the le­ash, then back at Kurt, and nod­ded.

  The­ir grand­mot­her ca­me out of the bed­ro­om. "I gu­ess it's ti­me," she sa­id, "I'll be go­ing down the­re with you. Yo­ur mot­her isn't fe­eling up to it. Now, hurry on and say go­odb­ye."

  When Eric kis­sed her, Car­men Kra­us clung to him with pats and lit­tle cri­es. She tur­ned a cold che­ek to Kurt to re­ce­ive his kiss. She didn't lo­ok at him; she didn't spe­ak.

  He squ­e­ezed her ri­gid sho­ul­der, "Go­odb­ye, Mom." When she didn't ans­wer, he tur­ned, pic­ked up his pack and w
al­ked out of the ro­om.

  * * *

  The gu­ard bar­red the way with a rif­le. "No one over eigh­te­en be­yond this po­int, ma'am."

  The old wo­man clutc­hed at the boys' arms. She lo­oked from Eric to Kurt, then back aga­in, "Well, this is whe­re I get off."

  They kis­sed her. Then Kurt to­ok her hand and whis­pe­red, "Grand­ma, I co­uldn't call him. I just co­uldn't."

  She se­arc­hed his fa­ce and sa­id, "If you co­uldn't, you co­uldn't." She thrust a brown pac­ka­ge in­to his hands, "For you and Eric. For la­ter."

  He put the pac­ka­ge in his pack and kis­sed her aga­in, then he and Eric had to mo­ve on. Li­nes of child­ren we­re bo­ar­ding the Tam­paT­ran cars. On­ce they we­re pus­hed apart and lost sight of each ot­her. Then Kurt bro­ught out the lit­tle dog le­ash, and Eric clip­ped the ot­her end to his belt.

  Even­tu­al­ly they fo­und se­ats to­get­her on a car, and fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter the tra­in be­gan to mo­ve. The child­ren from the so­ut­hern half of Hil­lsbo­ro­ugh co­unty we­re be­ing re­lo­ca­ted at the old aban­do­ned air for­ce ba­se, Mac­Dill Fi­eld, not far from the­re.

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes af­ter the­ir car star­ted, it stop­ped ab­ruptly. The­re we­re ru­mors of exp­lo­si­ve char­ges on the tracks. When the tra­in didn't mo­ve for se­ve­ral ho­urs, the child­ren on bo­ard ate the­ir lunc­hes. At sun­down, sol­di­ers ca­me abo­ard with bot­tled wa­ter. The­re was no fo­od. Ever­yo­ne was hungry, and the tiny rest­ro­oms we­re be­gin­ning to smell. It was ten that night be­fo­re Kurt re­mem­be­red the pac­ka­ge his grand­mot­her had gi­ven him. He ope­ned it. It was full of the crumbly co­oki­es that she al­ways ma­de. Most of them we­re bro­ken.

  He sha­red them with Eric, but when he tri­ed to eat his, they se­emed to dry his mo­uth and he had tro­ub­le swal­lo­wing.

  Fi­nal­ly, the tra­in be­gan to mo­ve, and they ar­ri­ved at Mac­Dill Fi­eld at three A.M.

  Chapter 9

  As the first light of mor­ning fell thro­ugh the stre­aked win­dow, Sil­vio Ta­ran­ti­no wo­ke. He lay in a ma­kes­hift crib, a la­undry bas­ket prop­ped on two cha­irs next to his mot­her's bed. He sta­red at the walls with his stran­ge black eyes and suc­ked his fist un­til the first si­rens of Sa­fety Day blas­ted the si­len­ce. Start­led, he threw out his scrawny arms and legs and squ­al­led in out­ra­ge. The birth­mark at the ang­le of his jaw dar­ke­ned as it en­gor­ged with blo­od.

  Kitty wo­ke ins­tantly at his cri­es. For a mo­ment, the si­rens con­fu­sed her. Half-asle­ep, she tho­ught she was back at the hos­pi­tal, he­aring the so­und of am­bu­lan­ces. She fumb­led for her baby and put him to her bre­ast. The si­rens con­ti­nu­ed. Awa­ke now, she re­mem­be­red, and fe­ar flic­ke­red ac­ross her fa­ce.

  She had thrown away the go­vern­ment no­ti­ces of SA­FETY DAY, trying not to think abo­ut it, trying not to be­li­eve that they wo­uld ta­ke her baby away. Un­til now, she had ma­na­ged to rep­ress her fe­ars in­to a ge­ne­ral na­me­less an­xi­ety that ha­un­ted her dre­ams and tur­ned her wa­king self in­to a ga­unt wra­ith who­se pul­se ra­ced fast in her thro­at each ti­me her baby cri­ed.

  Hol­ding her baby, stan­ding be­hind the skimpy cur­ta­ins so that no one wo­uld see her, Kitty pe­ered down from the win­dow at the stre­et. Sol­di­ers in twos and thre­es we­re everyw­he­re. A co­up­le led the­ir three child­ren to­ward a col­lec­ting po­int a few blocks away. As she watc­hed the lit­tle gro­up mo­ve be­low her, she clutc­hed her baby clo­ser. It co­uldn't be re­al. It co­uldn't be hap­pe­ning. With one hand, she drew the cur­ta­ins shut. The mo­ve­ment dis­lod­ged her nip­ple from the baby's mo­uth. At the loss, Sil­vio ga­ve an out­ra­ged scre­am.

  "S-sh-sh." She ga­ve him the nip­ple aga­in and sta­red fe­ar­ful­ly at the do­or. Had an­yo­ne he­ard him? "S-sh-sh, lit­tle boy. S-sh-sh," she whis­pe­red ur­gently. She had to ke­ep him qu­i­et.

  When he had fi­nis­hed nur­sing, she bat­hed him with warm wa­ter from the tap and chan­ged him. The box of di­apers was empty. She had not da­red to go out for mo­re, not sin­ce the no­ti­ces had star­ted to co­me. She had sta­yed in her ro­oms with him, not go­ing to work, not ven­tu­ring out. The­re wo­uld be a ti­me when all the fo­od wo­uld be go­ne and the­re wo­uld be no mo­ney to pay for mo­re. But that was in the fu­tu­re. The thing was to wa­it-get past to­day, past next we­ek. Then she'd be ab­le to find so­me­one to ta­ke ca­re of him whi­le she went back to work.

  She di­ape­red him with a cle­an, rag­ged dish to­wel and slip­ped on the lit­tle pink dress. Then, la­ying him back in his bed, she car­ri­ed the night's ac­cu­mu­la­ti­on of so­iled clot­hes in­to the bath­ro­om and was­hed them out.

  No one knew abo­ut him, and the­re lay her sa­fety. Only Jani­ce. Jani­ce and Mrs. For­rest, the bu­il­ding su­pe­rin­ten­dent. Jani­ce hadn't told an­yo­ne at work. Just sa­id that Kitty was sick with the flu and down with a re­lap­se. And Mrs. For­rest… Kitty didn't want to think abo­ut her, as if by not thin­king abo­ut her, she wo­uld go away. Sil­vio hadn't ca­used For­rest any tro­ub­le. He had be­en qu­i­et at night. The wo­man had no re­ason even to re­mem­ber abo­ut him. Any­way, it was no­ne of her bu­si­ness. He was hers. Her baby. No­body el­se's. No­body had any right to him ex­cept her. No­body.

  She dra­ped the wet clot­hes over the to­wel rack and went back in­to the bed­ro­om. Sil­vio lay sle­eping. She ran her fin­gers in a gent­le ca­ress over his lit­tle body and brus­hed her lips aga­inst his ha­ir. He was hers. He was a mi­rac­le, and he was hers. She craw­led in­to bed aga­in and tri­ed to sle­ep. Af­ter a whi­le, she did.

  La­ter, Sil­vio wo­ke and she fed him aga­in, exul­ting in the fe­el of his warm lit­tle mo­uth aga­inst her and the press of his body as she held him. When he slept, she went in­to the lit­tle kitc­hen and lo­oked for so­met­hing to eat. The­re we­re only a few fo­od pac­ka­ges left. She ope­ned one and ma­de her­self so­me so­up.

  She won­de­red what was go­ing on down the­re in the stre­ets. It wo­uld help to turn on the news, but she re­sis­ted the ur­ge. The so­und might draw so­me­one's at­ten­ti­on. Bet­ter for ever­yo­ne to think that no one was he­re. She chan­ced pe­eking from the win­dow aga­in. Dra­wing up a cha­ir, she sat sta­ring thro­ugh the gap whe­re the skimpy cur­ta­ins didn't qu­ite me­et.

  She tho­ught of a world wit­ho­ut child­ren, wit­ho­ut ba­bi­es. Su­re, the go­vern­ment sa­id it was just tem­po­rary, but she didn't be­li­eve it. She re­mem­be­red the old joke: God gi­veth, and the go­vern­ment ta­keth away. Her lip cur­led at the bit­ter tho­ught. Not her baby. Not hers.

  She ma­de her­self think be­yond to­day, be­yond next we­ek. She had to ha­ve a plan. She co­uld ta­ke him away. Out to the co­untry so­mew­he­re-to one of tho­se tiny lit­tle towns. If she mo­ved at night, she co­uld avo­id pe­op­le. But how?

  May­be she co­uld gi­ve him so­met­hing to ma­ke him sle­ep. Then she co­uld tuck him in­to a back­pack and get out of the city. She co­uld find a vil­la­ge with a lit­tle hos­pi­tal whe­re she co­uld work. She sta­red at the stre­et.

  As the day wo­re on, the crowds pas­sing be­low be­ca­me a trick­le. At fi­ve o'clock anot­her si­ren so­un­ded, and then a vo­ice re­ver­be­ra­ted thro­ugh the stre­ets:

  "Only thirty mi­nu­tes re­ma­in in the gra­ce pe­ri­od. All child­ren-re­pe­at, all child­ren-under the age of eigh­te­en must be ta­ken at on­ce to the clo­sest re­ce­iving sta­ti­on. For yo­ur child's sa­fety, do not de­lay.…"

  The co­unt­down con­ti­nu­ed at fi­ve-mi­nu­te in­ter­vals thro­ugh the next half-ho­ur with the ad­di­ti­onal war­ning, "…any ci­ti­zen def­ying the Sa­fety Day edict is re­min­ded that such de­fi­an­ce cons­ti­tu­tes a fe­lony, pu­n
is­hab­le by fi­ne and im­p­ri­son­ment.…"

  Sil­vio cri­ed fret­ful­ly. Kitty snatc­hed him up and of­fe­red her bre­ast, shus­hing him with lit­tle pats and co­os.

  It was ne­arly se­ven be­fo­re the knock ca­me at the do­or. She sat sta­ring in the dim­ness, not da­ring to mo­ve, not da­ring to bre­at­he. The knock ca­me aga­in. "Open up. Bu­il­ding su­pe­rin­ten­dent." Next to her, Sil­vio stir­red in his sle­ep.

  Don't wa­ke up, she tho­ught wildly. Oh, don't wa­ke up. Don't cry. She ro­se on tip­to­es and crept to­ward the do­or. The ham­me­ring be­gan aga­in. She lo­oked aro­und the twi­light ro­om with a fran­tic idea of bar­ri­ca­ding the do­or with so­met­hing. Anyt­hing. Her hands fell on a cha­ir. The po­un­ding at the do­or stop­ped. They've go­ne away, she tho­ught. It wor­ked. They tho­ught she was go­ne. Then, with gro­wing hor­ror, she he­ard the so­und of a card mo­ving in­to the lock. A ho­use card! A mas­ter-The do­or fell open.

  With a qu­ick fumb­ling mo­ve­ment, the su­pe­rin­ten­dent flic­ked on the lights, and she and three sol­di­ers mo­ved in­to the ro­om. Folds of flesh fell aro­und her lit­tle pig eyes. "I know you want the best for yo­ur baby, Kitty. That's why we're he­re." Her mo­uth mo­ved in a prim smi­le, "It's for his own go­od."