by Sharon Webb
But her command proved unnecessary. Theo Rouk had seated himself at the piano and Eva Dowdy, one hand on the piano as if to anchor it, began to sing a German song. As her rich voice filled the room, one thin eyebrow rose and twitched methodically to show distress at unrequited love.
Kurt watched her from the recesses of a deep chair. Then he closed his eyes and listened. Her voice was truly beautiful. He opened one eye experimentally. She had hooked her fingers together now, tugging in opposite directions, round elbows pulsing up and down in rhythm to the music, while her eyebrows crept toward the ceiling at the rate of about four or five millimeters for each elbow pulse. He considered the spectacle gravely. It was too bad she wasn't recorded. If the visual were switched off and no one could see the girth of her body and the distracting gymnastics of her face, it might be possible to imagine a slim young girl in a tragic love affair. But as it was, it struck Kurt that Eva Dowdy's plaintive song more closely depicted grief over a severe shortage of strudels than over unrequited love. He raised a quick hand to mask the expression that crept over his face.
When the song and the applause were over, his mother and grandmother laid out trays of food: fluffy little quiche pastries, rolls, salad, cold ham, and a platter of cut fruits.
As they ate and sipped the cold, white Rheingau, the talk was of music. Everyone there was, or had been, a performer. Most taught too. All of Carmen Kraus's piano students now were adults-but she was doing well. Many people who had studied as children, then given it up, had returned to the instrument. "Of course, they aren't that good," she said. "They've lost that dexterity that children have. But it gives them pleasure."
Teachers had been faced with economic ruin in the first Mouat-Gari years, but now there was a resurgence of interest in the arts. With the children gone, people needed something to fill the void. Now-everywhere, it seemed-adults were taking up painting or involving themselves in theater for the first time. Adult classes in writing, art, and music were springing up like weeds. And the products of these classes were often stored carefully away-in the Ever-Vaults.
After dinner, over coffee and brandy, Theo Rouk turned suddenly to Kurt. "It's time we heard you play."
Eva Dowdy poured a rich dollop of cream in her coffee. "Yes, do."
Kurt shook his head slightly. He couldn't play for Rouk. "I don't have anything ready," he said with a faint smile.
"Kurt's probably been too busy with his oboe," said Eric easily.
"But that can't be right, Eric." There was an edge to Carmen Kraus's voice. "He hasn't asked for reed supplies in over a year-have you, Kurt?"
He stared at his hands. Why was she doing this?
"Surely you'll play something, Kurt. A Ravel, perhaps," she said primly.
She used to say to him, "You can be a Ravel specialist. You have a special gift for interpreting him." He looked at her sharply. It stood out in her eyes, the pain that had twisted to malice. She pressed her lips into a thin smile. "Do play, Kurt."
Her look told him everything: it told him that he had hurt her, that he had taken her hopes for him and trampled them; more, it told him that she wanted to retaliate, wanted to see him humiliated in front of the others.
His grandmother caught the look. "Carmen," she said sharply, "if he doesn't want to play, he doesn't want to play."
"Nonsense." Carmen Kraus smiled brightly, but her eyes felt cold and hard to him. "He just wants us to beg. Don't you, Kurt?"
A heavy layer of silence fell. He stared at his mother. It seemed as if he still heard the echoes of her voice in the stillness. He felt his jaw tighten. He shook his head again. "I don't have time for that now."
"But, Kurt… we have all evening."
He stared at her, at her prim smile, her calculating eyes. Yes. He could be his mother's son. "I don't have time for that now. I'm going away for a special government program. It's for the future leaders of WorldCo. There's a short training period," he said, throwing her mortality in her lace, "…only thirty years. And then I’ll be tied up for a while. I plan to get back to Ravel some time next century."
Her face grew suddenly white and then it reddened as if he had slapped her. For a second, he stared at her cheeks as if he could see the marks of his attack. She deserved it, he told himself. But almost at once, he regretted the words, regretted the way they hung oppressively in the room. How many in that room would be around at the end of his "short" training period? Probably not Theo Rouk, who stared intently into his cup as if it told his fortune. Maybe not the Dowdys, who fast approached their fifties. Not his grandma. Maybe not his mother.
He felt sick. He got to his feet and tried to say, "I'm sorry." Failing, he turned and stumbled from the room.
Chapter 7
"Whatever it is he expects, I hope he's satisfied." Kurt slung the wadded flexi-sheet against Lauren's wall.
"Kurt, can't you see what's happened. He didn't have any choice."
He nodded grimly. Mortimer's tail was caught in a crack. He had to listen to M.Y.G.A.'s Discipline Committee, but he couldn't ignore the teachers. "You should have heard that woman. She called Sean a liar. And then she pranced off to Mortimer and told him we were 'persecuting a baby.’ “
Lauren looked away, and then said in a low voice, "Are you, Kurt?"
He stared at her in disbelief. "Is that what you think?"
She leaned forward and touched his hand, caressing it gently. "I know you're upset over what happened to Sean, but… this teacher-what's her name? Harris… Margaret Harris-she's been around Silvio all year, Kurt. Surely if something was wrong, she'd know it."
"Would she?"
"Yes. I think she would. Teachers have special training in
these things, don't they?"
He thought of the kindergarten teacher-of the fear he had seen reflected in her face-and shook his head. The inquiry was less than an hour away, and that woman was going to try to turn it into a travesty. It ought to be obvious to anyone that Silvio was seriously disturbed. If he didn't get help, who knew what he might do next?
"You're forgetting that he's just a child."
He got to his feet, retrieved the crumpled flexi and smoothed it carefully before he looked at Lauren. "And you're forgetting that another child is dead."
* * *
Margaret squared her shoulders and, taking Silvio by the hand, walked briskly up to the conference room. "This will all be over in a few minutes," she said to the boy and then wondered why she had said it. He seemed perfectly calm.
Well, it was, after all, a matter of principle. It was her responsibility to protect him. She paused outside the door and squeezed his hand. Poor motherless thing. He was too young to realize the threats to him. Children just don't understand these things. Not until they were ten or twelve-at least ten, she thought.
She opened the door, and they stepped inside. Margaret shivered as she looked aro�
�und-it looked like a judge's chamber. She blinked. Whatever was it that made her think of that? But, suddenly she could think of nothing else; suddenly, she was nine years old again-just a baby, really-standing in that chamber while they asked her about her half-brother, Stevie.
And could she help it that she was a better swimmer? It wasn't her fault that the boat capsized. They shouldn't have expected her to take care of him while Daddy and Charlotte sat under the trees and smoked, twining their toes and hugging while the smoke trailed in tendrils over their heads. She loved him-loved Stevie. She really did. She didn't want him to drown. She had never wanted that.
She had cried in the judge's chamber. She had cried again at the funeral when Daddy sat so stiffly next to her in that room filled with white roses. Charlotte wasn't there. She was in the hospital-"Under sedation," Daddy said. Margaret leaned against her daddy and felt the rough fibers of his old black coat scratch her bare arm. Now that Stevie was dead, there was just one child left. Just Margaret. She glanced at her daddy's face. It was so serious, so stricken. She wondered how he felt, wondered if he felt the way she did when he went away and left her and Mama. And then she began to cry again because she loved Stevie-she really did-and he was dead.
She cried until the tears clogged her nose and tightened her throat the way the water did that awful day when she reached for Stevie, trying to tug him from the tangle of drowned roots that caught him, pulling until her chest was on fire. She gasped and felt him slip away in the dark water, his smooth, limp arm slithering from her hands.
She loved him. She did. She did… And so why, under the suffocating tears, did she feel such a fierce and sudden joy?
* * *
When the door opened, Kurt looked up. Margaret stood at the threshold. She clutched Silvio's hand and stared around the room with such a look of panic on her face that he blinked at it. What was wrong with her?
In a moment, the look passed. She sat down and pulled Silvio into the chair next to her.
Mortimer, the MacDill Superintendent, stood with his back to the room and stared out of the single window. Suddenly, he turned, fixed Kurt and the other two members of M.Y.G.A.'s Discipline Committee with a quick look, and strode to the center chair on the small platform at one end of the room.
One of Mortimer's assistants, a rawboned, square-faced woman, handed him a note. He glanced at it abruptly, then pushed it toward the tall man at his left. Mortimer cleared his throat. "This is an inquiry, not a hearing. I expect these proceedings to be completely informal." But something in the man's presence seemed to inhibit informality. "We've all heard the taped testimony of Sean McNabb. Is he able to appear if we need him?"
The square-faced woman jumped up, went to the door, and disappeared into the hall. In a moment, she came back with Dr. Olivo.
Mortimer repeated the question.
Dr. Olivo sat down easily, crossed her slim legs, and said, "If it's absolutely necessary, Sean can appear, but I'd prefer he didn't."
Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "It seems to me that he ought to be able or not."
"Physically, he is able," she said, "but I'd rather not put him through the emotional stress."
"Perhaps you can tell us about his emotional state then."
"He seems to be adjusting well… now."
Mortimer thumbed through a stack of flexi-sheets until he found what he was looking for. "This is an entry from the McNabb boy's chart." He began to read: "…patient is repressing details of the accident. He refuses to admit that his friend is dead…" Mortimer rattled the flexi at Dr. Olivo. "Your note, I believe."
"Yes. That's my note. At that time, Jorge's death was just too painful for Sean to admit to himself."
"Would you say that the McNabb boy was confused about the accident?"
"In a manner of speaking. Unconsciously, he knew, but consciously he thought Jorge had escaped and was safe. It wasn't until Kurt visited him that he remembered."
Kurt stared at Mortimer, who looked sharply at him. "Oh, yes. It seems that Mr. Kraus played a major role in this whole business. Isn't that right, Mr. Kraus?"
"I suppose it is." He spoke evenly, but, inwardly, he seethed at the letter Mortimer had sent him earlier. It accused him of stepping out of bounds, using his M.Y.G.A. connections improperly, convening the Discipline Committee without prior clearance.
"Then perhaps you will enlighten us as to that role." The antagonism in Mortimer's voice was unmistakable.
Kurt shifted in his chair and then began to recount his visit with Sean.
"And so," Mortimer interrupted, "the McNabb boy didn't remember the details until you jogged his memory."
Kurt felt a quick anger flare. "I resent that." He shot a look at Margaret and the boy. "Silvio admitted that he was in the room when the fire started. It's on the tape."
"It was an accident!" Margaret leaned forward in her chair. "You know it was."
"I don't know anything of the kind."
"That's enough." Mortimer closed his eyes for a second. He looked suddenly old, suddenly very tired. He turned toward Kurt, "You have known Sean McNabb for several years?"
Kurt nodded. "Yes."
"Do you admit that knowing the boy-being his friend- might have caused you to be biased in your dealings with this matter?"
"I can admit that I know Sean tells the truth. I've never known him to lie."
"But, do you, concede that it is at least possible that you may be biased?"
"Toward Sean," Kurt admitted, "but not against anyone." He glanced at Margaret and Silvio. He didn't think he had been biased against either of them. But he was quickly becoming that way in the face of her hostility. There was something wrong here. Something wrong in the way she refused to see beyond her tight little preconceived notions.
Mortimer turned toward Margaret. "Miss Harris, how long have you been a teacher?"
"I've taught for eight years. Ever since I graduated from South Florida. I've always taught kindergarten. I've devoted my professional life to five-year-olds," she said defensively. "And I think I know a thing or two about them."
Mortimer sighed faintly. "I'm sure you do, Miss Harris."
"I have been professionally involved with Silvio Tarantino for over nine months now. And I can assure you that whatever happened in that room was not this child's fault."
"Can you, Miss Harris?"
She flushed, then bristled. "Maybe we should find out what the McNabb boy is trying to hide." Kurt stared at her in disbelief.
She thrust her chin forward defiantly. "He's repressing something. That means he feels guilty. How do we know who really struck that match?"
Kurt was on his feet. He stared angrily at Margaret Harris and then said sarcastically, "Maybe you asked the wrong person about bias, Mr. Mortimer. Maybe you'd better ask Miss Harris."
She looked at Kurt c
oldly. "I'm speaking as a professional."
"Then start acting like one," snapped Mortimer. "Your 'professional' expertise does not extend to a psychological evaluation of Sean McNabb."
A sudden shocked look crossed Margaret's face. Then she said, "Why don't you ask Silvio if Sean started the fire?" She turned to the child. "Did he?"
Kurt couldn't take his eyes from the woman. She was unbelievable. Now that she had put the thought in Silvio's head, it was predictable how he would answer. Again, he saw the sly look flicker over the child's face.
"That's enough, Miss Harris." Mortimer's voice was low, but emphatic. "I will repeat myself. This is an inquiry. No one is, on trial here. And although we do not stand on formality in this proceeding, we will have order."
After that, a subdued assemblage listened to succinct reports from firemen and rescue personnel and to a brief noncommittal report from a MacDill psychologist until Mortimer declared a brief recess while he deliberated with his assistants. The M.Y.G.A. Discipline Committee was pointedly excluded.
Twenty minutes later, they filed back into the room.
Mortimer began to speak: “The tragic death of Jorge Aguilar has had a profound effect on all of us. We have grieved for the boy and for his family, a family whose trial, unfortunately, did not end with Jorge's death; they have further been upset by the loss of a family heirloom-a crucifix-which disappeared from the boy's casket. It would seem to serve no purpose to further distress this family with pointless judicial proceedings when this inquiry clearly shows that Jorge's death was accidental.