EarthChild

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.