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Martin, Revisited
Chapter Eight
THEIR CHILDREN, AGAIN
Copyright 2016 - 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER TBD - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER TBD - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER TBD - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER TBD - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER TBD - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER TBD - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER TBD - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER TBD - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER TBD - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
CHAPTER TBD - The Birth of Imagination - Making sense of an odd situation.
CHAPTER TBD - The DNA Dream - Nightmares and airplanes.
CHAPTER TBD - The Caleb With The Kids - The best of all worlds.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft One:
Nothing, yet.
DISCLAIMER
Except for the first section of the prologue and the interludes, this is a work of fiction.
The rest is either a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, things, or events is coincidental and unintentional.
Martin woke up.
He looked around. They were walking along the winding, cobblestone path to church. Earlier he had fallen asleep in the car. Now he was in Caleb’s arms. Martin had the option on church days not to use his crutches. He had decided not to use them today.
“Caleb!” said a friendly, round mustachioed man in a suit. “And who is this gentleman?”
Caleb gently bounced Martin and said, “Good morning, James. This is ragamuffin number eight. He is two-and-a-half.”
Mr. Mustache bowed to Martin. “Eight. And you have--” He counted as he peered around Caleb “--Six? ... others? Is there a seven?”
“His twin, number seven, is in heaven.” Caleb lowered his head and voice a bit; Martin watched with interest. “We’ve never brought this little one, so the subject never came up until now.”
“I’m so sorry.” Mr. Mustache turned pink. “We lost our first. A boy. We think about him every day.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Martin quietly counted up eight fingers: five on one hand, three on the other, and held them up. “Numba eight, Daddy. I’m numba eight.”
Caleb squinted and stared. He did that a lot lately, when Martin spoke. Martin thought about asking why, then decided this question might be considered odd. He decided to remain silent.
Mr. Mustache also squinted. “You say he’s two-and-a-half?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Already knows how to count.”
“Already knows how to do too many things.”
“Too many things, Daddy?” Martin echoed, curious, wondering why that was bad.
“Yes, sir, too many.” Caleb’s frown relaxed into a smile.
Martin giggled then laughed, throwing his head back. They told him not to do that, because his neck might hurt, but he did it anyway.
“What’s so funny?” Caleb asked.
“You called me ‘sir.’” That sent Martin into more peals of laughter. People turned and observed and smiled as they walked by.
“That’s what you call a gentleman,” Caleb said, poking Martin in his little button-down-covered stomach. He also wore black slacks and black dress shoes, having insisted on wearing clothes similar to Caleb’s.
Mr. Mustache moved closer and muttered; Martin barely heard, “Meeting ... what day.”
Caleb said, “Same day as last week. Usual place. Shhh. Little pitchers. Big thingamajigs. You know the rest.”
“Agreed. See you then.” James shook Martin’s hand. “And you too, sir."
Martin laughed again, but kept his head steady.
Mr. Mustache said, “And the missus. Good morning, ma’am.”
Heather smiled and said, “Good morning.” Near her, Hayley and Garance and Christopher chatted and greeted people. Nearby, the other three children huddled and chatted nonstop with each other; they preferred each others’ company, yet got along well with almost everyone they met.
Abruptly, three eager voices clamored for Caleb’s attention: “Daddy, can I hold Martin?” “No, I want to hold Martin.” “No, I do.”
Caleb said, “May I. And let him decide.”
Garance, age seven, reached out with slim arms. “Me! I haven’t held him for a whole week.” She wore her favorite long white cotton dress, and purple and pink plaid wool coat, with pink flats; her dark brown hair was waist-length, and she was proud of it. Her hearing aids were a light pink.
Hayley, the oldest at eight, but a little bit shorter and heavier than Garance, said, “I held him yesterday, but I want another turn. He’s so sweet. And he laughs so cute.” She wore a pink and purple, long-sleeved cotton dress, with dark purple flats. She preferred her brown hair to be shoulder-length, and to cover up her light purple hearing aids.
Martin turned on the giggles just for her, using charm he had already picked up from Caleb. Hayley giggled back.
Christopher, age six, stepped forward, looking well-groomed with a brand new short haircut. “I never get to hold him. The firls always get to go girst. I mean the girls. First. Pay I mease hold him? May I please?” He was slim with brown hair and big blue eyes, looked like a tiny version of Caleb, and wore a tan button-down, dark brown blazer, and brand new jeans, with black loafers.
Martin could not make up his mind; he said with a little whine, “I want evwybody.”
The other three laughed, and Martin chewed on his hand, feeling self-conscious yet pleased with his audience. Then he leaned towards Christopher, who took him.
Caleb said, “Pass him nicely between the three of you. If he gets too heavy, give him back to one of us.”
Everyone said, "Okay."
Christopher said to Martin, "Hey there, Peapod."
“You’re a Peapod."
“No, you.”
“You’re not just the peas.” Martin spread his arms out wide. “You’re allllll the vegetables.”
Christopher frowned exactly the way Caleb did.
Martin giggled again.
Hayley laughed with him, and Garance said, “He’s learning fast.”
Christopher said, “Yeah. Really fast.”
Grace said, “My turn?”
Chris said softly, “Let Martin decide. Do you want to go with Garance, Peapod?”
“Peapod, Peapod, little silly peapod.” Martin hummed, looking for a tune for the words. Caleb once explained, “Sometimes I think of the words, then the music, and sometimes the other way around.” Martin stared into space, thinking of a unique series of sounds ....
Hayley said, “That’s his serious look. Last time he did that, he said he wanted a spaceship for Christmas.”
“I do! A gween one.”
Garance’s face creased with a big smile. “Why a green one?”
“I don’t know. Listen: Peapod, Peapod, little silly peapod. Peapod, Peapod, I love you.” He had decided to use the “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” tune, slightly modified.
Nearby, Caleb turned and said to Heather, “Did Number Eight just mimic me?”
“I think so. Maybe he’ll follow in your footsteps.”
“Maybe. If he can get away from his fascination with botany.”
Martin wanted to learn more about botany, but remembered the girls wanted to hold him. He reached for Hayley, who took him as they entered the church.
“See,” she said. “This is church. It is a non ... a non ... nondemomination ... a ... how do you say it, Garance?”
“Non-denominational.”
Martin said exactly the same way, “Non-denominational. What’s that?”
The girls stared, then Garance whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “They said to do our best to answer all questions because it will help him to learn and us to teach.”
Hayley muttered, “Okay,” then louder, “It’s a church where we learn about the Bible and Jesus.” To Garance she said, “Should I say more? It’s hard to explain.”
“Let him ask. We might not have to.”
Martin considered many questions. He decided upon one that had been bothering him for quite some time. “Does Jesus love me?”
Hayley said, “Of course, Honey.”
Martin started crying and wringing his hands. “Den ... den ... why can’t Howard be with me?”
Hayley bounced Martin and said, “Aw, Honey. Don’t cry. Jesus loves you. I think Howard was too sick to live. Would you want him to be really sick and alive?”
Martin could not speak. He wiped tears from his eyes over and over.
Garance said, “May I hold him?” She took him and gently bounced him. “Honey, Jesus loves you and he loves Howard. What if he was alive and sick. Wouldn’t that make you sad?”
“But I ... but I ... but I ... I could kiss him. And I dint get to kiss him. And make him better.”
“But listen. When you were both babies inside Momma, you were together. And you were the same, remember? You and Howard are identical twins. And you hugged him a lot, I bet. And he hugged you. You did that for a long time. From the moment you both were a tiny dot until you both came out of Momma. You had nine months together. And a few hours when you were first born.”
Martin listened, fascinated. He also thought about the photos of Howard that they showed him now and then. He often strained to remember Howard. Martin thought he had a sensory memory of his twin; something comforting and warm.
Christopher said, “How do you do that?”
Hayley said, “Do what.”
“Make him feel better.”
Garance said, “I don’t know if it does. He still looks upset.”
Hayley said, “You have to ... you have to be quieter. And just ... be nice.”
Chris said, “Can I hold you again, Peapod?”
Martin nodded, now quite solemn, and remained still as everyone sat in a row in one of the pews.
“You okay?” Chris asked.
Martin nodded, frowning.
“I think about Howard a lot. That sucks.”
Martin hugged Chris hard, then giggled softly. “Sucks, bucks ....” He uttered another rhyming word very softly.
Chris said, “Shh! Not in church! That’s not very nice. And how do you know that?”
Martin started giggling and could not stop. Then he had a brief seizure, and Heather had to take him outside, where she said, “Would you relax? You said you would do your best. Remember? Do you remember what ‘relax’ means?” She placed him next to her on a bench, and adjusted a tiny pink blazer over her long pink dress.
“Yes. I will, Mommy.”
“You can laugh all you want when we go back home.”
That started the giggling all over again, but he stopped quickly and said, “Okay.”
They went back inside, where she sat with Martin on her lap, to Caleb’s left, and where the other children sat to Caleb’s right, taking up a whole row.
Martin tried to pay attention to the service, but became distracted at the stained glass, and the statues, and the wooden interior, and the people. A few ladies wore finely-crafted hats with their Sunday dresses; a few men had shining, slicked-back hair; the pastor was a tall thin man who looked like William Shakespeare.
“Mommy,” he whispered against her ear.
“What.”
“He looks like Shakespeare.”
“Baby, how do you know what Shakespeare looks like?”
“I saw him in your books.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been climbing up the furniture and the bookcases to the paperback books.”
“I dint. I stood on a chair. And I saw him on TV, too.”
“You are seriously using the past tense and you’re only two? We’d better get your IQ tested.”
“What’s the pass tens? What’s the IQ?”
“I’ll tell you after church. You better be careful. You saw Shakespeare on TV?”
“On a dock mentally.”
“A what? Documentary?”
“Yeah.”
“What else did you learn about him?”
Martin concentrated as he accessed the information. “He wrote pways. Plays. And he lived here in England. Like us.”
“Tell me more when we get home. Let’s listen to this sermon.”
Martin tried to pay attention. Then he fell asleep.
Back at home, he resumed use of his tiny crutches, and ambled about while brunch was made. He moved from one end of the second and third stories to the other, then went downstairs -- with help from one of The Others -- then into the big sun room on the east side. The curtains were open, and Mr. Orville was outside, almost running down the street with a rambunctious St. Bernard on a big leash.
Martin considered that, then went to the kitchen and sniffed, looking for a tiny snack.
Heather said, “Baby. Veggies are over there, plus some dip.”
“Yummy.” He prepared a tiny plate and sat at the children’s table.
Caleb entered the kitchen and said, “Here you go, my love. A beautiful handful of rosemary. And that Orville needs to get a dog that won’t be walking him.”
“I think he enjoys the challenge of his current situation.”
“Whatever.”
Martin tried the word out, muttering: “Whatever, whatever, whatever.” He looked up and found Caleb staring and squinting.
Caleb said, “Are we going to stop it with the profanity in church?”
“What’s pro fan tee?”
“It is bad words. There’s a time and a place for that kind of language. That’s the second time.”
Martin giggled at this inaccuracy. “Not second. I said it thwee times. Three.”
“Oh, really?
“Yeah. A long time ago, and then ... and then ... and then again, and then today.”
“Well. How would you like it if Mr. Orville walked in here and called us all a bunch of stupid dum-dums? And something worse? Would that be nice of him?”
Martin studied Caleb, who was solemn and blank-faced, with one eyebrow lowered, and suddenly felt guilty. “No.”
“So when you go into the house of God and say bad words, do you think that is nice?”
“No.”
“If it happens again, you’ll have to help me weed the garden.”
Martin looked outside. They had a huge garden.
Caleb went to Heather, squinting at Martin the entire way.
In his head, Martin tried to find something to rhyme with “stupid dum-dum” plus a matching tune.
Later, they sat around the table and ate macaroni and cheese, and baked chicken, and green beans, and biscuits, with the promise of fresh fruit for dessert, plus a light white wine.
Martin watched everyone: Caleb and Heather, who were for the most part kind and gentle with all of their children; Hayley and Garance and Christopher, who did most of the talking; and The Others, who had developed their own clique as soon as they were aware of each other.
Martin wondered where his twin was, and as he chewed on a soft bite of chicken, he had a vision of a boy like him, only in a different place ....
Carter built his castle again, for the third time, faster than he did the last time, then finally let loose with, “I I I waaant aaa book.” He had been holding that back with great difficulty.
One of the girls said, “Jacob. You’re supposed to work on your eye-hand coordination until five p.m.”
“Whaaat’s eyyye-haaaand coordinaaaatiooon?”
A voice whispered, “Does he sound like he’s getting worse, not better?”
“He does. We need to fire that speech therapist and get another one.”
The girl said, “Like this.” She built her own castle.
Carter wanted to protest, but he knew it would take longer to explain his frustration and boredom, than it would take to simply build the castle a few more times. However, he felt bored. He already had great eye-hand coordination. Instead of this, he wanted to explore the library. He was only three, but he was already learning how to read in preschool.
He looked at the books around him. They were big and small, black and green and so many other colors, leather and fabric, paper and cardboard ... so many of them.
He was in the big library with a few of his siblings, his parents, and one of the nannies.
“Pleeease,” he said again. “I I I waaant aaa book.”
Everyone ignored him.
He did not like that, and did not welcome being ignored, but he already knew that living here involved being treated that way. He already knew if this treatment did not stop, he would be leaving ... sooner, rather than later.
He built the castle again, while remembering the last book one of them had read to him: something about a boy who flew with a fairy to some weird place where a pirate caused a lot of trouble.
“Peter Paaan,” he mouthed silently. He did his best to remember the rest, to pass the time.
Then he laughed. He was building the castle over and over, quite well. He saw them watching, and sometimes frowning at his laughter. Why were they? He wanted more challenges. He wanted to read more, and to explore the world, and meet new people. At preschool, he saw Black children and Asian children and Hispanic children, and all kinds. Here, at home, it was a big crowd of his brothers and sisters and parents and staff, but they were all white.
Maybe they would reward him for speaking a different language.
He said without the usual speech issues, “Je voudrais un livre.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
He added, “S’il vous plait.”
Someone muttered, “Is he speaking French?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Where does a three-year-old learn French?”
“Beats me. Give him his personal Bible. For some reason he likes it.”
“Which one? He has three.”
“The King James version.”
“Why?”
“Again. Beats me.”
Carter watched as someone moved resentfully to the bookcase, looked around, grabbed a large black book, brought it to him, and slumped away.
“Merci,” Carter said. “Beaucoup.”
“Seriously, where on earth did he learn how to speak French that well?”
Carter started flipping pages, thinking about the preschool again. They had French lessons weekly. Maybe the adults had forgotten.
Soon, he was lost in the Bible. He could read only a few words; and enjoyed looking at the illustrations by Gustave Doré, from Adam in the garden all the way to judgment day at the end.
When he was finished, the library was empty.
He took his tiny crutches and moved to the doorway, where he stopped. Last time he was left alone up here, someone waited outside the door and tried to scare him. He had laughed, and they had laughed, but they had muttered while walking away, “Try harder next time. Gotta do something about this baggage.”
He had sensed the meaning of the last word, and had mixed feelings: worry over how offensive it sounded; along with wanting to prove he was just like everyone else in the building; only he needed crutches to walk, and a bit more time to be understood when he spoke.
Carter listened, and heard something to his left, so he remained inside the library. A few seconds later, a voice called, “All hands on the second floor immediately, except for Jacob. He can tidy up the big library.” Feet went running, and soon the third floor was quiet.
Carter slowly moved into the hallway, looking around. If they startled him again, he would not be happy. He went to the children’s bathroom and locked it, then took care of business. After that, he did his best to clear up the library, then took several lifts to the dining room, where dinner was being served.
“Hands, please.”
He showed his, then sat.
Soon, everyone was seated, and prayers were said: “Lord, thank you for your blessings, and for the place we live in, the food we eat, and the warm beds we sleep in. For the beautiful things surrounding us. Amen.”
Carter wondered why they were not thanking the Lord for love, peace, happiness, and other abstract things. But perhaps they felt it and chose not to voice it.
As he reached for a baked chicken leg, a voice to his right said, “Why didn’t you tidy up the big library?”
He tensed. Something similar to those words had happened recently, but he could not remember the details other than a strange lie, followed by a strange apology. Things had been okay since then, but a protest remained: why would his own flesh and blood do such things? He had been wary since then. Now, he felt dread. His heart rate picked up; he felt like vomiting; his muscles tightened; he almost got up and ran out the front door. Briefly, that made him feel happy, then he re-focused and consoled himself: it wasn’t always bad here; there was good food to eat; he had his own bedroom and nice clothes and he went to preschool.
Carefully, slowly, he said, “I did.” He reached again for the chicken leg.
Someone moved the food away.
“You go tidy up that room, then wash your hands again, then you may have dinner.”
Carter’s thoughts, feelings and physiological make-up followed the same loop again: more muscle tension, frustration, a desire to leave and not return. Instinct provided common sense in the form of a feeling rather than words: where would he go; what would he do? At age three, he could not fend for himself. Then, back to the realization that it was not always bad here, and this was only the second time this had happened.
The alternative was to find a way out of these false allegations.
Carter said, “I did,” and reached again for some food, but all the platters were too far away to reach.
Nobody reacted to him. Everyone ate, taking their time, passing food to each other but not to him.
Carter followed the loop once again: If he stayed, he would most likely not get anything to eat. If he went back upstairs and did as asked, it might start the process all over again. How many times would he have to clean the library? What to do?
He noticed that there was plenty of food, and that there might be a lot left by the time he returned ... if he chose to go upstairs and “clean” the library again.
Abruptly, he realized that he did not do anything wrong. He had picked up the toys and put them away, and had re-stacked some of the loose books, and had organized the newspapers, and had sprayed the pine-needle scent they liked in there.
He reached for a platter of potatoes. Someone moved it. He looked around and said “Pleeease paaass the food,” but no one would look at him or help him.
After a while, he went upstairs.
In the big library, he found everything back where it had been before he cleaned the room.
He sat down just inside the library and did some serious thinking. A memory flashed: a story on the news. A child had been harmed. She was three years old. She was rescued and sent someplace else to live, away from where she had been harmed. She said she had been hurt and yelled at, and called a liar. Now she was “thriving” and happy. A So Shul Worker had helped her. And the police had also helped her. Could a So Shul Worker help Carter? And could the police? He wondered about that. This was the second time he had been falsely accused, and he did not want there to be another time.
Suddenly, the words were there, plain and simple: Go. Just go. Out the front door.
But there were other words: How? To where? How?
Carter frowned and looked into the hallway. Dinner scents had drifted up here, and the sounds of happy diners had picked up.
Carter suddenly had a vision that he did not fully understand: he was not here because he really wanted to be, but because someone else could not be here, and he had taken that person’s place. If he did this job fairly well -- and he was sure he would, despite its challenges -- he would be okay.
With that in mind, he picked up all the stuff again, then locked the door from the inside and shut it.
Downstairs, at the table, he looked for food, after passing inspection. While preparing to eat, he overheard, “The little troublemaker locked the door.”
He most certainly was not a troublemaker. The word bothered him and accurately explained their actions behind what was left to eat: one tiny chicken leg, one small baked potato, a big serving of salad, and a bit of Italian dressing.
He ate well, then felt tired. The day had been disappointing. He felt slightly sick to his stomach. Fatigue called to him, promising some relief.
“Jacob. Time for physical therapy.”
He trudged behind them, to the little gym. He dutifully did his leg exercises, and his arm exercises.
After that, he could finally go to his room. He sat there for a while, on the floor, lost in thought, glad to shut his door, and have some privacy. Most of the day was fading, leaving only that sense of dread.
Suddenly, he thought he heard a faint screeching, which reminded him of the time he had been taking a bath, and thought he heard the same thing. Then someone had screeched right outside the bathroom door: “Jacob is running through the hallway naked!”
He cringed, realizing instinctively: it’s about to happen--
Someone screeched: “Jacob’s door is shut!”
He covered his face with his hands, trying to make the noise go away, and wishing a So Shul Worker could help him “thrive” and be happy. That sounded like fun. This was not fun. It was disgusting and confusing.
There was a banging on the door.
He moved to the foot of his bed and hid.
The door opened. “Why is this door shut?”
Carter frowned, then pulled himself up and said, “Everyyyone else shuuuts their doors. Whyyy caaan’t I I I I I?”
“Speak English. Stupid speech therapist. We pay enough money for that--” Loud footsteps pounded away.
Carter waited until the hallway was silent, then closed the door again.
A few minutes later, the door swung open and two of them began taking the door down, with screwdrivers and hammers.
He returned to the foot of his bed and covered his ears, not understanding.
They pounded and scratched and swore and breathed hard and grunted. This went on for a long time, accompanied by the uttering of every swear word Carter knew of, and then some.
The voice muttered, “Why the hell is he always causing trouble?”
Carter still felt nauseated and tense, but also slightly amused. He had done nothing wrong.
There were more scrapes and thumps; grinding and grunting, followed by, “Someone help me with this.” After that, there was silence.
He peeked around the bed. The door was gone, and there was a see-through shower curtain hanging from the lintel of the doorway. Soon, it was hot in his room, and he pinned back part of the curtain.
Another voice shouted, “He’s not using the curtain properly.”
Five minutes later the shower curtain was removed.
Instinct yet again enlightened him with concepts that translated into: This may not stop unless you leave this building. And it may not be really unbearable. Just weird and disappointing. Over and over. Like a buzzing fly.
Much later, Carter woke, realizing he had gotten himself to bed. After dressing and washing up, he presented himself for inspection. He was early to breakfast, so he practiced writing his name on the paper on the table. At least this part of the day seemed to be the same for everyone: if the meal was not yet ready, they had to practice their handwriting.
He wrote in upper and lower-case letters, “Jacob Carter Doe,” over and over until the food was served.
For whatever reason, breakfast went smoothly.
He listened and watched. Aside from wincing when they moved, the door-removers seemed okay today.
He looked around, at all of them, and wondered what it would be like not to feel the dread in his stomach.
Suddenly, he had a vision: a boy who was chanting. A man and woman were taking care of him with love and kindness. The boy’s house was big; there were a lot of people there. But little to none of the sneaking around and noise and false accusations. Everyone had doors that they could close when they wanted. There was enough food to eat, and enough love for everyone.
Carter’s thoughts were clear, despite his age: You have to be strong so you can see him again. And then you will be happy.
Breakfast continued to run smoothly, as was the transition to preschool, which also went well.
Then back to The Building. The evening was rather quiet, particularly after he farted loud and long in the big library. He had purposely saved the methane release for that precise time.
As he had hoped, the protests began.
“What the devil did he just do?”
“He passed gas.”
“Really. Perhaps he’d better go to bed early. He might be ill. We should put a porous, opaque curtain in the doorway, something easily tied back. So his room doesn’t fill up with any noxious scents.”
Words came to Carter: clear and precise: Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have removed the door from my room.
They could not stand farts. Carter did so again, and at the same time noticed two words at the same time: ‘golden’ and ‘horn’ on two separate books on the shelves. He imagined a pretty, small, golden trumpet jumping to the floor to his rescue, and bending over and farting musically and annoyingly until the perpetrators promised to stop their abusive nonsense.
“Jacob, would you please excuse yourself?”
“Yes,” he said. “Mayyy I I I I I--?”
“Immediately. Go.”
“Thaaank youuu.”
For a moment he studied them. He was of two minds: either they knew exactly what they were doing, in which case he needed to leave The Building as soon as possible; or they had no idea what they were doing, in which case he still needed to leave The Building as soon as possible.
Carter went to his room, got his pajamas, washed up and changed in the bathroom because it had a door, then went to his room. The entire place seemed to be quiet at first, but then he could hear playing in some rooms, and chatting in others. The staff was always busy. Some sort of business was always going on in the conference room in the basement.
He had another vision: the chanting boy, who needed a bit of guidance, not much, just enough to keep himself out of trouble.
Carter volunteered to help the boy and as he slept, he rescued the boy from harm, and they moved forward together like they had a long time ago.
Martin moved his basket to the next crowd of weeds, looking into the distance, thinking again about the other boy.
“Right here, and here, and here.” Caleb indicated what to pull out of the ground. “Those gloves fitting well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did well at church this past Sunday. No profanity then. Why can’t you do that every week?”
“It’s self-control, Daddy. I am learning.”
Caleb frowned sideways, then continued pulling. “Your mom tell you about that intelligence test?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Soooo, aaaare you goooing to take it?”
“Yes, Daddy. I want to know my IQ.”
“Higher than mine, probably,” Caleb muttered.
Martin giggled. He could not imagine being smarter than adults.
“How old are you now?” Caleb asked. “Five thousand?”
Martin’s laughter rang out in the yard and echoed back from the big hills. “I’m two years and eleven months.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
They worked quietly for a while. Martin relished the experience: the lukewarm breeze of late spring; the dense soil; the varied shades of green of the weeds and grass; the large comforting presence of Caleb, who worked with a mostly pleasant expression and occasionally wiped sweat off his forehead with a big hand.
Someday, Martin thought, I want to be a Daddy like him: firm yet patient. He is a good man.
“Over here, sir,” Caleb said. “All of these, please. I’ll tackle this mess further down.”
Martin looked around. It was a big garden behind their house, with a wooden fence. There was space all around their property and well-worn paths up to the surrounding green hills, which were sparsely dotted with trees.
He returned to the weeds, enjoying the peace and quiet of the activity.
Soon, Caleb said, “That’s it, for now. Want to sit for a while?”
“Yes, sir.”
They sat on the grass, watching the house. Martin could hear everyone else: Heather and the other children and the housekeeper calling to each other, playing or doing chores.
“Martin, do you like church?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you don’t like it, you can tell me. I say that because maybe you use those bad words because you don’t want to be there.”
Martin took his time thinking about this. At church, he had been rhyming again, and had finished the series, “fit, bit, hit,” with yet another four-letter surprise.
“I do want to be there, Daddy. I am sorry.”
“Well. As we’ve told you many times now. Some people at church don’t go there to hear words like that. I know you can watch your mouth, so do your best when you’re there. You sure no one is teaching you these things, and no one is making you do it?”
“Yes, Daddy. I tell myself.”
“So you can tell yourself to ....”
Martin smiled faintly, feeling guilty again. “To stop it.”
Caleb stared sideways with a solemn face.
“No mean face,” Martin said.
“It’s my patient face. And it’s my dare-you-to-giggle face.”
Martin tried to hold them in.
“I dare you, double-dare you, triple-dare you.”
Martin clamped a hand over his own mouth.
Caleb reached out with a long finger--
Martin moved away, giggling. “No, Daddy. No tickling.”
“Okay. You ready to go back?”
“Yes.”
After more chatting, they walked to the house and went inside.
Three years later, at age five, Martin looked at the garden from the back door, remembering.
He smiled. That was the last time he had to pull the weeds as punishment, but he had agreed to continue doing so as one of his chores.
He went inside and put the tools in the attached shed, then went to the kitchen, thinking vaguely about life and family and this house in England, and the past three years. There had been more of the same: moving back and forth between New York City and England; going to preschool then kindergarten; learning; an occasional life lesson understood. He was already thinking about his life after school, and had decided he wanted to live by himself, and might even go out on his own at age fifteen. He loved his parents, brothers and sisters, but he wanted more privacy and more time to himself, which might allow more time to learn a profession or two.
“Lunch time,” Heather called.
Martin looked around, missing everyone. He found Hayley to be matter-of-fact and helpful; Garance was smart and gentle; Christopher was kind and friendly; The Others were always good-mannered and reliable.
“Where’s Daddy?” Martin asked. He felt a tiny bit of fear; he was sometimes afraid that Caleb would leave in the morning and never return.
Heather said, “He has a concert. But he’ll be back soon; he has some free time.”
Martin squinted. Something about that sounded different. He said, “I miss him.”
“I do, too.”
Hayley glanced at Martin, looked away with her eyes down, and took a long sip of milk. He noticed this as he got into his chair, which could sometimes be a chore. He pulled the chair out, sat, put both crutches in his right hand, moved closer to the table which he gripped with his left hand, and rested his crutches against his chair.
“Potato chips, Peapod?” Christopher asked to Martin’s right.
“Yes, please.”
“Too late.” Christopher withdrew them.
Martin giggled. “Please.”
“Just kidding.”
The bag crackled as Martin took out a medium-sized handful of chips. As he reached in for a few more, he saw Hayley frowning and first looking at the bag, then at Heather who suddenly got up to answer the phone, and then at The Others, who were having an in-depth conversation about spiders.
Hayley reached to both of her ears and appeared to adjust her hearing aides. Her face was solemn, with big eyes.
Martin crackled the bag.
Hayley sat still, adjusting her aides.
Martin held the potato chip bag in front of her face. She smiled at him. “Thank you.” She crackled the bag several times while looking at it with a blank face.
Martin looked around. Everyone else was busy. He thought about saying something, but Hayley had become more private lately about almost everything, and sometimes became irritated without explaining why. Caleb said this might happen to Garance, too, and that it was a natural thing for not only human beings in general once in a while, but also for girls who were becoming women.
Christopher glanced at Hayley, but said nothing. Hayley whispered to Garance, “It’s worse.”
The Others and Heather were occupied; with the end of the spider subject and the beginning of a fart subject, and the phone call, respectively.
Martin built a big sandwich, took a few pickles, and prepared to eat, just as Heather hung up the phone and said, “Daddy will be here for a few hours today.”
A few cheers went up.
Martin took a big bite and savored the sandwich: salty ham; creamy cheese; a bit of mayonnaise; plenty of lettuce and tomatoes and onions.
To his left, Hayley stared into space.
Garance touched her and spoke; Hayley whispered, “I can’t hear you. They’re all the way up.”
Martin glanced at Heather, who was chatting and laughing with the housekeeper.
Christopher elbowed Martin and said, “I tried your combination. I like it. Mixing the mustard and mayonnaise.”
“Cool,” Martin said.
“Yep. With a little bit of french dressing. No onions. How can you eat them?”
“I like the spiciness.”
“Makes your breath smell bad.”
“That’s bad if you want to get close to someone. Like Hillie.”
Christopher turned pink. “Shhh. Don’t say that too loud.”
“Isn’t nine years old too young for a--”
Heather approached the table, looked around, and sat. Almost everyone shifted their conversations easily; The Others stopped discussing what farts sounded like, and made it sound like they were discussing Disney cartoons; Hayley stopped whispering and said in a louder voice, “It was fun spending the night there,” and Martin finished, “--beebee gun?”
Christopher snickered; Hayley looked at him and frowned, then continued her chat with Garance.
“What’s happening, Sweeties?” Heather said.
“Lunch,” Hayley said. “Delicious sandwiches, Momma.”
Martin heard it then, a full day before it happened: the contention, the anger, the abuse, the raised voices. He had a vision of Caleb shouting; of Heather more serious than he had ever seen her; of some sort of physical pain.
Feeling uneasy, Martin glanced around again. Everyone appeared to be enjoying lunch, including the housekeeper, who would have tomorrow off. The housekeeper was the daughter of their neighbors Mandie and Bart; she was thinking about becoming a pediatric nurse and found their household to be a good fit so far towards her goals. When she was present, the place ran a bit more smoothly.
How can this turn into shouting and pain? Martin wondered. He decided to watch his back; he had experienced no abuse within his family, but was well aware that it could happen anywhere at anytime, for any reason.
A few minutes later, most of them were playing hide and seek.
Martin ran toward the east side of the house, getting further and further away from them. He went up the stairs to the second floor and then to the third floor -- it was hard work, but he needed the challenging exercise of moving about with mostly his upper body strength -- and saw that the stairs to the attic were open. They were allowed to go up there, as long as they returned the other way, down through the living room.
“Anyone on the third floor?” Garance shouted.
Martin giggled in panic then whispered one of his favorite swear words.
“I heard you, Martin!”
He looked up the attic stairs. The door -- with attached stairs -- was thick and solid and ended securely at the third floor, with finely-crafted wooden steps and two sturdy rails. If he hurried, he could pull himself up.
He shortened the crutches, put them in his shirt and down to the waist of his jeans, grabbed the railings, and strained to get himself up the stairs. It was easier if he went up one side. He tried to go fast, and listened, but could hear no one so far. He got to the top, crawled into the attic, turned, and looked down.
No one was there.
He removed the crutches from his shirt and put them aside, then looked around. It was a nice big clean attic with some things in storage, some antiques from some of the former owners, and a lot of space. They were encouraged to explore.
Someone approached the bottom of the stairs: Hayley. She gestured to someone.
Garance appeared.
Hayley said in a flat voice, “I can’t hear most sounds. It’s almost over.”
Garance hugged her. “It’s not over. You can learn more sign language. And you can speak. You might have to learn more lip-reading. You already know some.”
“I don’t want to be deaf anymore. I want my hearing back.”
Garance watched with sympathy.
Hayley turned around and folded her arms.
“Are you sure you can’t hear me?” Garance said.
Hayley did not move.
In a high-pitched voice, Garance said, “Are you sure you can’t hear me?”
Hayley turned only her head. “Sorry?”
Garance moved so they could see each others’ faces. “That was me. Speaking in a squeaky voice.”
“Great. I can only hear people who sound like Mickey Mouse.”
“Hay, please don’t be sad. Momma and Daddy take care of us. They can get the best care. It might take a while to learn some of that stuff. But then, it will be easier.”
“I don’t want to! I want my hearing back! Why can’t I have cerebral palsy? Or nothing at all? Why do we all have to have disabilities? I want to be normal.”
“Normal?” Garance said. “Normal? Like that?”
Martin had to fight hard not to laugh. At that moment, Christopher’s voice moved down the hall, muttering in a thick French accent, “Ladies, ze chief inspector zemands de presence of cour yompany on ze flirst foor.” He appeared at the bottom of the attic stairs wearing a huge beret, red white and blue T-shirt, jeans, and holding a long stick like a cigarette. “Dang it. I can’t even fake an accent without the dylsexia. I mean dyslexia. I can’t even say my own disability.”
Garance said to Hayley, “Like him? There’s no such thing.”
“There IS such a thing.”
To Christopher, Garance said, “Does that mean Dad is here?”
“Non, ma soeur.”
“Speak English. I never paid attention in French.”
“Then how did you get an A in it. You and Martin. You just sear homething and it sticks. I mean hear something.”
“You learned sports fast,” Garance said.
“Yeah, I did.” Christopher seemed to be pleased with himself.
“And ... Martin,” Hayley said, making the name sound like a swear word.
Martin squinted, remembering his thoughts from lunch: things could change at any time for any reason.
Garance said softly, “Stop it. You said you were fine about that.”
“I was. Then when Dad was about to leave he told Martin, ‘Keep an eye on everything for me.’ Dad just gave me a kiss and said, ‘Have fun on your sleepover.’ As if I couldn’t keep an eye on everything. I’m the oldest.”
Christopher said, “You do that already. Maybe he doesn’t think he has to remind you.”
“I think it is sexist.”
Grarance said, “Hayley. Daddy thinks you’re a good older sister. Is it time for ... you know ....”
Christopher said, “Your period?”
Hayley pushed him lightly. “Don’t say it.”
He said, “Okay.” He turned red.
Garance said, “Don’t be jealous of Martin, again. Remember when you went with him and Daddy the last time Martin was punished?”
“Yes, and it was boring.”
Garance said, “And you said they did a lot of walking and Daddy said the same things over and over.”
Christopher said, “What did Martin do? He hardly ever does anything wrong anymore.”
Garance said, “He told his teacher he didn’t need any help after falling in the classroom, and refused to rephrase his words nicely. So Daddy took him for a long walk and told him how to handle things like that.”
Christopher said, “That IS boring. Why did you go, Hay?”
“Because I told Daddy that he loves Martin more. So Daddy said he would show me what happens during punishments.”
“Do youuuu stillll think thaaaat?”
Martin grinned. Caleb’s and Heather’s ways of speaking had rubbed off on all their children.
Hayley said, “Not as much. Daddy spent that entire walk talking. He would not listen to Martin, who had to listen and pay attention, or else he would get a spanking, too. And I had to, also. I just barely passed. But I’ll take the spanking next time. No walks for me.”
Christopher laughed. “I’d take the spanking. And don’t ever let Momma punish you. You have to clean. And clean. And clean. And cook, too.”
“Did you have to?”
“No, The Others did. She sent Giselle home with pay, and told The Others they had to cook and clean for the day. Remember? When we had hot dogs and macaroni and cheese that one night.”
“The Others? What did they do?”
“All three of them--” Christopher started. “Shey thredded--” he sighed.
Garance said, “They shredded a stack of paper in the office. And it had money in it.”
Hayley said, “Oh, hell, no.”
The three of them laughed long and hard.
Christopher said, “Where did you hear that?”
“On TV one day. Did they get the money back?”
Garance said, “I think so. Momma said they could get another check, but they had to find the original in all the shredded paper.” She glanced at Hayley and said, “Can I tell ....”
“Okay.”
Garance said, “Hayley is about to lose all of her hearing.”
Christopher frowned. “No way. I mean ... oh hell, no.”
“Yes,” Hayley said. “Did you see me crunching the potato chip bag?”
“Yeah.”
“I couldn’t hear it. And I couldn’t hear the phone ringing.”
“That sucks.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I want to tell them.”
“I won’t,” Garance said.
“I won’t,” Christopher said.
Hayley held out her hand. “Promise.”
The others put their hands on top of hers and agreed.
In the distance, a squeaky door opened. A friendly tenor voice called, “I’m back for a few hours. Anyone want hugs and kisses?”
Hayley said, “I bet Martin gets all of them.”
Garance said, “He might not. I heard him giggling somewhere on the second floor. He might still be hiding.”
Christopher said, “Come on. Dad says he performs better when he gets to see all of us before going onstage.”
“What about Martin?” Hayley said as she walked slowly behind them.
“Make up your mind,” Garance said. “You don’t like him, you’re concerned about him.”
“I do like him. But what if he stays hiding forever?”
“You’d have Dad all to yourself, then,” Christopher said.
They disappeared into the west end of the third floor and went down the stairs.
Martin thought about going back down the wooden attic stairs, but they were forbidden. He decided he’d been punished enough with Caleb’s long walks and talks. Carefully, he went through the attic, and down the concrete stairs at the west end, and went into the living room, then the kitchen.
They were all in the big sun room, chatting and laughing.
He prepared a glass of water and sipped it slowly. He could see Caleb looking around with a little frown.
“Where’s number eight?” Caleb asked Heather in a low voice.
“I’ll go look for him.”
Martin put the glass in the sink and went into the sun room. “Here I am.”
“Speaking of the ragamuffin,” Caleb said. He reached out and Martin went to him, enjoying a quick hug and kiss. “What’s going on today, Marty?”
“I don’t like that nickname, Daddy.”
Caleb winked. “Martin, then.”
“Just eating lunch, and chores, and hide and seek.”
“Eating chores. You’ll have to show me how to do that.”
Martin giggled, and retreated when one of The Others said, “Daddy, look!”
Caleb moved through the room with two children clinging to him and two more talking to him. Heather and the housekeeper were talking again, with the other two children.
Martin saw that Caleb did not have a drink, so went to the kitchen, got a bottled water, followed the three-headed creature, anticipated where they might land, and placed the water on a nearby coffee table.
“Thank you, Martin,” Caleb said.
“Welcome.”
Martin suddenly felt tired, not only from all the running and working, but from listening to the conversation near the attic. He went to the playroom and looked through the books, felt bored, then went to the library on the second floor, found a book more suitable to his liking -- “An Introduction To Botany” -- sat back, and began reading.
A few hours later, Caleb entered with two plates full of food, sat on the floor and said, “Hey there ... my son. Care to eat with your old man?”
Martin giggled. “You’re not old.”
“Eat with me. I hardly got to see you earlier.”
“Okay. But it’s six o’clock. What about the concert?”
“I have time. I hope I brought all your favorite things to eat.”
Martin looked at the plate of salmon, rice, broccoli, and salad. “Healthy night. Yum. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. What were you doing up in the attic?”
“Playing hide and seek.”
“Be careful up there.”
“I will.”
“How are you feeling today? Any seizures I need to know about?”
“I am okay. No seizures today.”
“You keep track on that chart we gave you.”
“I will.”
“So how do you eat chores?”
Martin giggled around a mouthful of food.
They ate quietly for a while, until footsteps and chatting filled the hallway.
“Daddy?” called a voice.
“In the library,” Caleb said.
The Others entered, one by one, and sat on several recliners.
Martin prepared for a lengthy interrogation. The Others were perpetually inquisitive about the world around them.
“Martin,” said The Middle Other. “What do you want for Christmas?”
He chewed, considering many fun possibilities. “Um. A book about trees.”
“That’s all? What else?”
“And seeds. Tomato seeds.”
“Daddy, what do you want for Christmas?”
“What do I want. Hm.” Caleb took a sip of wine. “Let me see. I always need guitar picks. A brand new capo would be nice.”
“What’s a capo?” asked The Youngest Other.
The Middle Other said, “It’s something that goes on the neck of the guitar to make the notes sound different.”
The Oldest Other wrote this down, then said, “What are we doing Sunday?”
Caleb squinted. “Well. We were hoping--”
The Youngest Other said, “Please, please, please.”
“--to go to London,” Caleb finished. “And go to church on Saturday.”
The Others cheered.
Garance peeked in. “What? We’re going to London on Sunday?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
She turned into the hallway. “It’s London on Sunday!”
Christopher said, “All right!”
Hayley said, “I want to go to that pretty shopping street. What’s happening in here?” She looked in and said, “Party in the library!” She, Garance, and Christopher entered and leaned on the back of the main sofa.
Caleb said, “We can party in here, but don’t destroy your mom’s books or she will get rid of all of us.”
Christopher said, “She is so picky about her books.”
Martin giggled, nodding.
A voice said, “Oh, really?” Heather peeked in. “But you’re right. No sticky fingerprints on my books or magazines. Everyone finished eating?”
Martin savored one last bite of salmon and rice. “Now, I am. Do you want help washing dishes?”
“No, we ... I’ll do them. You all relax or play or resume hide and seek.”
Caleb said, “What about the housekeeper?”
“It’s her early day.”
“Oh. Then I will help you.” Caleb stood and took Martin’s plate.
“Daddy, when are you leaving?” Hayley said.
Martin noticed an odd hesitation; then Caleb said in his usual patient manner, “Soon.” He looked around. “Anyone have the time?”
“Seven-ten,” said The Oldest Other.
“Thank you.” Caleb and Heather glanced at each other, then moved out of the room. As soon as they left, The Middle Other said, “Can we play a quick game of hide and seek?”
Everyone looked around and nodded.
“Who’s counting?”
Garance said, “Hayley was doing that--”
Hayley said, “I’m counting to ten. One--”
Everyone scattered. Martin went to the stairs that led to the third floor, put his crutches in his shirt, and tried to be quick about it. He listened, and heard Hayley’s voice: “Seven ... Eight ....”
Martin giggled, then managed to get to the third floor. He turned and went to the stairs to the attic, and wondered: do it again? He went up, and thought the task was easier this time; at one point his left leg moved on its own. He laughed hysterically out of nervousness, then swore when he heard Hayley shout, “I’m coming and I’m almost on the third floor!”
He was almost in the attic. He yanked himself up two more steps, then fell forward with a noisy thud.
Below, near the attic stairs, Hayley shouted, “I’m on the third floor!”
Martin turned and looked down.
Hayley was facing away from him. She said, “I heard you giggling and swearing, Martin.” Softly, she added, “Just for a little bit. And I think that was the last sound I will ever hear naturally on this earth. Now I can’t hear a thing. Nothing.”
She took out her hearing aides and adjusted them several times. “It’s gone. I’m completely deaf.”
Martin said, “Hayley.”
She did not move.
He banged the stair below him.
She remained still.
“I’m up here,” he said.
Hayley shouted, “I saw you, Chris!” She ran away, laughing.
Further away, Chris replied, “I’m faster than you!”
Laughter rang out: the hopeful happiness of childhood.
TO BE CONTINUED
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