by David Archer
“I'm sorry,” I said, even though I didn't really feel such a thing. “But you get to go home, someday, right?”
She shrugged her shoulders, but she grinned. “Someday, probably. Meanwhile, I finally get to go to the special tutors they've been trying to get me all this time.”
“What's so special about them?”
“Well, for example, when you go to school, you're learning multiplication and long division, and some social studies and things like that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“My tutor is teaching me advanced algebra and geometry instead of regular math; instead of social studies, I'm learning European history; and instead of reading, I'm in classical European literature. Most of those are things you won't even hear about until you're in high school, or maybe even college.”
I cocked my head and let my eyebrows rise a bit. “Wow,” I said. “How did you get to be so smart?”
She grinned and shrugged, and then winked at me. “I find that out next year, when I start studying genetics. Until then, all they'll tell me is that I must've inherited it from my grandparents. They were pretty smart, too.”
“I wish I was that smart,” I said. “Maybe then I could figure out what's wrong with me.”
She pulled down her eyebrows and gave me a funny grin. “Did you ever see Star Trek? The old one, I mean, with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock?”
“Yeah. Why?”
She giggled at me. “Because you're Mr. Spock,” she said. “You're a Vulcan. I've been watching you, and you think through everything you do; you do everything logically, whether you know it or not. You're like a Vulcan, because you don't have any emotions.”
I considered what she’d said. “Is doing everything logically a bad thing?”
“I wouldn't think so,” she said. “Most people do everything from an emotional standpoint, basing everything on how they feel. You don't. In the split-second between when someone says something to you and you react to it, I can see you thinking it through, deciding on which is the best thing to do or say, and then planning out the best way to put that into action. Personally, I think that if everyone could do that, this world would probably be a lot better off. It might be a little bit more boring, but at least there wouldn't be so many emotional problems in the world. You wouldn't have people who get jealous of their kids over being smarter than they are, or who lose their tempers and kill the people they love.”
“You really think so?” I asked.
“Of course I do. It wouldn't be logical, because those kinds of behaviors only come about emotionally. Someone who thinks in terms of logic, and doesn't have emotions telling them what to do, would never act that way.”
I thought about what she had said, but at that point, I just didn't really understand. Still, it made me feel a little bit better that at least someone thought I was okay. If being a “Vulcan” was a good thing, then I was glad she was comparing me to one. I started watching old reruns of Star Trek, whenever I got a chance, just to see how Mr. Spock handled things.
Things weren't too bad at Mrs. Connors' house, at least after what had happened with Dawson that first night I arrived. Jimmy made sure that everyone new who came in understood that I was his friend, and that no one was to mess with me. Because he was bigger than most kids, even at his age, nobody seemed to want to cross him, and it kept things calmer.
There was sort of a core group of kids that seemed to be always there, which included Jimmy, me, Jerry, Lizzie and Molly. Other kids came and went, but the five of us seemed almost to be stuck there. We didn't mind, because Mrs. Connors treated us like her own special kids that she seemed to feel closer to.
I'm sure she knew the type of problems I had, because the doctors and caseworkers would've made sure she was aware of them. She never said anything to me about it, though, and I appreciated that. From a purely objective point of view, looking back now, I would say that she probably loved some of us as if we were her own kids, but back then, I was incapable of even thinking in those terms.
Weeks turned into months, and I seemed to be doing well with the new school and everything. There were a few things that happened that I wasn't sure about, such as when I was taken to court to be informed that my house was being sold, with everything in it, along with my dad's old pickup truck and a lot of other things. Somewhere along the line, someone had gone and gotten the rest of my things from the house. The money the house and my parents’ things brought would be put into a trust fund that would become mine when I turned eighteen, and a lawyer named Mr. Pembroke was being appointed as the trustee, which meant that he would be able to give me an allowance from it. In that hearing, Mr. Pembroke and the judge decided that my allowance would start out at ten dollars per week. To me, that almost seemed like a small fortune. My parents never let me have any money.
As it turned out, I was the only one of us five Core Kids who got an actual allowance from outside. Each of us was given opportunities by Mrs. Connors to earn a little money now and then, by doing chores and helping out with different things. There were also some people in the neighborhood who would occasionally want a little help around the yard or something, who would call her up and ask her to send down one or two reliable kids to help. It was almost always one of the five of us that she would send, although if one of the transient kids was behaving well, she would sometimes let them in on the opportunities, too.
Time passed, as it always does. The school year ended, and we kids got to enjoy the summer. I turned eight that July, but other than that, I didn't feel any different than I had when I arrived. I hung out with my friends, and took advantage of any chance to make a little extra money.
There was an old man named Mr. Wallace who lived down the street, who often called and asked for me. Mrs. Connors had sent me down to him once, when he needed someone to help him clean up his yard after a storm. He had taken a liking to me, and I suspected it was because I was so quiet. He had commented when I first got there that he didn't like a lot of chatter, so while he had me loading things into a wheelbarrow and carrying them back to his trash pile, I kept my mouth shut and simply did as I was told.
Mr. Wallace was probably in his 80s, and he often asked for me after that first time, whenever he had some small- to medium-sized chore that needed doing. Usually, I did things like carrying out his trash, helping him clean up his garage—which was a treasure trove, for me, since he had boxes and boxes full of old books. My love for reading had not diminished in the slightest, and I suddenly found myself in possession of about a hundred of the best books I've ever read, including Ian Fleming's books about James Bond, the Matt Helm series, and an entire set of Robert Heinlein's science fiction novels. There were books by Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, books about spies and war and space travel and exploration—Mr. Wallace was thrilled to find someone who was as voracious a reader as he had been in his youth, and who was happy to receive all these old books.
Officially, the lights were supposed to go out in our room at Mrs. Connors' house by nine thirty each night, but as long as it was just me and Jerry in the room, Mrs. C didn't enforce it. She knew how I loved to read, and I had managed to infect Jerry with the reading bug, as well. Knowing that we were reading, which was at least stretching our minds in some fashion that she hoped was good, she would let us get away with keeping it on until ten thirty, and even as late as midnight on Friday or Saturday, because she said that reading was better for a young mind than watching television could ever be.
That didn't mean we didn't watch TV, because we did. There was one in the day room that we were allowed to watch as long as a majority could agree on what to put on. She even maintained a subscription to some of the cable movie channels, and we loved watching movies together on the weekends.
The five of us got along great most of the time, and about the only problems we really had were related to arguments about where to go on a weekend, when we all had a little bit of money. Between my allowance and what I earned doing chores or helping
Mr. Wallace, I was usually a little more flush than the other kids, but they were proud, and didn't like me spending my money on them. Then, of course, we ran into conflicts about things like going to the movies; the movies Molly and Lizzie would want to see rarely coincided with what Jerry and Jimmy wanted.
As for me, it didn't seem to matter what kind of movie I watched. I regarded each and every one as nothing more than an opportunity to observe how people interacted with each other, which was fine as long as it was at least a somewhat realistic movie. Unfortunately, Lizzie would often convince Molly to side with her on animated Disney-type movies, and sometimes Molly would have to take the time later to explain to me the concepts involved.
Still, even those situations helped me to improve my act as a human. Molly said that mimicry was one of the most important survival skills that any creature could have, explaining that many insects used mimicry to make them look like something else: a leaf, a twig, or even an entirely different type of bug. Other animals used mimicry in a different sense, by acting like something other than what they were.
“For instance,” she said, “a lot of animals, and even people, have hairs that rise on their backs. We humans feel it sometimes, when we get scared or upset, that feeling that something is trying to crawl upward on the back of your neck, you know what I mean?”
I shook my head. I had a vague memory of a sensation like that from before the events that put me in the foster system, but it wasn't clear. Since that time, I hadn't felt anything that I could honestly call fear, so I just wasn't sure what she meant.
“Well, never mind, then,” she said. “But watch the next time you see a dog getting into a fight with another dog, and you'll see that its fur seems to get bigger. That's a kind of mimicry, too, because he's trying to imitate a bigger animal and make the other one think he's bitten off more than he can chew.” She cocked her head and looked at me for a moment. “Have you ever watched a documentary about wolves?”
Once again, I shook my head. “No, I don't think so.”
Molly pursed her lips, and then went down the hall to the day room. Mrs. Connors had invested in a computer, and it was hooked up to the internet. Molly understood how it worked better than any of the rest of us, so she used it the most. I followed her, just to see what she was up to. And before you jump to conclusions, let me point out that curiosity is not an emotion. It is, however, often a survival trait.
Molly was looking up information on wolves, which surprised me. She had never mentioned any interest in them before, and I didn't know what it was that had made her think about them at that moment. She found a few websites that seemed to offer some information, but then she hit the jackpot. It seemed that there was a documentary on wolves that would be airing on The History Channel that weekend, and she went to the marker board near the TV to post it for that time slot.
The way the board worked was pretty simple. Anyone could post an upcoming program, up to two weeks in advance on the board, but after each time slot, there were about a dozen small boxes. Everyone who wanted to see a particular program put their initials in a box. If there were two programs posted for the same time slot, the one with the most initials—i.e., votes—would take precedence. Molly got all of our friends to mark their initials on the wolf documentary for us.
“Trust me,” she said to each of them. “This is a show Noah really needs to see.”
For the first time since my parents died, I found myself feeling something I could only think of as a sense of excitement. I was looking forward to seeing the documentary that Molly had selected, but I couldn't have given you any reason why it appealed to me, other than the fact that she thought it was a good idea for me to watch it. Maybe that shows just how great an influence Molly had on my life at that time. If so, then it's probably a good thing that she was there. Her intelligence kept me out of a lot of trouble, back then.
Saturday came, and the day seemed to drag slowly. The documentary came on at four in the afternoon, and I felt a sense of relief when it was finally time. There were only a couple of transient kids in the house at that particular time, but they weren't interested in watching the show with us. They sat in a corner of the day room and played a game, instead.
I would have to say that I was captivated from the moment the program began until it was finished, and it established in me a lifelong curiosity about the wolf. The documentary itself centered on the gray wolves, and covered everything from their development over forty thousand years ago to the spread of their species throughout all of Eurasia and eventually into North America via the Bering Strait. I learned a great deal right then, and much more over the years since.
Strangely enough, wolves tend to be among the most rational of all wild animals. In many situations, they demonstrate the ability to reason out the probable outcomes of actions they consider taking, which boils down to logical thinking. When I realized this, I was amazed at how like them I had become. I was much, as I said earlier, like a wolf in man's clothing, but I didn't know how to portray a human convincingly. The only thing I could do was watch others around me, and try to mimic them when it seemed appropriate.
What that meant was that, if someone laughed at a joke, I would laugh, also. If someone I wanted to be a friend to seemed angry, then I would be angry with them. If someone suffered a sadness, then I would be sad with them. Again, movies and television helped me to build a repertoire of acts, so that I could pull one out when it was needed.
I spent my first nine months in the system there at Mrs. Connors' house, with the four others who were capable of understanding me, and accepting me the way I was. I had already come to the conclusion that change was an inevitability in life, and I knew that it would one day come again. What I didn't know, however, was how it would come, and the effect that its arrival would have on me and my life from that day on.
FOUR
MRS. GAMBLE CAME to the house one day when I wasn't expecting her. Normally, I only saw her when I had a doctor's appointment or needed to make an appearance at a hearing; other than that, she called me her “little angel” because I never caused her any problems or paperwork. I'd gotten used to only seeing her at those times, so when she showed up without a reason and unannounced, I was curious as to why.
“Noah,” she said, “I have got some extremely exciting news for you. You remember, the night we met, when you said you didn't have any other family?”
I cocked my head and looked at her with curiosity. “Yes, Ma'am,” I said. “My mom and dad always told me we didn't have any relatives, anywhere.”
She sucked in her bottom lip for a moment, which I had learned meant that she was trying to decide how to tell me something that might be unpleasant. “Well, Noah, I'm afraid that wasn't quite the truth. You see,” she said, “apparently your mother and her parents didn't quite agree on her getting married to your dad. They had kind of a big fight, and according to your grandparents, she would never talk to them again. They say they tried to make peace over the years, and I'm pretty sure that's true since they showed us the letters they had written that your mother sent back. She just marked them all, 'Return To Sender' and put them back in the mailboxes.”
I took a second to digest this information. “I have grandparents?”
Ms. Gamble was smiling. “Yes! Isn't that wonderful? Noah, I can't tell you how excited I was when I got to sit down and talk with them and found out that they had been trying all your life to get to know you. Now, we've taken the time to really check them out, and I think it's a safe thing to say that they're going to be absolutely thrilled to have you come and live with them.”
I looked at the floor, then back up into her eyes. One of the things I had learned was that people had a tendency to be a little more honest with you if you looked at them directly in the eye when you spoke or listened. “When do I have to go?”
“Well, we're not going to just shove you into their home,” she said. “They're actually going to come and meet you this weekend, and you'll get
to go and spend Saturday afternoon with them. They're willing to come and visit you on weekends for a while, like three or four weeks, to let you get used to them before you have to go and move into their home.”
I sat there for a few seconds, just looking at her without saying anything. Suddenly, the question occurred to me. “Do they know how messed up I am? About me having problems?”
She hesitated, looking away from my gaze. When she brought her eyes back, I knew that she would tell me the truth, but reluctantly. “Noah, we've given them permission to speak to your doctors about your condition,” she said. “As it turns out, though, your grandfather is a minister. He's got some experience in dealing with post-traumatic stress syndrome, which is a lot of what causes the problems you have.” She suddenly looked flustered, and shook her head at me. “Let me take that back, I didn't mean that there's anything wrong with you, I'm just saying that the post-traumatic stress has a lot to do with the way you feel, or don't feel as the case may be. Can you understand what I'm saying?”
I actually did, because Molly had explained to me about post-traumatic stress. I nodded my head, just to let her feel a little bit better about her revelation.
The rest of the week passed slowly, as I tried to guess what it would be like to meet my grandparents for the very first time. I talked it over with the other kids, and we all seemed to agree on one thing. None of us wanted me to leave Mrs. Connors' house.
“So these are your mother's parents?” Molly asked.
I nodded. “That's what Ms. Gamble said,” I said. “She said they didn't like when my mom married my dad, so my mom got mad and wouldn't talk to them anymore.”
