by Robert Reed
“In California,” Mom told her. “In a Florida clinic.”
“An interesting coincidence, your moving here. Dr. Florida’s home—”
“A business decision,” Dad mentioned. “This is one of the fastest growing states, after all.”
“Quite reasonable of you, yes,” said the teacher. “Let me thank you for letting me visit, first of all. And I want you to know that we at the school, and myself, want to do our utmost to help your son master his talents and smooth over those points where he might have troubles. I want you to feel assured that all of us wish the best for him, and everything from adapted personals to private tutors will be done on his behalf.”
There was nothing. Then Dad said, “Well, thanks…”
“Are there any questions about his prognosis?” she wondered.
“More of the same,” he said. “It’s something like autism, they tell us. His difficulty coping with the environment, choosing what to watch and what to ignore. He has these trances—”
“He’s very sensitive,” said Mom.
“Oh, yes,” the teacher agreed. “Autism has its similarities, yes. But an autistic child would be helpless. Ryder is not. With training and hard work, Ryder should be able to carry on normally. Maybe he’ll lack some abilities. He does pay a cost for having such a powerful memory…the brain being finite, after all. But we shouldn’t grieve for him. I know I don’t grieve. When he’s like me, old and gray, he’ll only have to concentrate for a moment to remember youth.” She laughed and said, “That seems like a precious talent to me.” She said, “Maybe I do envy him. A little bit. If I could remember being twenty again, if I could,” she laughed loudly for a very brief moment.
Then no one spoke.
Finally Mom said, “You’re very kind,” with a certain voice.
Dad said, “Gwinn? Don’t be—”
“What?” she asked. “Isn’t this rather patronizing? I don’t like being patronized, and I’m not sitting through it.”
“I’m sorry,” said the teacher. “I just hoped—”
“Lady,” said Mom, “it’s difficult to have such a son.” She was angry in a quiet fashion. She said, “We wanted a fine healthy boy, Kip and I. We’re ordinary people, yes, and I for one take pride in that fact. I don’t mind admitting it. I am not gifted. I can’t juggle enormous math problems in my head, or paint great paintings, or call myself a beauty. Not even on the old scales. I’m part of the last honest generation…the good and decent people who were brought up to accept their shortcomings…”
“Gwinn?”
“Let me talk, Kip. Please?” She said, “We had the tailoring done, and I guess I am glad for the bulk of it. We made certain that Ryder would be healthy and long-lived and we got what we paid for, yes. But there was this self-serving bastard at the clinic. I’m not blaming Dr. Florida himself, I know better than to do that in this town. But this one man was a demon. Smug. Smart and proud of it. He had his lab coat and his charm, and he seduced us with nonsense about every child being born with enormous talents. Awesome brains and other bankable skills, and we would be unfit parents if we settled for a plain-label boy. That’s how he put it. A plain-label boy. And both of us were a little bowled over by him. He told us how a few synthetic genes could be sewn into the fertilized egg—tiny, potent brain enhancers—and we’d make it possible for Ryder to compete in the world—”
“Darling?” said Dad.
“What?”
“What if someone overhears? Don’t you think—?”
“What? I’m talking honestly. We spend too much time and breath hiding things as it is,” she told him. “When he’s old and gray, like she said, he can remember this with everything else. Maybe he’ll understand.” She sighed and told the teacher, “I’m sorry. I sound bitter, I know, but I’ve got reasons. I love my son very much, I do, but he can’t simply walk home from school. He’s always finding distractions. Diversions. An ordinary leaf, and he’ll sit on the ground and study it, and then the next leaf, and so on. Then it’s after dark, and I’m worried sick and I have to come out and find him. Do you understand? I find him on someone’s lawn, and he’d holding leaves up to the streetlights…”
“I do understand,” said the teacher.
Mom said, “How many times has it happened, Kip? We’re talking to some friends of business associates, whoever, and poor Ryder corrects us on this point. On that point. A little boy, and he tells people the most remarkable things, embarrassing things, and everyone knows it’s true because they know him—”
“He’s not vindictive,” said Dad.
“Am I saying he’s vindictive?” She paused for a long moment, then she said, “I’m angry because I didn’t pay someone for the privilege of having such a child. Special or not. It’s not fair, and I realize there are legal rulings that keep us from lawsuits. We signed plenty of papers and clearances and tied our own hands. And yes, maybe I do seem rather simple-minded to you. Shortsighted and all. But I can’t help it and I’ve given up trying to stop myself—I am no saint—and so there. I guess I’ve said my piece. So thank you.”
No one spoke.
Then the teacher said, “Genetics are difficult. At best.” Her voice was soft and slow. “Even now they can’t predict all the effects from a single novel gene. Particularly the synthetics. A gene meshes with many thousands of genes, and who knows? Who knows?” She paused, then she said, “I don’t know.” She said, “I see it every day, this new world, and you’re right. Not everything is perfect. I see geniuses who aren’t smart enough for their parents, and children sculpted according to whims and fancies. We’ve got synthetic genes and famous genes, and what bothers me most is the parent who can’t accept the fact that every child, gifted or not, is a child first. Immature. In need of help.”
“These have to be tough times for kids,” said Dad. He sounded agreeable and quite sober.
“And yet, you know, the children themselves are such inspirations,” the teacher said. “All my life I’ve worked with the youngest ones, and I’ve seen the changes. Years ago they would pick on one another for being odd. You know…different? I’m sure you remember the horrors. The funny-looking boy was tormented. The ugly or smart girl was friendless. That sort of crime doesn’t happen so much anymore—”
“Everyone’s smart,” said Mom. “And pretty.”
“Maybe that’s part of the answer,” the teacher admitted. “Sure. But there’s nothing homogeneous about my kids. There are plenty of chances for viciousness, for in-groups and out-groups. Yet they seem to tolerate the differences. Indeed, if anything, these children nourish a strange, resilient independence…based on their own special skills…”
“How many children do you have?” asked Mom.
“I see about a hundred every day—”
“I mean you yourself. Have you been a mother?” she wondered. Her voice was wearing an edge.
Dad said, “Another drink?” I heard him moving, his voice turning quiet. Soothing. “It’s awfully good of you to come.” He was trying to lessen the tension, saying, “We must seem pretty ragged to you, but under the circumstances—”
“Don’t mention it. Please,” said the teacher.
“Still and all.” His voice got louder. “Whatever happens, we do wish the best for Ryder. Always have. We thought we were helping him with the tailoring. The refinements. Because it’s tooth-and-nail out there. We wanted him fit to compete for the jobs and the promotions.” He paused, then he said, “Think of our position. In a very few years my wife and I will be facing the first of Ryder’s generation—their brainpower, their good looks and confidence—and I can confess to feeling nervous.” He said, “The tooth-and-nail business of business.” He said, “We took our chances and the poor kid suffers for us having done it. And so we make ourselves suffer too. Don’t we, dear?”
Mom said, “Kip.”
“Sure you don’t want another drink?” asked Dad.
“No thank you,” said the teacher.
“Wh
ere are you going, dear?”
“Downstairs,” said Mom. “You mentioned work, and it occurred to me that I might do some. All right?”
No one spoke.
Mom said, “I am sorry. I just want something accomplished today. If you don’t mind.”
No one spoke while she went downstairs, then Dad said, “Gwinn is a little touchy, that’s all. She takes it personally when Ryder does some strange thing or another. When he starts to stare at one of our friends with those big eyes—”
“I should be honest,” the teacher announced. “I do have a second agenda today. A request, if you will.”
Dad said, “All right.”
“A series of studies and papers on Ryder might just help find and treat children like him. And maybe we can learn how to avoid the same mistakes again. For those who wish to consider them mistakes.” She paused, then she said, “As I understand it, no one is certain why his ordinary genes and the synthetics merged like they did.”
“No one’s told us how,” said Dad.
“I’m in a unique position, you see. I’ve access to facilities and I’ve got the essential training, and so with your permission—”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Could you tell me why?”
“First,” said Dad, “Gwinn wouldn’t allow it. And second, neither would I.”
“I see.”
“It’s something we decided long ago. Label us however you wish, but the truth is that we appreciate our quiet lives. We don’t want notoriety. A kid like Ryder, with his talents, could become an enormous novelty act on TV. You know what I mean. The public would want to test his memory by every goofy means, and that wouldn’t be best. Not for him. Not for us. So I’m sorry, but no.”
“Well,” she said, “if publicity is the problem—”
“A John Doe? I think not,” said Dad. “That doesn’t sound appealing. Besides, there’s no way you can guarantee our privacy. Is there?”
She said nothing for a good long while. I imagined her sitting on a chair in the living room, filling it, and Dad sitting opposite her and leaning forward with his bony elbows on his bony knees.
She said, “Perhaps I should mention other terms.”
“I don’t follow you.”
She said, “A cash incentive. A gift for the good of the boy—”
“No.”
“But you can’t—”
“Lady,” he said, “let’s call it quits.” I could hear Dad standing and moving to the front door. The teacher followed. She breathed like fat people breath, quick and shallow. We didn’t have fat kids at school, I thought. All of us made our food into heat and motion. “Your intentions are splendid, and thanks,” said Dad. “But I ask—I insist—that you leave and forget this conversation.” His voice wasn’t angry or sad or anything. It was flat and plain.
“I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’ll live.” The front door opened, squeaking, and he said, “It was nice of you to take the trouble,” with that flat voice.
She said, “You shouldn’t be ashamed of him.”
“You think we are? You haven’t been listening, lady.”
She said, “Give him my best,” with anger seeping out between the words.
“Sure.”
“I can tell,” she said. “You are interested in the offer.”
“A little bit, sure. We could always use the cash flow.” Then Dad said, “The thing about being ordinary is that we’re weak and we don’t have any illusions. And no denials either. I admit it. We’re subject to temptations.” He made a small, harsh sound, and I imagined him shaking his head. “Maybe there’ll come a day when Florida, or someone, learns to tailor out those traits. You suppose? A dose of this, a shot of that, and poof! Instant character. Neat and quick.”
We were eating that night, sitting at the kitchen table and the teacher gone. No one was talking. No one could think of anything to say, their mouths full and their plates steaming and forks going click-click when the peas ran away. I was thinking about my peas. I was studying their wrinkled faces, each face different in tiny vital ways. I was watching the tines of my fork come down on them and stick into their firm green meat, or cause them to jump and run away. Click-click. And Mom said, “Ryder? Ryder. Don’t you want to know what she said?”
I blinked. “Was it good?” I asked.
They glanced at each other. “Absolutely,” said Dad.
“Why? Did you think you were in trouble?” Mom started to watch my peas too. “Have you done something wrong?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You haven’t,” said Dad. “Don’t worry.”
“Is she a nice lady?” asked Mom. “This teacher?”
“I don’t know. She’s okay.”
“What do people say about her?” she asked. “Do they like her?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?” She halfway smiled and said, “Go on. Eat.”
But I couldn’t. All at once a question came into my head, and I thought of how I might ask it. What would be the best way? I pondered and then cleared my throat, looking at Dad and wondering, “Dad? Who’s the best person in the world?”
“The best person?”
“Is there one? Anyone?”
“I suppose there must be,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “Why do you ask?”
I remembered older kids talking on the playground one day. I saw their faces and heard their self-assured voices, then I blinked and said, “These kids told me it was Dr. Florida. He’s the best.”
“A good candidate,” he decided.
Mom said, “He’s not perfect,” with that edge to her voice.
“And who is perfect?” asked Dad.
She looked at me and said, “I’m sure he’s a decent fellow. Probably better than all of us. Now eat your peas.”
I caught three peas and chewed them to slime, then squished the slime between my teeth. I started to daydream, imagining the doorbell ringing and Dad going to the door, finding Dr. Florida standing on our porch. He was so very tall, smiling like he smiled on TV, and he said, “Good evening,” and put his hat in his hands. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not, no,” said Dad in my daydream.
Mom smiled and said, “Come in, sir. Please.”
We gave him a plate and good shares of everything, and he took off his raincoat and sat opposite me, looking at me, his smile never wavering. He was friendly all of the time. People said he was a saint, I remembered, and a great genius too, and we couldn’t have invented a better person to be so important. I remembered one adult saying, “If someone has to hold the world in his hands, who better than Florida?” Father-to-the-World. He ate his imaginary dinner and spoke with my folks, then he helped clear the table and followed me upstairs. He came into my room and said, “Ryder, you’re such a good fellow. I know it.” He touched the back of my head, rubbing my hair, and told me, “You’re fine as you are, Ryder. Believe me.”
I did. It was all imaginary, but it felt so wonderfully real.
“I’m proud to have played a part in you,” he told me. “Don’t count me with the others. I understand you.”
Here was the man who made the tiny, tiny genes that fit inside me, and inside all of us. He was brilliant and richer than kings, and in some sense he was father to my generation—all of those lean and strong and smart kids—and I could practically see him in my room. With me. Me—!
“Ryder?”
“Ryder? Son?”
“Ryder?”
—and I blinked, shaking my head, having to bring myself back to the real and now.
Three
Because we’d been on TV for several seconds, the five of us became famous for a few days. They talked about us at school and in the parkland, and a couple times strangers recognized Cody and even Marshall, stopping to ask them how it felt to be on TV. It was strange. We talked about it until the thing didn’t seem to have any meaning anymore. Then we talked abo
ut it without having to think about our words, knowing the story too well, and mostly we were glad when the people around us forgot about it or got bored with the subject and finally quit asking.
Except for Marshall. Marshall loved the attention, and he kept trying to tell people about the shiny hovering cameras and the powerful, swift snow dragon…even when his audiences would roll their eyes and shake their heads, tired of his endless noise.
“They’ve caught three dragons so far,” he told me. “Little ones.” We were riding our bikes, pedaling with urgency as the sun set. “Did you see them on TV? Some older kids got one. They were shaking Dr. Florida’s hand…just like he promised. Did you see?”
“No,” I confessed.
We were riding toward Cody’s house. “We’ll catch ours tonight,” he said. “You wait.”
I told him, “I hope so.”
“The biggest one. That’s ours.” I heard something strange in his voice. Something wrong. “Yes, sir,” he said, and we picked up speed.
No one was home at Cody’s. Her house personal said she and her moms wouldn’t come back until late, it was sorry, and did we have a message? We looked up at its single glass eye. Marshall said, “We’re going to nab the dragon. Tell her!” Then we climbed back on our bikes, and he glanced across the street at the Wellses’ house. “I’m not inviting Jack,” he said. “The dirty shit. I’m still pissed.”
The Wellses’ house was ancient and weathered. Two front windows were broken and covered with plastic plywood, and one of Jack’s brothers stood at a good window, smoking some kind of cigarette. All the brothers were older, and they had a reputation for crime and parties. I didn’t like going up on that porch, not for anything. I hated the strong, acidic talk and the foul senses of humor. Marshall’s grudge was good news. I said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Should we find Beth? She might want to help us.”
Marshall nodded and said, “Sure,” and led the way. “Come on!”
