Protector of Children - 19. Chapter 19: Lucas and Mark--Part III

Lucas & Mark—Part III

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
—Rudyard Kipling, “The Elephant’s Child”

Zeus rang the doorbell rather than popping into the living room; Mark stumbled across the room with his walker and let him and Aiden in. Before I could offer coffee or soda, Mark had grabbed Aiden and hugged him.

“Aiden! Are we going out for pizza?”

Aiden shrugged off Mark’s hug, looked at the floor, and whispered. “I can’t. I’ve got to go back.”

“Back? Back where?”

Aiden raised his head, but wouldn’t look at Mark. “Not where, when—”

“Huh?”

“I don’t belong here. I kind of slipped here when I found out that you were in trouble. Now, I’ve got to go back to my own time.”

“There are two of him running around Chicago right now,” Zeus said. “They’re too close together, and this one knows more than he should about what’s going to happen. He’s got to go back to his own time before he creates a paradox.”

“When he found out Mark was in trouble?” I asked. “When he found out? What’s the whole story? And I mean the whole story: who, what, where, when, why, and how!”

Zeus chuckled. “I can’t forget that you’re a journalist, and an honest one, at that. Please don’t be concerned; no one is in trouble, and although Aiden acted impetuously, what he’s done, so far, has been good. I just don’t want him to spoil that record.”

Aiden handed another card to Mark. “I’ve written the date I’ve got to go back to. Call me that afternoon, and we’ll go have pizza.” Then, he surprised Mark and me, by kissing Mark, hard.

“Do not try to contact him before that,” Zeus said to Mark. “Lucas? Is that agreeable with you, as well?”

I nodded. Why does he ask and not demand? But Zeus and Aiden had disappeared.

 

“Do you like him?” I asked.

Mark knew what I meant, and nodded. “I’ve never had a friend before.

“Except you!” he blurted. “And you’re different ’cause you’re my daddy and you’re older than me and I love you. Aiden’s the first kid my age that I might have been friends with.”

Tears appeared in the corners of Mark’s eyes. “And when we get to when he lives, I’ll be three years older than he is!”

“That was a pretty serious kiss you guys had. You probably haven’t known him long enough to be sure, but do you think he might love you? Could you love him?”

Mark blushed. “Yes, and maybe.” He drew the last word out. “But not like I love you!”

“Mark? It’s okay for you to love more than one person. You love your mother, right?” He nodded. “And you love me?” He nodded again.

“And if Aiden loves you, even if he just likes you as a friend, he will remember. And you will remember, and there will be something to build on when you meet again.” At least, I hope so. And maybe twelve and fifteen can be friends. Maybe.

This was something else I knew we’d have to talk about, this and the unresolved subject of sex. But first, Zeus owed me some answers. How was I to contact him? Simple: call Dike. She, at least, would be in the phone book. Rather, Judge Everhart would be.

 

Dike understood my concerns, and agreed to visit that afternoon. I offered her coffee or tea. She saw that I had a real teapot as well as both gunpowder and white tea. She accepted, and seemed delighted with the offerings.

“I knew about Mars and Mark,” Dike said while the tea steeped. “I called Aiden here because if I had not, he would have come on his own—and gotten into trouble. I knew he could time-slip, and felt that he was about to. It was better that someone guide him. I knew the risk, and felt it was worth taking. Once the crisis was passed however, I agreed with Zeus that Aiden must return to his home.”

She looked at Mark, who seemed thoroughly miserable, and a little angry. “Mark? Sometimes bad things have to happen so that good things happen. I don’t expect you to take my word for that, but I hope you’ll at least keep it tucked in the back of your mind. You’ve already been told that you’re a demi-god; you are going to attract problems. Lucas, too. If either of you allow the bad things to weigh you down, to eat at you, you’ll burn out so that you cannot see or do the good things that are your right, privilege, and obligation.”

“Problems? What kind of problems, and what danger will Mark be in?” I asked. My tone was far from polite.

The room darkened briefly and I thought Dike swelled up a bit. Then, the light and she were normal. It happened so quickly, I questioned what I’d seen.

“I told you that some of us—Apollo and I, among others whom you will meet in the fullness of time—have assumed roles as guardians of humanity, especially of its youngest members. We hope that you and Mark will join us.”

And if we don’t? Will you kill us?

“No. Neither Apollo nor I would kill you.”

I’d forgotten that they can read my mind. My stomach flipped.

“Lucas? Zeus told me you’d seen the vintage on the bottle of wine and that he’d told you when our calendar began. I’m only a few years younger than the calendar, and I am older than Zeus.”

She chuckled. “It seems that justice is a more deep-seated human need than is a commander-in-chief, so I was created before Zeus was. In those years, I have come to know evil, but do not see it in you—or in Mark. You are good and you must by your nature help us or at least, not hinder us. I am not concerned in either case.”

“You didn’t answer the questions: what kind of problems and what kind of dangers?”

“This is going to take a while,” Dike said.

Mark and I sat, rapt and silent while Dike spoke. We would gain powers—what she called Authorities and Attributes. As long as we operated in the realm of those powers, we would be invincible. If we strayed outside certain boundaries, we would become as vulnerable as a mortal.”

She looked at Mark, and chuckled. “No, you are not an X-person or a superhero. Actually, you are much more powerful than any of those comic book and movie figures. But with great power comes great responsibility. I believe one of your Hollywood heroes popularized that sentiment.”

She turned to me. “Yes, both of you are immortal for most purposes. You will not age. Your bodies will repair themselves from minor wounds. You are not vulnerable to infection or disease. But only as long as you are operating in the realm of your Authorities!”

“What Authorities?” I asked.

Dike was quiet for a long time. “I do not know,” she said.

“My title defines my Authorities: I am Justice. As long as I am dispensing justice, as long as I am just, I am immortal and invincible. I have the power to translocate—move from place to place and from time to time—in order to do my job. I can read the thoughts of mortals and some gods. I can dispense justice, including capital punishment. I can require the assistance of other gods and of their servants. Yes, Mark?”

“You can kill?” he whispered.

Dike nodded. “I can kill, where it is warranted or to prevent someone from doing great harm.”

“Can Lucas?” Mark asked. I knew he wanted to ask the rest of the question: could he?

Dike knew what he meant. “I don’t know. There hasn’t been a demigod born in millennia; and Prometheus disappeared more than three thousand years ago. No one is quite sure what either of you are or will be, or what you will be capable of. I’m sorry.”

I thought of what might be an easier topic, and asked, “Zeus said Aiden—a twelve-year-boy—discovered? figured out? that Mark needed help. This was three years from now in Aiden’s time. So, he came here to help Mark. That is perhaps as startling as anything we’ve seen or heard.”

“Aiden is a remarkable boy,” Dike said. “He received—will receive—his Authorities as Patron of Lawyers from Athena. He will do a great deal with those powers. They will grow beyond—”

Dike stopped abruptly, and then laughed. “Zeus! I understand!”

She chuckled. “I have been, or will be, trying to get Zeus to assign to someone his Authorities as Zeus Eleutherious—guarantor of political freedom. It’s something this country has nearly lost to the radicals on several extremes: the religious, the current administration, the ultra-progressives, the media . . . he’ll give that to Aiden!”

“Is that good?” Mark asked.

“Aiden is a good boy,” Dike said. “And very smart. I suspect it will be good.”

“Will he be okay?” Mark demanded.

“He has good friends and strong support,” Dike said. Then, “Oh, Mark, please don’t feel that way! He . . . I can not say, for my words create and shape reality, but please do not despair!”

 

After Dike left, Mark burst into tears and stumbled into my lap. “He’s not going to remember me! He’s got friends. I’ll bet he’s got a boy—” He shut his mouth and pushed his face into my shoulder.

“Boyfriend? Is that what you were going to say?” I asked.

Mark nodded. His wail was muffled by my body.

 

Mark was still crying when a pounding on the door made both of us jump. “Open up! Police!”

“Wash your face, Mark, quickly,” I said. He sniffled, grabbed the handles of his walker, and stumbled to the bathroom.

“On the way!” I called. I opened the door to see the florid face of one of Chicago’s finest buried in the hood of a blue parka. “Help you, officer?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“Yeah, looking for a missing kid. Eleven years old. Caucasian. Red hair. Wearing a school uniform, you know, shorts and blazer? Freaking schools make them wear shorts in this weather. Dark blue. May have a backpack. You seen him or anybody suspicious?”

“No, officer, we’ve not been out for some time. Who should we call . . . .” I followed the officer’s eyes as Mark came into the room.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“My neighbor’s son,” I said. “I have custody when she’s at work—”

“You don’t have another kid hidden anywhere? Say a redhead about his age?”

“I heard what you said. I’m not eleven, I’m twelve,” Mark said. “And there’s no other kid.”

“What’s wrong with you?” the cop asked.

I was getting a little upset by now, and answered, “A congenital neuro-muscular condition with more syllables than you can pronounce. Now, unless you have something further about the missing boy, please leave.”

“I could come in—”

“No, you could not. You have no warrant, and you have no prima facia evidence that gives you reason to enter. There is no crime in progress and local police forces, at least, are still bound by the Fourth Amendment, even though the brown-shirt army of the TSA doesn’t seem to be.”

“Damn lawyer,” the cop said, then stomped toward Alice’s apartment. I didn’t bother to tell him that she was at work. I shut the door.

“Daddy?” Mark whispered. “He’s on the roof of the building where the coffee shop is. He’s cold, he’s afraid, and he’s wondering if he shouldn’t jump.”

“Mark?”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m sure.”

I reached into the foyer closet. “Here’s your coat.” I tossed it toward him, and snagged the bar on the front of the walker. I had just found my own coat when Mark disappeared. His coat swung back and forth on the bar of the abandoned walker. Oh, shit.

I dropped my coat, grabbed Mark’s, slammed the door behind me, and ran down the stairs. I didn’t see or hear the cop following me.

 

The barista was someone I knew by sight. Actually, I’d only seen him a few times, but he’d seen me nearly every day for several years.

“Vance? How do I get to the roof?” I asked.

He pointed to a door labeled “Janitor’s Closet.” “Fire riser in there. Ladder to the roof. It’s four stories, and the trap door at the top is locked. What’s going on?”

“Vance, it’s important. Do you have the key?”

Vance raised an eyebrow. “I better not lose my job over this,” he said. He opened the cash register and pulled a key from the drawer.

 

I was not accustomed to physical activity, and became winded before I reached the third floor. Halfway up the fourth floor, my vision went dark as if I were looking through a long tunnel. Oxygen deficiency, I thought. I locked my legs and arms through the ladder, paused, and breathed deeply. The tunnel of my sight widened, and I began climbing again.

There was a tense moment when I thought I was going to drop the key, until I realized that the hasp had been broken off, and the lock was missing. I pushed open the trapdoor. Freezing wind fought with the warm air that flowed upward through the riser. The wind won. I stuck my head through the trap door and looked around.

There! In the corner. They were huddled against the cold wind. I recognized Mark’s yellow shirt. I crouched to present as small a target to the wind as possible, and scuttled over to them.

“Mark!”

He turned. “I knew you’d come,” he said. His voice was firm, matter-of-fact, as if we’d not both been witness to miracles. I held out his coat. Somehow I’d managed to keep it while climbing the ladder and fumbling with the key.

“Here,” he said to the figure huddled beside him. “Hold out your arm.” With my help Mark managed to get the coat on the kid.

“We’ve got to get him someplace warm,” I said. “He’s freezing! You disappeared. Can you do that translocate-thing back to the apartment?”

“No! I tried!” Mark said.

 

The journey down the ladder was the longest day of my life, even though it probably took only a few minutes. I tried to hang the boy around my neck but he was too weak to hold on. I needed both hands on the ladder, so I slung him over my shoulder, and kept him from falling only by pressing his body against the ladder. His shivering became more violent. I realized that he was in serious danger of hypothermia. Mark was below me, lowering himself using only his arms. His legs still weren’t strong enough for the ladder. I heard him breathing heavily, too.

When we reached the janitor’s closet, I gathered the boy in my arms and stepped into the coffee shop—where the cop was waiting with what looked like half the city’s police force.

“Gimme the kid,” he said. “You’re under arrest. I got probable cause, now, asshole.” One of the others took the boy. The first cop punched me in the gut with his left fist, and then drew back his right arm—the one holding his pistol—as if to hit me. The voice of someone accustomed to being obeyed stopped him.

“As you were, Officer Gannon. Put away your weapon. Has EMT been called? No? Why not? Someone—you, there’s another boy in the fire riser room. Bring him out here.”

One of the uniforms brought Mark into the coffee shop. We all stared at the figure standing in the door of the coffee shop. It was a youngish man, wearing—despite the weather—only slacks, a dress shirt and tie, and what looked like very expensive loafers. Oh, and there was a gold badge at his belt.

“Captain, sir, this is got to be the missing kid,” one of the policemen said as he pointed to the redhead.

“Patrolman Allen, you’re probably right, but until we are sure, the search is still active. What do you propose to do about that? And has EMT been called?”

“Yes, sir,” another of the policemen said. “ETA seven minutes.”

“That’s too long,” I said. I looked at the cop who had hit me. “Give me your parka.”

“Do it,” the cop in civilian clothes said before the uniform could object. I put on the parka, which would have held three of me, took the kid from the cop who had taken him, and bundled him into the parka with me. He felt like a baby bird, fluttering desperately, against my chest.

 

The next hour was a blur. I was dangerously cold and weak. The unaccustomed physical exertion had taken its toll, and the boy had robbed heat from me. We both rode in the EMT van to the hospital. The plain-clothes cop made sure I knew he’d bring Mark to the hospital and that this was okay with Mark before he let them shut the van doors.

I wouldn’t let the EMTs start an IV, mostly because I couldn’t figure out what it would be for except to give them something to put in their log and to bill for. I had no choice when we reached the ER: I was pretty much out of it, by then. I passed out, and woke only when Mark came in.

“Daddy! Lucas!” he was crying.

“I’m okay, Son,” I said. “How’s the boy?”

“His name is Eddie, and he’s okay.” It was the voice of the cop who was standing in the doorway. “I’m Ben Marlberg, by the way. Thank you for saving Eddie’s life. The EMTs said another few minutes on the roof, or any delay in warming him afterwards, and he’d be dead.”

The cop stepped into the room and closed the door. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t file charges against the cop who hit you. He’ll forget most of what happened, especially the part about Mark translocating to the roof which is the only way he could have gotten there ahead of you, and I’ll see to it that a few choice foot patrols make him appreciate his job.”

“Translocate?” I said.

“Oh, sorry. I’m Nomos, Spirit of Law. We have some mutual friends, including Dike. And I felt him translocating. That’s what brought me there.”

I’m afraid I passed out, again. It must have been something they put into the IV.

 

Mark was there when I woke; the policeman who said he was a friend of Dike, had left. Mark saw my eyes open.

“Lucas! Daddy! Are you . . . ?

Mark’s hug gave me a chance to think. “I’m okay, Mark. Just not used to so much physical exercise, or the cold. How are you? And how is Eddie?”

“I’m fine, and you’re going to start exercising! And Eddie is fine, too. At least, that’s all the nurses will say. They got him warmed up, and fed. Oh, and some guy wants to talk to you about insurance and who’s going to pay for Eddie.”

Mark reached into his pocket. “And the policeman—the nice guy, not the guy who came to the door—gave me this note for you.”

Lucas,

I think it best that you take control of the situation at the hospital, and take Eddie home with you. I have at present little influence with the bureaucrats who deal with children such as Eddie. The hospital people will believe anything you tell them, though, and Dike can get any papers that you need. You have her number; here is mine.

The note was signed by Captain Ben Marlberg, and the phone number appeared to be a cell number, and not a city switchboard number.

 

I’d just finished reading the note when the door to the room opened and a cadaverous man in a dark suit entered.

“Mr. Lucas C. Browning?” the man said. “I have some questions for you.”

“You know my name, sir. What is yours?”

“What? Why, I am Dr. Morton, Chief of Staff of the hospital. The admission department has told me that you have refused to provide information regarding insurance or other payment for yourself and this . . .” he fumbled with some papers. “ . . . this Epperson person who came in with you.”

What? I tried to calm myself.

“Dr. Morton, if your staff has said that, they have lied to you. If I have refused to supply information, it is only because no one has asked me for information—unless it was while I was under the influence of drugs they administered through an IV line—which was done without my permission and which was medically unnecessary.”

“Do not presume to lecture me on what is medically necessary or unnecessary, Mr. Browning,” the man said. His manner was smug, and he seemed confident in what he was saying. “I am a physician, after all. The staff did what was necessary and proper. Now, if you will simply sign these papers—”

“Dr. Morton, I will sign nothing. Apparently you didn’t hear me when I said your people had administered drugs to me without my permission. And don’t presume to throw your medical degree at me, either. You haven’t even glanced at my chart, yet you claim understanding of my situation? You, sir, are either a fool or a liar.”

Mark’s gasp brought my attention to him. His eyes were shining. I hope it was not from fear.

“Mark? Did anyone ask you questions about payment or insurance?”

“No, Lucas. But they did take your wallet. I said they shouldn’t do that, but—”

“Standard practice, Mr. Browning,” the man said. “We must protect our shareholders.”

“Your standard practice is in violation of the Patients’ Bill of Rights passed by the Illinois Legislature and enacted into law three years ago,” I said. “Where is my wallet, now?”

Dr. Morton seemed a little nervous.

“You know that, don’t you? You know that your people are violating the law? You depend on the ignorance of your patients?”

I pressed the call button. It took only a few seconds for a nurse to appear. “Please remove this IV and bring me my clothes and wallet.”

“I can’t do that, sir,” the nurse said.

“If I remove the IV myself, and I am capable of doing that, I will probably bleed. Not much, but I will make sure the blood lands on the floor and, if possible, the walls of this room and the hallway outside. This will create a biohazard spill that will cost thousands of dollars to clean up. Is that worth it, or will you bring a bandage and remove the IV?”

“Here now!” Morton said. “You can’t do that. We still don’t—”

“Morton? I suggest you go back to your office and count beans. I expect to receive a bill when I leave or have one mailed to me using the address you should have taken from my wallet. Oh, and you may bill Eddie—what’s his last name?”

“Epperson,” Mark said.

“Bill charges for Eddie Epperson to me, as well. He will be leaving with us. Go. Now.”

Morton slunk out, the nurse rummaged in a drawer and found a bandage, and I found out what at least one of my Authorities was: I could intimidate mortals and make them obey me. I wasn’t entirely sure I was comfortable with that, but at the moment I was too pissed off to think clearly.

 

After she removed the IV, the nurse picked up the bedside phone.

“Becky? I need the wallet they took from Room E11 . . . no, I need it now . . . I know. Dr. Morton just left . . . Whatever, just get it, please.”

She hung up the phone. “Sir, your clothes are in the closet. I’ll get them but do you need any help dressing? And should the boy wait outside?”

“The boy is Mark, and he’s my son, and it’s okay if he sees me between hospital johnny and underwear. Oh, and thank you for insisting that Becky bring my wallet.”

“Sir, you must understand that Dr. Morton isn’t the most popular person in hospital administration. We compare him to Bishop Morton . . . .”

She must have seen something in Mark’s face, because she added, “Chancellor to King Henry VII?”

Mark’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah! The Morton’s Fork guy: if you looked like you were rich, you could afford to pay taxes, if you looked like you were poor, it was because you were hiding your money, and could afford to pay taxes! It’s like the Republicans, I think.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a boy your age—” the nurse began.

“My daddy is smart, and he teaches me a lot,” Mark giggled. “But I figured out about the Republicans.”

 

By the time I had pulled my shirt over my head, the second nurse brought the wallet. I remembered to thank her by name. I read the nametag of the first nurse. “Nurse Oglethorpe, you’ve been very helpful. Could you take us to Eddie Epperson?”

“I would be glad to, but sir? Please don’t tell anyone how helpful you think I’ve been. I’d probably lose my job.”

I nodded.

 

I didn’t have to use my new-found Authorities to get Eddie’s clothes, which included Mark’s jacket, or to get him released. Nurse Oglethorpe bustled us through the process and stilled all questions and complaints with vague references to police business, and you remember who brought him in, don’t you? I thanked her once more before we left.

 

Mark and Eddie slurped through huge bowls of hot soup (canned, I’m afraid) after crunching handfuls of saltines nearly to power before dumping them into the bowls. I was about to say something about table manners when I realized that the noise, the quantity of crackers, and the mushing up of crackers in the soup was not so much about manners as about two boys engaging in some sort of competitive bonding ritual. I guess I needed to do a little more research in anthropology.

 

After lunch, and a mandatory tooth-brushing, Mark brought Eddie into the living room. He’d put the boy into a pair of his old sweats, and I’d heard the washing machine start. Smart boy, I thought. But I knew that.

“Eddie, the policeman who saved you said I should bring you home, but isn’t there someone out there who wonders where you are, and is worried about you?”

“No sir, not any more.” The boy didn’t seem inclined to say more.

“Someone sent you off to school this morning,” I said. “Something happened between then and when you got home from school.”

Eddie stared at me. I didn’t think he was going to answer until Mark, who had sat next to him, hugged him and whispered. I heard the whisper. “It’s okay, Eddie. He’s my daddy. You can trust him, really you can.”

The boy looked at Mark. His lips curled into a pout. I was afraid he was angry, but realized when he spoke that he had been pensive, and thoughtful.

“Mama used to wait for me in the lobby when I came home from school. We’d ride up the elevator together while I guessed what she’d fixed for supper. It wasn’t hard, really. Monday’s supper was always left-overs from Sunday dinner; Tuesday was always spaghetti and meatballs; Wednesday was chicken; Thursday was meat loaf; and Friday was always fish. Mama was Catholic.

“A couple of months ago, she stopped meeting me in the lobby. I rode up the elevator by myself. She was usually in the kitchen, with a glass of wine. It was too easy to guess what was for supper, so we stopped playing that game.

“Today, she was in the kitchen, but she was dead.”

The boy stopped talking and started crying. Mark hugged him, but Eddie’s crying simply got worse. Mark looked at me. His eyes begged me to do something. I walked to the couch and sat on the other side of Eddie. I put my arm around him.

“Eddie, I’m so sorry. No one should have to see what you saw—” I shuddered as I saw what had greeted him when he had reached home. How did I know what he had seen? And did Mark see this, too?

Before I could say anything else, the boy spun toward me and wrapped his arms around me. I could barely make out what he said between sobs and hiccoughs.

“There were bullet holes in her face, and Daddy was on the floor next to her. His head—it wasn’t all there, and there was a gun in his mouth.”

Oh. I reached for the note Captain Marlberg had given me, and managed to snake it out of my pocket without breaking Eddie’s grip. I held out the note. Mark understood. He took it and went to the phone.

 

Eddie was still crying when Mark returned. He whispered to me. “Murder and suicide. He wouldn’t tell me any more, but said he’d be here tomorrow morning."

I had gotten a good impression of Captain Marlberg, and figured that he’d tell me what he could, when he could. Besides, I had a bigger problem: Eddie.

“Eddie,” I said as gently as I could. “Eddie? Please stop crying. You can cry more, later, but for now, please stop. It’s not good to cry too much at one time, you know.”

“Huh?”

That was a start. “You start feeling too much sorry for yourself, and you forget that there are other people who care for you, and you forget that they are hurt when you are hurt, and they are sad when you cry. You cry too much, and you hurt people who like you. Like Mark and me.”

“Like Mark and I,” Mark corrected.

“No, like Mark and me,” I said. “Object of the preposition, objective case.”

“Huh?” That was Eddie.

I chuckled. “Mark’s early schooling was in a place where proper grammar wasn’t taught. We have a deal. I correct his grammar, and he accepts the correction. If he catches me in an error, I buy him an ice cream if it’s summer, or a pizza if it’s winter. So far this school year, he’s earned seven ice creams and nine pizzas.”

Eddie giggled. “You’re a fun daddy!” Then, he started crying again.

 

It wasn’t as long, this time, before Eddie stopped crying. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My daddy wasn’t a fun daddy. I miss him, but I think I’d miss him more if he had been like you. He . . . he never hugged me like you do.”

There was nothing I could do but hug him a little more tightly, and ask if he were full from the soup, or would he like pizza. Pizza won, and the boys engaged in several gross bonding rituals at the pizza place. I had no idea the human mouth was that flexible.

I gave Mark and Eddie a chance to change into pajamas and brush their teeth before I used the bathroom. Mark and I usually cuddled at night, and I was unsure of how we would deal with that with Eddie in the bed. I needn’t have worried. When I came in, Mark was on the far side of the bed; Eddie was near the middle.

“Eddie needs cuddles more than I do, tonight,” Mark said. “Is that okay?”

“Is it okay with, you, Eddie?” I asked.

“Yes, please?”

 

I was awake at three AM the next morning, as usual. I disentangled myself from the two little boys who had both managed to claim a portion of me for their cuddles, and began my morning routine. The coffee hadn’t finished brewing before a pale figure appeared.

“I woke up. You weren’t there.” It was Eddie.

I held out my arms, and he scampered to me for a hug.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I get up early every morning. Mark usually stays asleep. If he’s still asleep when I finish, about six o’clock, sometimes I wake him and sometimes I crawl back into bed until he wakes up. Usually around eleven o’clock.”

“Eleven o’clock! Doesn’t he have to go to school?”

“Since Christmas, Mark is home-schooled,” I said. I thought about defending that from the stereotype of home-schoolers—the hyper-religious who didn’t want their kids’ corrupted by anything resembling logic, critical thinking, or science—but figured it would be a waste of time. Eddie surprised me.

“There are some kids in my building who are home-schooled. They’re no fun at all. All they can talk about is how they’re getting ready for the rapture, and when I ask them what that is, they tell me that since I don’t know, I’m not saved, and I’ll go to hell. I don’t like them, a lot. Mark isn’t like that.”

“Eddie, it’s important to separate ideas that are not connected.”

His Huh? made me start over.

“Eddie, home schooling is simply a way to teach kids. Public schools, private schools like the one you went to, and apprenticeship programs are other ways. All kinds of kids go to all kinds of schools.”

His eyes hadn’t glazed, so I went on. “A lot of deeply religious people send their kids to parochial schools—private schools operated by churches. Some deeply religious people prefer to teach their kids at home, since they don’t like what is taught in either the public schools or the parochial schools. There are other reasons to teach a kid at home. Mark and his mother agreed to homeschool him, starting this semester, because he’s been crippled most of his life, and it was just too hard for him in public school.”

“That’s what you meant about ideas not being connected!” he said. “What people believe and if their kids are home schooled aren’t connected.”

He scrunched up his face. “Wait, it is, sometimes. But it isn’t all the time!” He said this last as if he were Columbus sighting landfall on one of the West Indies.

“That is exactly right, Eddie. Now, if we haven’t wakened Mark, how about we go back to bed?”

Eddie snuggled with me face to face, although his face was about midway up my chest. Mark woke just enough and just long enough, to snuggle into Eddie’s backside, and throw his arm over both Eddie and me.

 

Eddie was accustomed to waking in time for school, but not to staying up until midnight and sleeping until nearly eleven. His wiggling woke Mark and me about nine. This needs to be addressed, I thought. Then, I wondered. How long will Eddie be here? Maybe we can just accept it for a few days.

 

Mark insisted on reading my blog before breakfast, even though I reminded him we were going to have a guest. I didn’t say Captain Marlberg, but Mark knew. “He’ll know where we are,” Mark said. “May we have waffles?”

Since I had nothing but dry cereal and milk, there was little choice. Mark insisted on putting on his new braces and using his canes, even though it slowed us down considerably.

 

We weren’t nearly finished before Captain Marlberg walked in, signaled the waitress for coffee, and sat down at our table.

“Ben, I’d shake your hand, but mine are covered with maple syrup. I had to rescue the bottle from Mark before he emptied it—for the second time.”

Mark stuck out his tongue; Eddie giggled. They both knew I was kidding. I was glad to see their reactions.

Ben said he understood, and then went right to business.

“Eddie? You know you have no relatives. Your parents had no brothers or sisters; your grandparents are dead and they had no known relatives. Someday we may find someone who is related to you. Until then, would you like to live with Lucas and Mark?”

I had opened my mouth to say something like, don’t I get a say in this? And how about Mark? Then I felt Captain Marlberg’s thoughts.

No other way, Lucas. It has to be. You were told the words of the gods create reality? Well, some of the gods are prescient, and they’ve seen this reality. If you don’t keep Eddie, something very bad will happen to him and to Mark. And it’s not one of those “bad things happen so good things can happen” bad things. It’s a really bad thing.

All this happened in less time than it takes to take a breath, much less to tell it. Eddie looked not at me, but at Mark when he asked, “May I?”

Mark told me later he hadn’t heard Captain Marlberg say anything, but that he knew it would be right. “Sure,” he said. “But sometimes, I get to be in the middle.”

He realized what he’d said, and in front of a policeman, and turned white.

Captain Marlberg pretended to ignore it, but I saw his stomach muscles jerk with suppressed laughter.