There was a long silence, and he was grateful when Paul broke it.
"No birds, Dad. Just giraffes."
"Really? How many?" bix.
"Six! Good grief! Better check the other ear."
"Maybe I'll hate the job," Norah said. "But at least I'll know."
"No birds," Paul said. "No giraffes. Just elephants."
"Elephants in the ear canal," David said, taking the otoscope. "We'd better get home right away." He forced himself to smile, squatting down to pick Paul up, new cast and all. As he felt his son's weight, the warmth of his good bare arm around his neck, David let himself wonder what their lives would have been like if he'd made a different decision six years ago. The snow had fallen and he'd stood in that silence, all alone, and in one crucial moment he'd altered everything. David, Caroline Gill had written in her most re?cent letter, I've got a boyfriend now. He's very nice, and Phoebe is fine; she loves to catch butterflies and sing.
"I'm happy about the job," he told Norah as they waited in the hall for the elevator. "I don't mean to be difficult. But I don't believe this doesn't have to do with me."
She sighed. "No," she said. "You wouldn't believe it, would your
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You see yourself as the center of the universe," Norah said. "The still point around which everything else revolves."
They gathered up their things and walked to the elevator. Out?side it was still a beautiful day, late afternoon, clear and sunny. By the time they got home, the guests had dispersed. Only Bree and
Mark were left, carrying plates of food into the house. The ribbons of the maypole fluttered in the breeze. David's camera was on the table, and Paul's fossils were piled neatly beside it. David paused, surveying the lawn, scattered with chairs. Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea. He carried Paul inside and up the stairs. He gave him a drink of water and the orange chew-able aspirin he liked and sat with him on the bed, holding his hand. So small, this hand, so warm and alive. Remembering the light-filled images of Paul's bones, David was filled with a sense of won?der. This was what he yearned to capture on film: these rare moments where the world seemed unified, coherent, everythihg contained in a single fleeting image. A spareness that held beauty and hope and motion—a kind of silvery poetry, just as the body was poetry in blood and flesh and bone.
"Read me a story, Dad," Paul said, so David settled himself on the bed, holding Paul in his arms, turning the pages of Curious George, who was in the hospital with a broken leg. Downstairs, Norah moved through the rooms, cleaning up. The screen door swung open and shut, open and shut again. He imagined her walk?ing through it, dressed in a suit, heading for her new job and a life that excluded him. It was late afternoon, and a golden light filled the room. He turned the page and held Paul, feeling his warmth, his measured breathing. A breeze lifted the curtains. Outside, the dogwood was a bright cloud against the dark planks of the fence. David paused in his reading, watching the white petals fall and drift. He felt both comforted and troubled by their beauty, trying not to notice that they looked, from this distance, like snow.
June igyo
ELL, PHOEBE CERTAINLY HAS YOUR HAIR," DORO OB-
served.
Caroline touched the nape of her neck, considering. They were on the east side of Pittsburgh, in an old factory building that had been converted into a progressive preschool. Light fell through the long windows and splashed in motes and patterns on the plank floor; it caught the auburn highlights in Phoebe's thin braids as she stood before a big wooden bin, scooping lentils, letting them cas?cade into jars. At six, she was chubby, with dimpled knees and a winning smile. Her eyes were a delicate almond shape, upslanted, dark brown. Her hands were small. This morning she wore a pink-and-white striped dress, which she had chosen and put on by herself—backwards. She wore a pink sweater, too, which had caused a spectacular tantrum at home. She's certainly got your temper. Leo, dead now for almost a year, had been fond of muttering this, and Caroline had always been astonished: not so much that he'd seen a genetic connection where none could exist but that anyone would define her as a woman with a temper.
"Do you think so?" she asked Doro, running her fingers through the hair behind her ear. "Do you think her hair's like mine?"
"Oh, yes. Sure it is."
Phoebe was shoving her hands deep into the velvety lentils now, laughing with the little boy beside her. She lifted fistfuls and let them run through her fingers, and the boy held out a yellow plastic cup to catch them.
To the other children in this preschool Phoebe was simply her?self, a friend who liked the color blue and Popsicles and twirling in circles; here, her differences went unnoticed. In the first weeks, Caroline had watched warily, braced against the sorts of comments she'd heard too often, on playgrounds, at the grocery store, in the doctor's office. What a terrible shame! Oh, you're living my worst nightmare. And once, At least she won't live very long—that's a bless?ing. Thoughtless or ignorant or cruel, it didn't matter; over the years these comments had rubbed a raw spot in Caroline's heart. But here the teachers were young and enthusiastic, and the parents had quietly followed their example: Phoebe might struggle more, go slower, but like any child she'd learn.
Lentils scattered on the floor as the boy dropped his shovel and ran into the hall. Phoebe followed, braids flying, headed for the green room with its easels and its pots of paint.
"This place has been so good for her," Doro said.
Caroline nodded. "I wish the Board of Education could see her here."
"You have a strong argument, and a good lawyer. You'll be fine."
Caroline glanced at her watch. Her friendship with Sandra had grown into a political force, and today the Upside Down Society, over 500 members strong, would ask the school board to include their children in public schools. Their chances were good, but Caroline was still very nervous. So much rested on this decision.
A speeding child careened past Doro, who caught him gently by the shoulders. Doro's hair was pure white now, in striking contrast to her dark eyes, her smooth olive skin. She swam every morning and she'd taken up golf, and lately Caroline often caught her smil?ing to herself, as if she had a secret.
"It's so good of you to come today to cover for me," Caroline said, pulling on her coat..
Doro waved her hand. "Don't mention it. I'd much rather be here, actually, than fighting with the department over my father's papers." Her voice was weary, but a smile flickered across her face. "Doro, if I didn't know better, I'd guess you were in love." Doro only laughed. "What a bold conjecture," she said. "And speaking of love, can I expect Al this afternoon? It's Friday, after all."
The patterns of light and shadow in the sycamores were so soothing, like moving water. It was Friday, yes, but Caroline hadn't heard from Al all week. Usually he called from the road, from Columbus or Atlanta or even Chicago. He'd asked her to marry him twice this year; each time her heart had flared with possibility, and each time she'd said no. They had argued on his last visit—You hold me at arm's length, he'd complained—and he'd left angry, with?out saying goodbye.
"We're just close friends, Al and I. It's not that easy."
"Don't be ridiculous," Doro said. "Nothing's simpler." So it was love, Caroline thought. She kissed Phoebe's soft cheek and went away in Leo's old Buick: black, vast, with a ride like a boat. In the last year of his life Leo had grown frail, spending most of his days in an armchair near the window with a book in his lap, gazing out at the street. One day Caroline had found him slumped, his gray hair sticking up at an awkward angle, his skin—even his lips—so pale. Dead. She knew this before she touched him. She took off his glasses, placed her fingertips on his eyelids, and drew them closed. Once they had taken his body away she sat in his chair, trying to imagine what his life had been like, the tree branches moving silently outside the window, her own footsteps, and Phoebe's, making patterns on his ceiling. "Oh, Leo," she'd said out loud, to the empty air. "I'm sorry you were so alone."
After his funeral, a quiet affair crowded with physics professors and gardenias, Caroline offered to leave, but Doro wouldn't hear of it. I'm used to you. I'm used to the company. No, you stay. We'll take it day by day.
Caroline drove across the city she had come to love, this tough, gritty, strikingly beautiful city with its soaring buildings and ornate bridges and vast parks, its neighborhoods tucked into every emer-aid hill. She found a parking spot on the narrow street and entered the building, its stone darkened by decades of coal smoke. She walked through the foyer with its high ceilings and intricate mosaic floor and climbed two flights of stairs. The wooden door was darkly stained, with a panel of cloudy glass and tarnished brass numbers: 304B. She took a deep breath—she had not been this ner?vous since her oral exams—and pushed the door open. The room's shabbiness surprised her. The big oak table was scratched and the windows were cloudy, making the day outside seem muted and gray. Sandra was already sitting with half a dozen other parents from the Upside Down board. Caroline felt a surge of affection. They had drifted into meetings one by one at first, people she and Sandra met in grocery stores and on buses; then the word had spread and people started calling. Their lawyer, Ron Stone, sat next to Sandra, whose blond hair was pulled severely back, her face seri?ous and pale. Caroline took the remaining seat beside her.
"You look tired," she whispered.
Sandra nodded. "Tim has the flu. Of all days. My mother had to come from McKeesport to watch him."
Before Caroline could answer the door swung open again, and men from the Board of Education began to file in, relaxed, joking with one another, shaking hands. When everyone was settled and the meeting had been called to order, Ron Stone stood and cleared his throat.
"All children deserve an education," he began, his words famil?iar. The evidence he presented was clear, specific: steady growth, tasks accomplished. Still, Caroline watched the faces in front of her turn impassive, masked. She thought of Phoebe sitting at the table last night, a pencil gripped in one hand, writing the letters of her name: backwards, all over the page, wavering, but written. The men on the board shuffled papers and cleared their throats. When Ron Stone paused, a young man with dark wavy hair spoke up.
"Your passion is admirable, Mr. Stone. We on the board appreci?ate everything you say, and we appreciate the commitment and de?votion of these parents. But these children are mentally retarded; that's the bottom line. Their accomplishments, significant though they may be, have taken place within a protected environment, with teachers capable of giving extra, perhaps undivided, attention. That seems a very significant point."
Caroline met Sandra's eye. These words were familiar too.
"Mentally retarded is a pejorative term," Ron Stone replied evenly. "These children are delayed, yes, no one's questioning that. But they are not stupid. No one in this room knows what they can achieve. The best hope for their growth and development, as for all children, is an educational environment without predetermined limits. We only ask for equity today."
"Ah. Equity, yes. But we haven't got the resources," said another man, thin, with sparse graying hair. "To be equitable, we would have to accept them all, a flood of retarded individuals that would overwhelm the system. Take a look."
He passed around copies of a report and began doing a cost-benefit analysis. Caroline took a deep breath. It would do no good for her to lose her temper. A fly buzzed, caught between the panes of glass in the old windows. Caroline thought again of Phoebe, such a loving quicksilver child. A finder of lost things, a girl who could count to fifty and dress herself and recite the alphabet, a girl who might struggle to speak but who could read Caroline's mood in an instant.
Limited, the voices said. Flooding the schools. A drag on resources and on the brighter children.
Caroline felt a rush of despair. They'd never really see Phoebe, these men, they would never see her as more than different, slow to speak and to master new things. How could she show them her beautiful daughter: Phoebe, sitting on the rug in the living room and making a tower of blocks, her soft hair falling around her ears and an expression of absolute concentration on her face? Phoebe, putting a 45 on the little record player Caroline had bought her, en?thralled by the music, dancing across the smooth oak floors. Or Phoebe's soft small hand suddenly on her knee, at a moment when Caroline was pensive or distracted, absorbed by the world and its concerns. You okay, Mom? she would say, or simply, / love you. Phoebe, riding on Al's shoulders in the evening light, Phoebe hug-ging everyone she met. Phoebe having tantrums and stubbornly de?fiant, Phoebe dressing herself that morning, so proud.
The talk around the table had turned to numbers and logistics, the impossibility of change. Caroline stood up, trembling. Her dead mother's hand flew to her mouth in shock. Caroline herself could not quite believe it, how her life had changed her, what she had be?come. But there was no going back. A flood of the mentally re?tarded, indeed! She pressed her hands to the table and waited. One by one the men stopped speaking, and the room grew quiet.
"It's not about numbers," Caroline said. "It's about children. I have a daughter who is six years old. It takes her more time, it's true, to master new things. But she has learned to do everything that any other child learns to do: to crawl and walk and talk and use the bathroom, to dress herself, which she did this morning. What I see is a little girl who wants to learn, and who loves everyone she sees. And I see a roomful of men who appear to have forgotten that in this country we promise an education to every child—regardless of ability."
