had not saved Harry from his father’s wrath inside.
“Are you sure I’m clean?” Grace asked.
Harry looked at her outstretched hands, red from their scrubbing.
“Yes,” he sighed, “they’re clean. Have you read Macbeth lately?”
“Humor me,” she said. “I just wanted him to stop. He would have killed you this time. I didn’t expect. . . There was so much blood.”
She patted his shoulder and checked the Watchdog.
“How many did they finally leave?”
“Two out front,” he said, “and two behind. And the binoculars in the apartment beside the power station.”
The security contingency for their protection also meant they were prisoners. His terminal ceased its telltale hum. He pocketed his Sidekick, then ran a large magnet over the drive section of his terminal. He pressed “format,” gave its warm top a pat, and turned back to the mirror and the antiseptic.
His mother turned on the faucet again.
“We can’t wait,” she whispered. “I don’t trust any of them. I’ll tell you what we’ll have to do.”
Harry listened with the detachment that comes with fatigue and an adrenaline letdown. He and his mother had been up all night while the Agency reviewed its protocols on “extreme domestic incidents involving Agency personnel while in-country.” People who had sat at Grace Toledo’s table for dinner now debated whether she would be arrested, deported or dragged back to Washington for an inquiry.
Harry felt a little giddy from no sleep and from the beating his father had given him. His nose stopped bleeding before daybreak but his right eye kept swelling until it puffed shut. This time, antihistamines didn’t help. Every time he sat down he got up slower.
Harry couldn’t remember what he’d said that set his father off. His parents had started off arguing about vaccinations. It turned to Harry and his time spent at the terminal and on the webs.
“It’s the only way he can get privacy,” his mother had argued. “He’s bright, he’s doing fine.”
“He’s not doing fine,” his father shouted. “It’s not normal for a boy to stay inside, alone, at a terminal.”
“He’s not normal” Grace shouted back. “He grew up here and this country’s not normal. We’re not normal. It’s not his fault that you don’t do anything with him anymore.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s my fault.”
Harry had interrupted, but he couldn’t remember what he had said. It hadn’t been the first time, but he was sure that it would be the last. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and pried open his right eyelid. No wonder his mother avoided looking at him: his iris was a gray cameo framed in blood.
“Raw-hamburger sandwich,” he muttered.
That was what his eye looked like, one of his father’s raw-hamburger sandwiches on white bread.
Grace Toledo was still on the phone to Washington, so when the intruder alarm sounded, Harry hurried down the hall to check the screens. It was their neighbor, Yolanda Rubia, and not the Hacienda Police. She was actually no longer their neighbor, since her recent divorce, but her family still held the property, along with the largest coffee plantation in the country.
Nobody stopped her at the gate, he thought.
Neither guard was in sight.
Yolanda was one of the “embassy wives” that he and his mother both liked. She had a three-year-old boy with Down syndrome and three teenage daughters who attended private Catholic school. Harry had nursed a terrible crush on the oldest, Elena, who was two years his senior. Since the divorce and Yolanda’s subsequent employment at the Archbishop’s office, they had seen very little of her or the children.
Her driver, a black, middle-aged North American, mopped his balding head with a huge white handkerchief. All the drivers carried big white handkerchiefs in case of cross fire. At fifteen, even Harry knew that this war had no etiquette.
The security scan verified that it was this Gilbert Williams who had driven
“Are you sure I’m clean?” Grace asked.
Harry looked at her outstretched hands, red from their scrubbing.
“Yes,” he sighed, “they’re clean. Have you read Macbeth lately?”
“Humor me,” she said. “I just wanted him to stop. He would have killed you this time. I didn’t expect. . . There was so much blood.”
She patted his shoulder and checked the Watchdog.
“How many did they finally leave?”
“Two out front,” he said, “and two behind. And the binoculars in the apartment beside the power station.”
The security contingency for their protection also meant they were prisoners. His terminal ceased its telltale hum. He pocketed his Sidekick, then ran a large magnet over the drive section of his terminal. He pressed “format,” gave its warm top a pat, and turned back to the mirror and the antiseptic.
His mother turned on the faucet again.
“We can’t wait,” she whispered. “I don’t trust any of them. I’ll tell you what we’ll have to do.”
Harry listened with the detachment that comes with fatigue and an adrenaline letdown. He and his mother had been up all night while the Agency reviewed its protocols on “extreme domestic incidents involving Agency personnel while in-country.” People who had sat at Grace Toledo’s table for dinner now debated whether she would be arrested, deported or dragged back to Washington for an inquiry.
Harry felt a little giddy from no sleep and from the beating his father had given him. His nose stopped bleeding before daybreak but his right eye kept swelling until it puffed shut. This time, antihistamines didn’t help. Every time he sat down he got up slower.
Harry couldn’t remember what he’d said that set his father off. His parents had started off arguing about vaccinations. It turned to Harry and his time spent at the terminal and on the webs.
“It’s the only way he can get privacy,” his mother had argued. “He’s bright, he’s doing fine.”
“He’s not doing fine,” his father shouted. “It’s not normal for a boy to stay inside, alone, at a terminal.”
“He’s not normal” Grace shouted back. “He grew up here and this country’s not normal. We’re not normal. It’s not his fault that you don’t do anything with him anymore.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s my fault.”
Harry had interrupted, but he couldn’t remember what he had said. It hadn’t been the first time, but he was sure that it would be the last. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and pried open his right eyelid. No wonder his mother avoided looking at him: his iris was a gray cameo framed in blood.
“Raw-hamburger sandwich,” he muttered.
That was what his eye looked like, one of his father’s raw-hamburger sandwiches on white bread.
Grace Toledo was still on the phone to Washington, so when the intruder alarm sounded, Harry hurried down the hall to check the screens. It was their neighbor, Yolanda Rubia, and not the Hacienda Police. She was actually no longer their neighbor, since her recent divorce, but her family still held the property, along with the largest coffee plantation in the country.
Nobody stopped her at the gate, he thought.
Neither guard was in sight.
Yolanda was one of the “embassy wives” that he and his mother both liked. She had a three-year-old boy with Down syndrome and three teenage daughters who attended private Catholic school. Harry had nursed a terrible crush on the oldest, Elena, who was two years his senior. Since the divorce and Yolanda’s subsequent employment at the Archbishop’s office, they had seen very little of her or the children.
Her driver, a black, middle-aged North American, mopped his balding head with a huge white handkerchief. All the drivers carried big white handkerchiefs in case of cross fire. At fifteen, even Harry knew that this war had no etiquette.
The security scan verified that it was this Gilbert Williams who had driven
Similar Books
