Read Online Wild Heart by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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for it, but she shook her head and held on. He urged her toward a chair, but she resisted. "You're upset," he said understandingly. "You've had a shock. What happened this afternoon was terrible, and you're not over it yet." Behind him, her father hemmed and hummed in agreement. "No one's going to hurt the man, Sydney. You know that, don't you? It's true we're scientists, but we're not mad scientists, are we?"
She hated it that he was making her smile. Was she hysterical? Charles's reasonable voice and his soft hand on her arm made her want to laugh one second and yell at him the next. But irritation at his condescending tone eclipsed everything else. She moved around him to confront her father again.
"Don't you at least think you should reevaluate what you can get out of him? He can't be 'Ontario Man' anymore, can he?"
"Hm, can't be sure. Too soon to say." When he reached for his pipe, she knew she'd lost him. He could easily occupy five whole minutes with finding his tobacco pouch, opening it, filling his pipe bowl, locating his matches, lighting the pipe, letting it go out, relighting it, et cetera, et cetera, all to avoid a subject he didn't feel like discussing.
"Of course we'll have to reevaluate," Charles answered for him. "It's true that he may have lost his value to pure anthropology as a 'cipher,' as you say, someone on whom we could' ve observed the layerings of civilization in a neat, experimental environment. But his value to us as biological ethicists is by no means at an end. We can continue to observe him as a specimen of pure man, loosely speaking, still relatively uncorrupled by human society— that's one way to look at it; another is that he's a savage from whom the benefits of human society have been withheld. It all depends on one's particular bias."
"Charles—"
"And then again, you may be right: his worth may have passed from the realm of science to that of philosophy. Or zoology. In which case—-"
"What about his worth as a man? What about him? He's not a study, Charles, he's a human being. You don't own him, and neither does the university. Doesn't he have any rights? How do you know he doesn't have parents somewhere? The only word he ever said before today was 'lost.' Why isn't anyone trying to find out who he belongs to? I just don't think—I don't see how you can keep him locked up any longer, or spy on him through a hole in the wall, or play tricks on him for the sake of some— experiment that may not even—that doesn't even—" She ran down, unused to speaking out like this. Her father looked nonplussed.
"All very well, my dear," he said through a cloud of tobacco smoke, "but it doesn't change the fact I've got a report due by summer's end. Slocum's expecting it. Said I'd give it to him. Can't renege."
"Yes, but if—"
"Not saying nothing's changed. Lot's changed. Have to study, mull it over. All I'm saying." With that, he turned around in his chair and started rooting through his bookcase.
Charles put his hand on her shoulder. "Sydney," he said in that gentle voice that could somehow draw her in and pull her away at the same time. "Let's go for a walk. We need to talk this over."
"No, Charles, I can't. Not right now."
"Ah." He nodded understandingly, eyeing her damp, straggly hair. "Later, then."
Her thoughts were already elsewhere. "Later," she echoed, as vague as her father. She went out, still holding her towel.
* * * * *
The front door to the guest house stood ajar. She knocked once and pushed it open. A stale smell hung in the air, musty sweet and unpleasant. The source of it became clear when O'Fallon shoved up from a chair in front of the cold fireplace and took an unsteady step toward her. A bottle sat on the floor by the chair, half empty.
"You're drunk," she accused and kept walking.
"No, I ain't. Where you going? You can't go in there. Hey!" She had already unlocked the door to the inner room and opened it. O'Fallon hurried over, smelling like a barroom. "It
She hated it that he was making her smile. Was she hysterical? Charles's reasonable voice and his soft hand on her arm made her want to laugh one second and yell at him the next. But irritation at his condescending tone eclipsed everything else. She moved around him to confront her father again.
"Don't you at least think you should reevaluate what you can get out of him? He can't be 'Ontario Man' anymore, can he?"
"Hm, can't be sure. Too soon to say." When he reached for his pipe, she knew she'd lost him. He could easily occupy five whole minutes with finding his tobacco pouch, opening it, filling his pipe bowl, locating his matches, lighting the pipe, letting it go out, relighting it, et cetera, et cetera, all to avoid a subject he didn't feel like discussing.
"Of course we'll have to reevaluate," Charles answered for him. "It's true that he may have lost his value to pure anthropology as a 'cipher,' as you say, someone on whom we could' ve observed the layerings of civilization in a neat, experimental environment. But his value to us as biological ethicists is by no means at an end. We can continue to observe him as a specimen of pure man, loosely speaking, still relatively uncorrupled by human society— that's one way to look at it; another is that he's a savage from whom the benefits of human society have been withheld. It all depends on one's particular bias."
"Charles—"
"And then again, you may be right: his worth may have passed from the realm of science to that of philosophy. Or zoology. In which case—-"
"What about his worth as a man? What about him? He's not a study, Charles, he's a human being. You don't own him, and neither does the university. Doesn't he have any rights? How do you know he doesn't have parents somewhere? The only word he ever said before today was 'lost.' Why isn't anyone trying to find out who he belongs to? I just don't think—I don't see how you can keep him locked up any longer, or spy on him through a hole in the wall, or play tricks on him for the sake of some— experiment that may not even—that doesn't even—" She ran down, unused to speaking out like this. Her father looked nonplussed.
"All very well, my dear," he said through a cloud of tobacco smoke, "but it doesn't change the fact I've got a report due by summer's end. Slocum's expecting it. Said I'd give it to him. Can't renege."
"Yes, but if—"
"Not saying nothing's changed. Lot's changed. Have to study, mull it over. All I'm saying." With that, he turned around in his chair and started rooting through his bookcase.
Charles put his hand on her shoulder. "Sydney," he said in that gentle voice that could somehow draw her in and pull her away at the same time. "Let's go for a walk. We need to talk this over."
"No, Charles, I can't. Not right now."
"Ah." He nodded understandingly, eyeing her damp, straggly hair. "Later, then."
Her thoughts were already elsewhere. "Later," she echoed, as vague as her father. She went out, still holding her towel.
* * * * *
The front door to the guest house stood ajar. She knocked once and pushed it open. A stale smell hung in the air, musty sweet and unpleasant. The source of it became clear when O'Fallon shoved up from a chair in front of the cold fireplace and took an unsteady step toward her. A bottle sat on the floor by the chair, half empty.
"You're drunk," she accused and kept walking.
"No, I ain't. Where you going? You can't go in there. Hey!" She had already unlocked the door to the inner room and opened it. O'Fallon hurried over, smelling like a barroom. "It
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