Eyes of a Child (12 page)

Chris and Terri heard the news while they were driving to Moscone Center. ‘Oh my God,' Terri murmured automatically. In the passenger seat, Chris merely listened.

‘The right to keep and bear arms,' he finally murmured. ‘Our most sacred freedom. No cost can be too great.'

His voice, Terri thought, was almost conversational. ‘The other day,' he went on, ‘Wally Mathews and I were discussing what to focus on. I mentioned gun control. Wally shook his head. Make that a focal point, he said, and you're asking for trouble – the gun lobby would start gunning for
you
, and a lot of others will think you're against law and order.' Chris's voice grew softer. ‘He's no doubt right.'

Something in his tone silenced Terri. They listened to the radio until they reached the center.

Terri sat in the first row. The news had not yet filtered through the audience, a group of perhaps five hundred, mostly white and middle-aged. When Chris was introduced, she did not know what he would do.

For what seemed minutes, he gazed out from the stage. ‘This morning,' he began, ‘while I was polishing my speech, a man walked into an Oakland play center with an assault rifle and butchered seven children. Two of them were his own; five more just happened to be there. All seven are dead.'

A groan went up. Even Terri felt Chris's flat words in the pit of her stomach.

‘My speech,' Chris went on, ‘was quite well written. It was a balanced review of the shortfalls of our criminal justice system. Had I given it, it might well have served the purpose of showing how qualified I am to be a United States senator. And like most speeches on crime – even by liberals – it mentions gun control only in passing.' His voice held the barest trace of irony.
‘That,
I am certain, was an affirmation of my growing political maturity.'

There was silence now. ‘I don't own a gun,' Chris said quietly. ‘Outside the army, I've never fired one. Perhaps that makes it easier for me to notice that the chief use of handguns in America is domestic violence and robbing the corner store.'

He paused; for the first time, his words had an undertone of passion. ‘Since when, I have to wonder, is an AK-47 a tool for sportsmen? Empty one into a deer, and there wouldn't be enough left to hang up on the wall. The truth is that other countries use assault weapons to fight wars; we use them to butcher people in our streets and stores and homes.' His voice grew quiet again. ‘We used one of them this morning. To murder children.'

Terri heard murmurs from the crowd. Chris's voice rose above them. ‘And I do mean “we.” Most of us have a piece of it. The gun lobby which pours money into politicians' coffers. The politicians who take it and then vamp for the rest of us, conducting empty debates about meaningless legislation that preserves this country as the world's shooting gallery. And all of us who fail to call them to account. Like me – a cocktail party advocate of gun control, who has done nothing meaningful in his entire life to stop this kind of tragedy, other than not to shoot anyone himself.'

Part of Terri wanted to look at the crowd. But she could not take her eyes off Chris. ‘I suppose this speech is impolitic,' he continued. ‘I really don't care. Because what passes for our politics is a joke. We have politicians whose slogan seems to be “Love them till they're born.” We have an economy that is more and more based on unproductive people – lawyers included – exchanging money with other unproductive people. We mouth nonsense about an information society that ignores the most basic maxim of the computer age: garbage in, garbage out. Because our public education system is a shambles. And we have a seemingly permanent underclass of poor people and minorities that we've all but written off, except as targets for politicians who want to hide the truth – that it's things like Social Security and Medicare that are bankrupting us; that we could starve every welfare recipient in America without making a dent in the budget; and that the real cost of our welfare system is that it changes nothing for the better.

‘In short, our politics isn't serious anymore. It's not about serious things. If anyone requires proof of that, consider that seven children died today because our political system is too cowardly and indifferent to protect them.'

He lowered his voice again. ‘This is an easy speech to give,' he said. ‘Anyone can be angry about dead children. But going forward, I'm going to try something more difficult: to talk about serious things, and to propose serious answers. Otherwise there's no point to this.'

Chris stood straighter. ‘I hope that people listen. But if they don't, at least I won't feel any worse than I do this morning.

‘Thank you.'

He sat abruptly. Only after a moment did Terri realize that people were standing, feel the waves of applause washing over Chris, one upon the other.

An hour later, a pensive Terri drove them home. ‘You were good,' she said at last. ‘Much better than good. People were saying you could win it – despite James Colt.'

Chris gazed out the window. ‘I'm just sorry for those parents.' He turned to her. ‘Know what I feel like doing? Something with our kids.'

But when they got home, Chris's house was silent. They turned to each other, listening for sounds; it was the instinct of parents, Terri thought, to worry for their children when other children have died. ‘I guess they've gone to the park,' Chris said. ‘Carlo must have tired of plastic people.'

Terri smiled. From upstairs, they heard a faint noise that might be a child talking.

The sounds came from Chris's bedroom. Together they went upstairs, and then Terri heard water splashing in Chris's bathroom.

They walked through the bedroom and found Elena in Chris's oversize bathtub. Carlo was sitting against the bathroom wall, watching Elena and listening to a Giants game on his transistor radio. Elena was surrounded by the bobbing plastic heads of miniature people. ‘I'm taking a bath,' she explained to Terri. ‘With Carlo and my friends.'

‘I can see that.'

With a comic expression, Carlo pulled the baseball cap down on his head. ‘She wanted to get in the tub, she said. Wouldn't even go for ice cream.' He looked at Terri. ‘Do you leave her in there alone? I can't remember much from being five.'

‘I keep pretty close.' She turned to Elena. ‘Do you like Chris's tub?'

‘Yes. It's
big
.'

As if to show her mother, the little girl spread her arms and legs, arching her back to stretch the full length of the tub. It threw Terri off for a moment; something in her daughter's pose was not that of a little girl. ‘I'm staying here, Mommy. With Carlo.'

As too often lately, Elena's voice held a trace of challenge, the false maturity of a child who wished to believe herself adult. Terri turned to Carlo with a smile. ‘I'll take over from here,' she told him. ‘I think you've done enough.'

Carlo stood, looking relieved. ‘I'm going to see Katie,' he said to Chris. ‘If that's okay.'

‘Sure.'

Chris and Carlo went downstairs, talking about Chris's speech, leaving Elena staring after them. For the rest of the afternoon, the little girl was sullen.

Terri passed this off as her devotion to Carlo. And then, on a Friday shortly after Elena entered school, Leslie Warner called Terri at work. ‘I don't mean to disturb you,' Warner said. ‘But something happened at school today, with Elena.'

‘Yes?'

There was a pause. ‘Elena's quite embarrassed. So please, when you talk to her, try to be low-key about it.'

‘Fine.' Terri bit back her impatience. ‘But I don't know what to be “low-key” about.'

‘Oh, of course. It was a playground incident. At the back of the school are several Dumpsters. Sometimes the kids will hide behind them.' Warner paused. ‘Today I found Elena there with a little boy, Matthew. She had pulled her panties down, to show him her genital area.'

Terri sat back in her chair. ‘What did she say?'

‘Nothing.' Warner paused again. ‘According to Matthew, Elena asked him to look at her.'

‘What do you think I should do?'

‘Nothing, really. There's a lot of acting out at this age.' Warner's tone took on a touch of condescension. ‘Plus there's a divorce going on, I know, and these things overstimulate children. New relationships, whatever . . .'

The phrase trailed off; Terri knew at once that Warner had already spoken to Richie.

Terri made her own voice level. ‘Have you called Elena's father yet?'

Warner seemed to hesitate. ‘Yes, actually. I know that Richie's the primary caretaker. But he told me Elena would be with you tonight.'

Terri gave herself a moment. ‘She will be,' Terri said politely. ‘Thank you for calling.'

When Terri hung up, she went looking for Chris. But he was in court. Terri worked absentmindedly, thinking about Elena, until she found the words she wanted.

But it did not matter. Before dinner, when she asked Elena what had happened, the little girl turned her face to the wall, arms clasped, as if holding herself together.

‘I love you, sweetheart,' Terry said softly. ‘You can talk to me whenever you want to.'

Elena shook her head, mute; Terri could see only her black hair, moving from side to side. When Terri bent to touch her shoulder, Elena twisted away.

That night, Terri could not sleep. Around midnight, when she went to check Elena, the little girl was crying. Her nightmare had come again.

Chapter
11

‘You want an evaluation
now
?' Richie had demanded. ‘Two weeks after we agree to a new arrangement?' His voice rose in irritation. ‘That was a compromise, Terri, meant to resolve this for all time. It's like you never get enough.'

Terri kept looking at Alec Keene. ‘Elena's still not right,' she said quietly. ‘And now there's this thing at school.'

Keene propped his chin on tented fingers, gazing at them both. ‘I'm inclined to agree with Terri,' he said at length. ‘It may be time for a psychologist to take a look at this,' He glanced at Richie. ‘What can it hurt?'

‘Elena,' Richie retorted. ‘She's been through enough.' He paused, easing the indignation from his voice. ‘Look, I don't want to be irresponsible about this. But I can't agree to a process that's not objective.'

For the first time, Keene spoke to Richie with the exaggerated calm of someone straining for patience. ‘It's not a matter of the parents agreeing. If there's no settlement, a family evaluation report is mandatory.' His voice became gentler. ‘But we need to work toward a methodology that satisfies both parents. Let me ask what you mean by objective.'

‘It's simple.' Richie leaned forward. ‘I'll object to any evaluation, as strongly as I know how, that doesn't include intensive scrutiny of Christopher Paget and his son.'

Keene looked puzzled. ‘Perhaps – depending on Terri's plans – some time with Mr Paget might be helpful. But at this point, his son seems pretty peripheral.'

‘Peripheral?' Richie gave Keene an opaque stare and then turned on Terri. ‘Let's take your extra weekend time, Ter – the time I gave you with Elena. How much of it does Elena spend with you and how much with Chris and Carlo Paget?'

Terri felt nettled. ‘Almost none –'

‘Define “almost,”' Richie cut in. ‘An hour? Two hours? More?'

‘How much, I'm not sure. Not enough to call for your Gestapo act.'

‘Yes,' Keene interjected. ‘This is supposed to be a dialogue, not cross-examination.'

Richie held up his hand to Keene, still gazing fixedly at Terri. ‘Then let me make it simpler. Tell me, Terri, how much time Elena spent alone with Carlo Paget on the
first
weekend after our agreement.'

‘I don't know.' Terri was edgy now. ‘Chris was giving a speech, and I didn't have a sitter. It wasn't long.'

‘And where were they? Elena and Carlo.'

Terri hesitated. ‘At Chris's house.'

‘At Chris's house,' Richie repeated, his tone gentle with suppressed anger. ‘Who else was there?'

‘No one.'

Richie nodded. ‘That's right, Terri. No one. And what did they do?' His voice was even softer now. ‘Draw pictures? Play with dolls? Or maybe they played dress-up.'

For Keene's sake, Terri held her temper. ‘I wasn't there. That's why I asked Carlo to stay with her.'

‘You're not being very helpful. To me
or
to Alec.' Terri glanced at Keene; he was silent now, caught up in Richie's oddly menacing puzzle. Richie leaned forward. ‘But you
do
know, Terri, what they were doing when you and your boyfriend came home.'

Terri felt her pulse quicken. ‘Elena was taking a bath.'

Richie's voice was silken again. ‘Alone?'

‘No,' Terri paused again. ‘Carlo was watching her.'

Richie leaned back now, eyebrows raised. ‘And where is the bathroom?'

‘Upstairs, off Chris's bedroom.' Terri's voice was flat. ‘Spit it out, Richie. I've had enough of your cat-and-mouse game.'

Richie's eyes darted from Keene to Terri, but his tone was still soft. ‘Just one more question, Terri. Do you usually turn your daughter's intimate care over to adolescent boys? Or does Christopher Paget's son rate this special little priviledge?'

‘All right,' Keene interrupted. ‘What's your point, Richie?'

Richie turned to him with an oddly pleasant expression, as if they had just been introduced. ‘It's this, Alec. The last time we were together, Terri began ticking off symptoms: listlessness and absentmindedness; lack of close peer relations; stomach-aches and regression; sleeplessness, needing a night-light, bad dreams. Things our daughter had left behind at the age of four. When Terri and I were together, and she was living in our house.'