Kage Baker - Her Father's Eyes

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Her Father's Eyes

Kage Baker

Asimov's (2002-12)

It was so long ago that fathers were still gaunt from the war, their awful scars still livid; so long ago that

mothers wore frocks, made fancy Jell-O desserts in ring molds. And that summer, there was enough

money to go for a trip on the train. She was taken along because she had been so sick she had almost

died, so it was a reward for surviving.

She was hurried along between her parents, holding their hands, won-dering what a dome coach

was and why it was supposed to be special. Then there was a gap in the sea of adult legs, and the high

silver cars of the train shone out at her. She stared up at the row of windows in the coach roof, and

thought it looked like the cockpits in the bombers her father was always pointing out.

Inside it was nicer, and much bigger, and there was no possible way any German or Japanese fighter

pilots could spray the passengers with bullets; so she settled into the seat she had all for herself. There

she watched the people moving down on the platform, until the train pulled out of the sta-tion.

Then her parents exclaimed, and told her to look out the wonderful dome windows at the scenery.

That was interesting for a while, especially the sight of the highway far down there with its Oldsmobiles

and DeSotos float-ing along in eerie silence, and then, as they moved out into the country, the occasional

field with a real horse or cow.

The change in her parents was more interesting. Out of uniform her fa-ther looked younger, was

neither gloomy nor sarcastic but raucously happy. All dressed up, her mother was today as serene and

cheerful as a housewife in a magazine advertisement. They held hands, like newlyweds, cried out in

rapture at each change in the landscape, and told her repeatedly what a lucky little girl she was, to get to

ride in a dome coach.

She had to admit they seemed to be right, though her gaze kept tracking nervously to the blue sky

framed by the dome, expecting any minute steeply banking wings there, fire or smoke. How could people

turn on happiness like a tap, and pretend the world was a bright and shiny place when they knew it

wasn't at all?

The candy butcher came up the aisle, and her father bought her a bag of mint jellies. She didn't like

mint jellies but ate them anyway, amazed at his good mood. Then her mother took her down the car to

wash the sugar from her face and hands, and the tiny steel lavatory astonished and fascinated her.

From time to time the train stopped in strange towns to let people off or on. Old neon signs winked

from brick hotels, and pointed forests like Christ-mas trees ran along the crests of hills, stood black

against the skyline. The sun set round and red. While it still lit the undersides of the clouds, her par-ents

took her down to the dining car.

What silent terror, at the roaring spaces between the cars where anyone might fall out and die

instantly; and people sat in the long room beyond, and sipped coffee and ate breaded veal cutlets as

calmly as though there were no yawning gulf rushing along under them. She watched the diners in awe,

and pushed the green peas round and round the margin of her plate, while her parents were chatting

together so happily they didn't even scold her.

When they climbed the narrow steel stair again, night had fallen. The whole of the coach had the

half-lit gloom of an aquarium, and stars burned down through the glass. She was led through little islands

of light, back to her seat. Taking her place again she saw that there were now people occu-pying the

seats across the aisle, that had been vacant before.

The man and the lady looked as though they had stepped out of the movies, so elegant they were.

The lady wore a white fur coat, had perfect red nails; the man wore a long coat, with a silk scarf around

his neck. His eyes were like black water. He was very pale. So was the lady, and so was their little boy

who sat stiffly in the seat in front of them. He wore a long coat too, and gloves, like a miniature grownup.

She decided they must be rich people.

Presently the Coach Hostess climbed up, and smilingly informed them all that there would be a

meteor shower tonight. The elegant couple winked at each other. The little girl scrambled around in her

seat, and peering over the back, asked her parents to explain what a meteor was. When she

under-stood, she pressed her face against the cold window glass, watching eagerly as the night miles

swam by. Distant lights floated in the darkness; but she saw no falling stars.

Disappointed, cranky and bored, she threw herself back from the window at last, and saw that the

little boy across the aisle was staring at her. She ignored him and addressed her parents over the back of

the seat:

"There aren't either any meteors," she complained.

"You're not looking hard enough," said her father, while at the same time her mother said,

"Hush," and drew from her big purse a tablet of lined paper and a brand-new box of crayons, the

giant box with rows and rows of colors. She handed them over the seat back and added, "Draw some

pictures of what you saw from the windows, and you can show them to Auntie when we get there."

Wide-eyed, the little girl took the offerings and slid back into her seat. For a while she admired the

pristine green-and-yellow box, the staggered regi-ments of pure color. All her crayons at home lived in

an old coffee can, in a chaos of nub ends and peeled paper.

At last she selected an Olive Green crayon and opened the tablet. She drew a cigar shape and

added flat wings. She colored in the airplane, and then took the Sky Blue and drew on a glass cockpit.

With the Black, she added stars on the wings and dots flying out the front to signify bullets.

She looked up. The little boy was staring at her again. She scowled at him.

"Those are nice," he said. "That's a lot of colors."

"This is the really big box," she said.

"Can I draw too?" he asked her, very quietly, so quietly something strange pulled at her heart. Was

he so quiet because he was scared? And the elegant man said:

"Daniel, don't bother the little girl," in a strange resonant voice that had something just the slightest bit

wrong about it. He sounded as though he were in the movies.

"You can share," she told the little boy, deciding suddenly. "But you have to come sit here, because I

don't want to tear the paper out."

"Okay," he said, and pushed himself out of his seat as she moved over. The elegant couple watched

closely, but as the children opened the tablet out be-tween them and each took a crayon, they seemed to

relax and turned their smiling attention to the night once more. The boy kept his gloves on while coloring.

"Don't you have crayons at home?" she asked him, drawing black dough-nut-tires under the plane.

He shook his head, pressing his lips together in a line as he examined the Green crayon he had taken.

"How can you not have crayons? You're rich," she said, and then was sor-ry she had said it,

because he looked as though he were about to cry. But he shrugged and said in a careless voice,

"I have paints and things."

"Oh," she said. She studied him. He had fair hair and blue eyes, a deep twilight blue. "How come

you don't look like your mommy and daddy?" she inquired. "I have my daddy's eyes. But you don't have

their eyes."

He glanced over his shoulder at the elegant couple and then leaned close to whisper, "I'm adopted."

"Oh. You were in the War?" she said, gesturing at her airplane. "Like a bomb was dropped on your

house, and you were an orphan, and the soldiers took you away?"

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HerFather'sEyesKageBakerAsimov's(2002-12)Itwassolongagothatfatherswerestillgauntfromthewar,theirawfulscarsstilllivid;solongagothatmothersworefrocks,madefancyJell-Odessertsinringmolds.Andthatsummer,therewasenoughmoneytogoforatriponthetrain.Shewastakenalongbecauseshehadbeensosickshehadalmostdied,soitw...

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