I tell her. “The skin thickens into scales. The boys also have rudimentary gills.”
I pat the attendant’s arm. She’s a great, dark-skinned woman with a brilliant smile. The twins giggle and squirm. “This is their favorite part of the day,” she says, in a voice that echoes her native Venezuela.
The Governor’s wife asks the attendant a few questions about the twins. I see pain and horror in her eyes, as the boys smile and coo. “You’re pretty,” one of the boys says. He’s talking to Monique. I turn, and my wife looks as though she’s eaten a dried-out lime.
I mutter about how the boys are very affectionate.
“How can you stand it?” Monique whispers through gritted teeth.
I just smile. We say goodbye to the attendant and the twins. It’s time for the program. I don’t want to be late.
We enter the sunny auditorium. The children have colored butcher-paper banners. Their theme is “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up, Santa.” The banners show nurses, doctors and railroad engineers. There are no cartoon characters among them. Sherman’s children are blissfully ignorant of violent superheroes and insipid cartoons. The pictures remind me of what we used to draw as children, when we believed that nurses and police officers and fire-fighters were heroes.
The Governor’s wife smiles again, a more genuine smile. Jonny’s class comes to the stage. He is in the front. They sing “Jingle Bells” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” When they get to the chorus of “Hark the Herald Angels,” Jonny sings “Glory to the newborn King,” in a high, sweet, slightly bubbly voice. The Governor’s wife claps. Tears glisten in her eyes.
I reach over and grasp Monique’s hand. She purses her lips and draws away.
“Oh, his eyes! What would cause that?” the Governor’s wife exclaims.
I tell her the name of his syndrome. She shakes her head. Jonny approaches the microphone. “All I want for Christmas is to give my gramma a kiss,” he says. The Governor’s wife makes a little choking noise, and puts her hand to her mouth. Monique sits still, beside me. The muscles in her thighs are tight as steel cords.
“Will his family be here for Christmas?” the Governor’s wife asks. I shrug. Jonny and his class wheel away, amid the applause of the staff and the teachers and the Governor’s wife. Monique claps her delicate hands like a doll someone has wound up and set to performing.
The younger children come on stage. They have prepared a mini-Nutcracker for the Governor’s wife.
The Governor’s wife asks, “who’s that darling girl?”
“Little Gyla,” I tell her. Gyla is four, nearly five. She’s dressed as a tiny Snow Queen, though under the costume she is covered with soft, silvery fur. Her face is heart-shaped, with a sharp chin and a rosebud mouth, her head covered with short fur, save two tufts above her temples that mimic a puppy’s ears.
Monique leans near and whispers, “you’ve never told me about her.”
I shake my head. “No, I suppose I haven’t. Gyla is a very happy girl.”
“What is the matter with her?” The Governor’s wife’s eyes are narrow, questioning.
“She’s a lycanthrope. It’s possible she could bite another child. We may have to isolate her, if her…”
“That’s horrible! She’s really very pretty, in an odd way,” Monique says. Her mouth is a tight line. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking, what if Karen had been born like this little girl?
Gyla’s parents were poor Mexican people, Indians, from a state they call Michoacan. Her mother worked in the garment district in Los Angeles, before Gyla was born. After a series of foster placements, she came to Sherman. She speaks with the accent of her foster parents, who were also from Mexico.
“She says she wants to be a ballerina,” I say to the Governor’s wife. I pronounce it as Gyla does, “bayareena.”
Tears stream down the cheeks of the Governor’s wife, marring her perfectly-powdered complexion, as the program draws to a close. I touch her elbow. She stands and claps beside me, as we all do. “What can I do for them,” she says, as she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Monique is pressing at her arm, muttering how pleased she was to meet her. “What would they like for Christmas? What would they really like?”
My mind whirls. What would the children like? Would the children like band-aids, to put across their weeping wounds? New bodies? New skin? The removal of excess eyes and digits and limbs? Should we get video toys for the blind children, music disks for those who can’t hear? Could the Governor’s wife purchase acceptance for them, a society that wouldn’t stare?
“Socks,” I hear myself say. “The children need warm socks.”
The Governor’s wife asks how many socks are needed.
I tell her there are one hundred and five children, and it would be nice if each child could have two pair, one white, and one colored. Even the children with fins and flippers can use socks.
The socks are promised before Christmas. The Governor’s wife kisses me lightly on the cheek, and her handlers lead her away. As she leaves, I feel a tug at my jacket. I look down, and Jonny is beside me.
“Will you call gramma?” he asks.
I smile down at him. “I’ll call her. She’s giving you socks for Christmas, Jonny,” I say. More lies. So simple. I kiss him atop his sensitive head, which is very warm, and Monique and I leave the auditorium.
* * * *
Monique serves me coffee on our patio, which is furnished in the style of wrought iron favored in New Orleans. The cup is hot, the coffee steaming, its aroma delicious. Monique makes a magnificent cup of coffee.
“Why did you tell her socks?” she asks as she sits beside me. She has her hair in a sleek ponytail. It makes her look like a young girl.
“They need them,” I murmur, as I sip the coffee.
“You need a break. Tell the board you want a week off. Two weeks. Let’s get away. Karen can stay with my sister.” Monique’s expression is serious. She pats my hand. It feels as though she’s touched me with a warm mitten.
I pull my hand away. “I can’t leave now. The staff is continuing class through Christmas. The kids need me. They haven’t got homes or families. Jonny still…”
“Jonny be damned! Aren’t you worth something, Hed? You can’t be his father! I’m sorry for them, but they’ve got to learn to accept what they’ve been given. Don’t pretend to be their father. It’s not helping this Jonny. He needs to know there isn’t anyone there for him, there isn’t…”
“How can you be so vicious!” I slam my coffee cup on the table. Ceramic shards spray across my lap, along with most of the coffee. Monique gasps and backs away. I wipe at the mess with the napkin. The look on her face is terrible. I’ve frightened her.
“You need some time off, Hed. I mean it,” she says, and starts toward the house.
“Wait,” I say. She
