Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

I said, “Get J. D. to drop the charges.”

He shook his head. “My brother and I,” he said, “have never gotten along. For as long as I can remember. We are different in every way, even physically. We think differently, we act differently. When I was young I used to resent the fact that he was my brother, and I secretly suspected that he was not, that he had been adopted or something. I suppose he thought the same thing.”

He finished his coffee and rested his chin on his chest. “Ev has tried to convince J. D. to drop charges,” he said. “But he’s firm, and she can’t really—”

“Think of an excuse?”

“Yes.”

“It’s too bad she ever named Lee in the first place.”

“Yes,” he said. “But what’s done is done.”

He walked with me to the door. I stepped outside into a gray, pale sunlight. As I went down to my car, he said, “If you don’t want to get involved, I’ll understand.”

I looked back at him. “You knew damned well I’d have no choice.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “But I was hoping.”

WHEN I GOT INTO MY CAR, I wondered what I would do next. I had no idea, no leads, nothing. Perhaps I could call Zenner again and see if he could remember more of his conversation. Perhaps I could visit Ginnie at Smith, or Angela and Bubbles, and see if they remembered more. But I doubted they would.

I reached into my pocket for the keys and felt something. I brought it out: a picture of a Negro in a shiny suit. Roman Jones.

I had forgotten all about Roman. Somewhere along the line he had disappeared in the rush, the stream of faces. I stared at the picture for a long time, trying to read the features, to measure the man. It was impossible; the pose was standard, the cocky look of a silver-suited stud, swaggering, half grinning, half leering. It was a pose for the crowds, and it told me nothing at all.

I am not good with words, and it has always been surprising to me that my son, Johnny, is. When he is alone, he plays with his toys and makes up word games; he rhymes or tells himself stories. He has very sharp ears and always comes to me for explanations. Once he asked me what an ecdysiast was, pronouncing the word perfectly but carefully, as if it were fragile.

So I was not really surprised when, as I was minding my own business, he came up and said, “Daddy, what’s an abortionist mean?”

“Why?”

“One of the policemen said Uncle Art was an abortionist. Is that bad?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

He leaned against my knee, propping his chin on it. He has large brown eyes; Judith’s eyes.

“But what’s it mean, Daddy?”

“It’s complicated,” I said, stalling for time.

“Does it mean a kind of doctor? Like neurologist?”

“Yes,” I said. “But an abortionist does other things.” I hoisted him up on my knee, feeling the weight of his body. He was getting heavy, growing up. Judith was saying it was time for another.

“It has to do with babies,” I said.

“Like obsetrician?”

“Obstetrician,” I said. “Yes.”

“He takes the baby out of the mommy?”

“Yes,” I said, “but it is different. Sometimes the baby isn’t normal. Sometimes it is born so it can’t talk—”

“Babies can’t talk,” he said, “until later.”

“Yes,” I said. “But sometimes it is born without arms or legs. Sometimes it is deformed. So a doctor stops the baby and takes it away early.”

“Before it’s grown up?”

“Yes, before it’s grown up.”

“Was I taken away early?”

“No,” I said and hugged him.

“Why do some babies have no arms or legs?”

“It’s an accident,” I said. “A mistake.”

He stretched out his hand and looked at it, flexing the fingers.

“Arms are nice,” he said.

“Yes.”

“But everybody has arms.”

“Not everybody.”

“Everybody I know.”

“Yes,” I said, “but sometimes people are born without them.”

“How do they play catch without arms?”

“They can’t.”

“I don’t like that,” he said. He looked at his hand again, closing his fingers, watching them.

“Why do you have arms?” he asked.

“Because.” It was too big a question for me.

“Because what?”

“Because inside your body there is a code.”

“What’s a code?”

“It’s instructions. It tells the body how it is going to grow.”

“A code?”

“It’s like a set of instructions. A plan.”

“Oh.”

He thought about this.

“It’s like your erector set. You look at the pictures and you make what you see. That’s a plan.”

“Oh.”

I couldn’t tell if he understood or not. He considered what I had said, then looked at me. “If you take the baby out of the mommy, what happens to it?”

“It goes away.”

“Where?”

“Away,” I said, not wanting to explain further.

“Oh,” he said. He climbed down off my knee. “Is Uncle Art really an abortionist?”

“No,” I said. I knew I had to tell him that, otherwise I would get a call from his kindergarten teacher about his uncle the abortionist. But I felt badly, all the same.

“Good,” he said, “I’m glad.”

And he walked off.

JUDITH SAID, “YOU’RE NOT EATING.”

I pushed my food away. “I’m not very hungry.”

Judith turned to Johnny and said, “Clean your plate, Johnny.”

He held the fork in a small, tight fist. “I’m not hungry,” he said and glanced at me.

“Sure you are,” I said.

“No,” he said, “I’m not.”

Debby, who was barely big enough to see over the table, threw her knife and fork down. “I’m not hungry either,” she said. “The food tastes icky.”

“I think it tastes very good,” I said and dutifully ate a mouthful. The kids looked at me suspiciously. Especially Debby: at three, she was a very levelheaded little girl.

“You just want us to eat, Daddy.”

“I like it,” I said, eating more.

“You’re pretending.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why aren’t you smiling?” Debby said.

Fortunately, Johnny decided at that moment to eat more. He rubbed his stomach. “It’s good,” he said.

“It is?” Debby said.

“Yes,” Johnny said, “very good.”

Debby nibbled. She was very tentative. She took another forkful, and as she moved it to her mouth, she spilled it on her dress. Then, like a normal woman, she got mad at everyone around her. She announced that it was terrible and she didn’t like it; she wouldn’t eat any more. Judith began to call her “Young lady,” a sure sign that Judith was getting mad. Debby backed off while Johnny continued to eat until he held up his plate and showed it to us proudly: clean.

It was another half-hour before the kids were in bed. I stayed in the kitchen; Judith came back and said, “Coffee?”

“Yes. I’d better.”

“Sorry about the kids,” she said. “They’ve had a wearying few days.”

“We all have.”

She poured the coffee and sat down across the table from me.

“I keep thinking,” she said, “about the letters. The ones Betty got.”

“What about them?”

“Just what they mean. There are thousands of people out there, all around you, waiting for their chance. Stupid, bigoted, small-minded—”

“This is a democracy,” I said. “Those people run the country.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“No,” I said. “I know what you mean.”

“Well, it frightens me,” Judith said. She pushed the sugar bowl across the table to me and said, “I think I want to leave Boston. And never come back.”

“It’s the same everywhere,” I said. “You might as well get used to it.”