Orson Card - Maps in a Mirror - The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card

“Van?” I said.

He looked up at me. He took a timid step toward me.

I heard Scotty’s voice behind me. “Can they come in, Dad? I told them you’d let them have Christmas Eve with us. That’s what they miss the most.”

I turned to him. “Scotty, these boys are all reported missing. Where have they been?”

“Under the house,” he said.

I thought of the crawl space. I thought of how many times Scotty had come in covered with dirt last summer.

“How did they get there?” I asked.

“The old guy put them there,” he said. “They said I shouldn’t tell anybody or the old guy would get mad and they never wanted him to be mad at them again. Only I said it was OK, I could tell you.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“The landlord’s father,” whispered Kristine.

I nodded.

“Only how could he keep them under there all this time? When does he feed them? When—”

She already knew that the old guy didn’t feed them. I don’t want you to think Kristine didn’t guess that immediately. But it’s the sort of thing you deny as long as you can, and even longer.

“They can come in,” I told Scotty. I looked at Kristine. She nodded. I knew she would. You don’t turn away lost children on Christmas Eve. Not even when they’re dead.

Scotty smiled. What that meant to us—Scotty smiling. It had been so long. I don’t think I really saw a smile like that since we moved to Greensboro. Then he called out to the boys. “It’s OK! You can come in!”

Kristine held the door open, and I backed out of the way. They filed in, some of them smiling, some of them too shy to smile. “Go on into the living room,” I said. Scotty led the way. Ushering them in, for all the world like a proud host in a magnificent new mansion. They sat around on the floor. There weren’t many presents, just the ones from the kids; we don’t put out the presents from the parents till the kids are asleep. But the tree was there, lighted, with all our homemade decorations on it—even the old needlepoint decorations that Kristine made while lying in bed with desperate morning sickness when she was pregnant with Scotty, even the little puff-ball animals we glued together for that first Christmas tree in Scotty’s life. Decorations older than he was.

And not just the tree—the whole room was decorated with red and green tassels and little wooden villages and a stuffed Santa hippo beside a wicker sleigh and a large chimney-sweep nutcracker and anything else we hadn’t been able to resist buying or making over the years.

We called in Geoffrey and Emily, and Kristine brought in Charlie Ben and held him on her lap while I told the stories of the birth of Christ—the shepherds and the wise men, and the one from the Book of Mormon about a day and a night and a day without darkness. And then I went on and told what Jesus lived for. About forgiveness for all the bad things we do.

“Everything?” asked one of the boys.

It was Scotty who answered. “No!” he said. “Not killing.”

Kristine started to cry.

“That’s right,” I said. “In our church we believe that God doesn’t forgive people who kill on purpose. And in the New Testament Jesus said that if anybody ever hurt a child, it would be better for him to tie a huge rock around his neck and jump into the sea and drown.”

“Well, it did hurt, Daddy,” said Scotty. “They never told me about that.”

“It was a secret,” said one of the boys. Nicky, Kristine says, because she remembers names and faces.

“You should have told me,” said Scotty. “I wouldn’t have let him touch me.”

That was when we knew, really knew, that it was too late to save him, that Scotty, too, was already dead.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” said Scotty. “You told me not to play with them anymore, but they were my friends, and I wanted to be with them.” He looked down at his lap. “I can’t even cry anymore. I used it all up.”

It was more than he’d said to us since we moved to Greensboro in March. Amid all the turmoil of emotions I was feeling, there was this bitterness: All this year, all our worries, all our efforts to reach him, and yet nothing brought him to speak to us except death.

But I realized now it wasn’t death. It was the fact that when he knocked, we opened the door; that when he asked, we let him and his friends come into our house that night. He had trusted us, despite all the distance between us during that year, and we didn’t disappoint him. It was trust that brought us one last Christmas Eve with our boy.

But we didn’t try to make sense of things that night. They were children, and needed what children long for on a night like that. Kristine and I told them Christmas stories and we told about Christmas traditions we’d heard of in other countries and other times, and gradually they warmed up until every one of the boys told all about his own family’s Christmases. They were good memories. They laughed, they jabbered, they joked. Even though it was the most terrible of Christmases, it was also the best Christmas of our lives, the one in which every scrap of memory is still precious to us, the perfect Christmas in which being together was the only gift that mattered. Even though Kristine and I don’t talk about it directly now, we both remember it. And Geoffrey and Emily remember it, too. They call it “the Christmas when Scotty brought his friends.” I don’t think they ever really understood, and I’ll be content if they never do.

Finally, though, Geoffrey and Emily were both asleep. I carried each of them to bed as Kristine talked to the boys, asking them to help us. To wait in our living room until the police came, so they could help us stop the old guy who stole them away from their families and their futures. They did. Long enough for the investigating officers to get there and see them, long enough for them to hear the story Scotty told.

Long enough for them to notify the parents. They came at once, frightened because the police had dared not tell them more over the phone than this: that they were needed in a matter concerning their lost boy. They came: with eager, frightened eyes they stood on our doorstep, while a policeman tried to help them understand. Investigators were bringing ruined bodies out from under our house—there was no hope. And yet if they came inside, they would see that cruel Providence was also kind, and this time there would be what so many other parents had longed for but never had: a chance to say good-bye. I will tell you nothing of the scenes of joy and heartbreak inside our home that night—those belong to other families, not to us.

Once their families came, once the words were spoken and the tears were shed, once the muddy bodies were laid on canvas on our lawn and properly identified from the scraps of clothing, then they brought the old man in handcuffs. He had our landlord and a sleepy lawyer with him, but when he saw the bodies on the lawn he brokenly confessed, and they recorded his confession. None of the parents actually had to look at him; none of the boys had to face him again.

But they knew. They knew that it was over, that no more families would be torn apart as theirs—as ours—had been. And so the boys, one by one, disappeared. They were there, and then they weren’t there. With that the other parents left us, quiet with grief and awe that such a thing was possible, that out of horror had come one last night of mercy and of justice, both at once.

Scotty was the last to go. We sat alone with him in our living room, though by the lights and talking we were aware of the police still doing their work outside. Kristine and I remember clearly all that was said, but what mattered most to us was at the very end.

“I’m sorry I was so mad all the time last summer,” Scotty said. “I knew it wasn’t really your fault about moving and it was bad for me to be so angry but I just was.”