Asimov's Science Fiction 030111 by Dell Magazines

Author:Dell Magazines
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Dell Magazines
Published: 2011-03-01T08:00:00+00:00

Tito remembers when he had eyes, and the eyes knew a house and yard and trees growing beneath a sky that changed from black to blue and then turned black again. With little prompting, he can see the woman standing beside him—a towering lady with black hair and a strange painful smile. She held his hand, the hand that was going to be lost. When she spoke, she used a firm voice that commanded attention. She wasn’t his mother, but she insisted that he called her “Mama.” His mother and father had gone somewhere. Where they went was an important secret, and if he asked about them he would be paddled, or maybe some worse punishment would be delivered.

The two of them were standing on the busy corner outside their rundown little house. “You are such a good boy,” the woman told him. She always said that, even when she was in a bad mood. It was important to be a good boy. That was the message that began every day. Then her strange smile widened, and she let go of the hand and patted him on the head. “No, I won’t leave you. I can’t ever leave you. This is a promise, and I never break my promises.”

Why was she saying this? The little boy must have said something before, some question that prompted her reaction. But the grown, maimed man cannot remember those words.

The woman kneeled, despite a bad knee that made her wince. “Trust me. You must trust me.”

“I do,” said a tiny high voice.

“How old are you?”

The voice said, “Six.”

“A perfect age,” she said.

Six was six, and nothing about any age was perfect.

“Why are you crying?” she asked.

He can’t recall crying now. But she touched his cheek and pulled back dampened fingertips.

“I do love you,” she said.

He nodded.

“More than anything,” she said.

He kept nodding.

Looking out into the street, she said, “When I was young.” Then a car went past, and she took a long breath before talking again. “I wasn’t much older than you. And my father, who was always a good man . . . a wonderful man . . . my father got involved with some awful things. Drugs. Powerful, wicked drugs that made him crazy. He was so angry and crazy, and I won’t tell you, not ever, what he did. Or what my mother did to protect me. But living through those days . . . surviving the nights . . . that’s why I’m strong today.” Her hands were shaking, and she was crying. “Stronger than anybody else.”

He followed her eyes, gazing out into the street. Then came the rough sound of a motor, and he turned and looked. A yellow box on wheels was rolling toward them.

The woman stood, wincing because of her knee. “That’s not our bus. We want the city bus.”

The city bus was bigger and nicer looking.

“Hold my hand,” she said.

The yellow bus slowed and stopped, and a big door opened. Sitting in front was a gray-haired woman, fat and smiling.

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