“How did you get it?”
“I was in Chicago some time ago. On business. After some period of reconnaissance, I discovered a twenty-four-hour public photocopying establishment which was very poorly staffed in the early-morning hours. I merely came in with a very large job and, when the clerk was distracted with its complexities, changed the date on the postage meter in the store, made several tapes, and then changed the date back.”
“But how did you know what date you would need?”
“Actually, child, I did not know. Not at that time. But I was reasonably certain of the time period. And, if events proved to be such that none of the tapes would work, they would be easy enough to discard.”
“Oh. Then you’re going to Chicago?”
“Yes. This evening, in fact.”
“I’m going to be alone at night?”
“Yes, you are. You won’t be frightened, will you?”
“No. I won’t be afraid. I just. . .”
“What, child?”
“I just don’t like to be alone in the dark. Could I leave a light on?”
“You may leave them all on if you wish, Zoë. But I have another idea, if you like.”
“What?”
“Well, there is some flexibility in my schedule. I could leave rather late this evening. . . after you’re asleep. And I could return while it is still daylight tomorrow. How would that be?”
“Great!” she exclaimed.
We had another astoundingly complex dinner, played several games of checkers—all of which the child lost—watched the news briefly, and then I read her a story until she fell asleep.
##############################################
The late-night flight to Chicago was, as expected, quite full of passengers, mostly businessmen returning to their homes for the weekend. I landed at O’Hare just after 2:00 a.m., took a cab into the Loop driven by an individual whose command of English seemed limited to that particular destination, dropped the package into a mailbox on Michigan Avenue, and returned to O’Hare. By ten o’clock on Saturday morning, I was back in the hideout, eating a complicated breakfast.
“How long will it take?” Zoë asked.
“For this particular phase, or the entire operation?”
“For. . . for them to get the film I made.”
“The United States Postal Service has the capacity to deliver within two days, but we should figure three days on average. However, we must also assume the Chicago mailbox won’t even be emptied until Monday, and receipt at. . . the other end won’t be until Thursday.”
“Couldn’t they, like, trace it?”
“The envelope? I don’t believe so, child. I don’t know, and frankly doubt, that the mailers supplied by the post office itself are identifiable by location, but, just to be sure, I have a supply from various cities on hand, and I was careful to use one from Chicago. The label was typed on a machine I constructed from several ancient typewriters, and that concoction itself was destroyed as soon as I was finished. The package was sealed with a type of packing tape available commercially through a dozen different mail-order houses. And any ‘tracing,’ as you put it, would only add to the mystery, not solve it. There is absolutely nothing which would give a key to our current whereabouts.”
“It’s going to take *much* longer than nine days, isn’t it?”
“Considerably more,” I replied.
“Can we start school, then?”
“School?”
“*Home* school. Remember? I told you my friend—”
“—Jeanne Ellen.”
“Yes! You *do* remember. You were just teasing.”
“I would not. . . ah, well, perhaps.”
“So? Can we start?”
“There is no school on weekends,” I informed her.
“But you *study* on weekends, don’t you? Didn’t you do that? When you were in school?”
“I was. . .” I stopped, wondering why the next words simply would not come. Momentarily puzzled, I quickly changed the subject: “That was a long time ago,” I said. “What’s important is the way people do things today.”
“Well, I want to study. I always study. Not just my homework either. All right?”
“Very well. Do you want to get your schoolbooks?”
“Okay!” She almost flew across the basement in her eagerness, and proudly presented me with a stack of well-worn texts. I took them from her and began to leaf through them in the hopes of recognizing an appropriate starting point. It was impossible to ignore the fact that virtually every page was covered with Zoë’s drawings. Although she had been careful not to obscure the actual words, the margins were completely decorated, and even the white space between paragraphs was not spared. Her mathematics book was creative to the point of genius—the child had connected various equations with drawings that seemed, in some symbolic way, to link the numbers with the art. The depth was breathtaking.
“Are you okay?” I felt the child’s small hand tugging at my sleeve.
“Of course, child,” I replied. “I was merely absorbed in the book, looking for—”
“But you were doing it for an *hour*!” she said, her voice not so much complaining as. . . nervous? Frightened? I could not determine.
“Ah, well, that is likely to occur when a person gazes at works of art. One becomes lost in the work.”
“You were looking at my drawings?”
“Yes, I was. They are quite. . . remarkable. But aren’t your teachers. . . annoyed at your defacement of the books?”
“They used to be. But now they know I won’t turn them in at the end of the year. My father has to buy them. From the school, I mean. So they don’t get mad anymore.”
“Are you bored, Zoë?”
“No! I’m having a good time. Really.”
“I didn’t mean here, child. I meant in school. Do you draw during class because the material is so boring?”
“I don’t know. I always do it, I guess.”
“And then you learn the material at home? By yourself?”
“I. . . guess. I always do my homework, so nobody ever gets mad.”
“But what about your grades? Your. . . report card, I suppose it would be called.”
“I always get all A’s,” she said, without the expected vein of pride in her voice, just stating a fact.
“Is that right? Your parents must be very pleased with your performance.”