Piers Anthony and Philip José Farmer
The Caterpillar's Question
Chapter 1
They had told Jack they thought it was psychosomatic. She could talk if she wanted to, and might even recover the sight of one eye. But it had taken seven years to obtain the grant from the foundation, and now she was thirteen.
He glanced at her, sitting tight and stiff in the passenger bucket. Her dark hair was cut so short it was boyish, but the gentle bulges in the heavy man's shirt she wore belied any boyhood or childhood. One hand toyed indifferently with the buckle of the seat belt, and under her cotton skirt the shiny length of a metal brace paralleled her left leg. Her sharp chin pointed forward, but of course she was not watching anything.
The horn of the car behind him blared as the light changed Jack shifted and edged out, waiting for the string of late left-turners to clear. He wasn't even certain which city this was, the hours of silent driving had grown monotonous.
"Are you ready to stop, Tappy?" But she did not answer or make any sign. He knew she heard and understood— but he was still a stranger, and she was afraid. Had they even bothered to tell her where she was going, or why?
Tappuah Concord, maimed at the age of six, in the accident that killed her father. She had never known her mother, and the nearest of kin that took her in had not been pleased very long with the burden. Jack had no doubt they had made this plain to the little girl many times.
He pulled into a roadside restaurant. His job was to transport her safely to the clinic. She couldn't cover a thousand miles without eating.
Why hadn't they sent her by plane, so that all this driving was unnecessary? No, the plane was out of the question. Tappy surely still remembered that last trip in her father's little flier. Apparently there had been a miscalculation, and they had crashed. Jack had not inquired about the details, for Tappy had been there listening, and he had never been one for pointless cruelty.
He got out, opened her door, unsnapped her seat belt, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted her to her feet. They had warned him about this, too: there was often no way to make her come except to make her come. Anywhere. Otherwise she might simply sit there indefinitely, staring sightlessly ahead. He felt awkward, putting his hands on her, but she did not seem to notice.
He guided her firmly by the elbow and stopped at the little sign pointing to the ladies' room, not certain whether the girl knew her way around public facilities, and doubtful what he'd do if she didn't. He had to ask her, rather awkwardly because of the people passing nearby, and she shook her head no. Was it wisest to treat her as a child or as a woman? The difference was important the moment they left the isolation of the car. He decided on the latter, at least in public places.
They took a corner table, enduring the interminable wait for their order. He was super-conscious of the glances of others, but Tappy seemed oblivious to her surroundings. She kept her hands in her lap, eyes downcast and incurious, and he saw too clearly the narrow white scar that crossed one eye and terminated at the mutilated ear. What did his petty embarrassment mean, compared to her problems?
"Lookit that girl's ear's gone!" exclaimed a younger boy at a neighboring table, his voice startlingly loud. There was a fierce shushing that was worse than the remark because it confirmed its accuracy. Heads turned, first toward the boy, then toward the object of the boy's curiosity.
A slow tear started down Tappy's left cheek.
Jack stood up so suddenly that his chair crashed backward, and he stepped around the table and caught her arm and brought her out of that place. It was as if he had tunnel vision; all he saw was the escape route, the room and people fuzzing out at the periphery. They made it to the car, strapped in, and he drove, arrowing down the highway at a dangerous velocity. He was first numb, then furious— but he wasn't sure at what.
Gradually he cooled, and knew that the worst of the situation had been his own reaction. It was too late to undo what damage he might have done, but he could at least be guided more sensibly henceforth. He schooled himself not to react like that, no matter what happened next time.
But first he had something more difficult to do. "Tappy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I just—" He faltered, for she was not reacting at all. "I'm sorry."
She might as well have been a statue.
At dusk, starving, he drew up to a motel and left Tappy in the seat while he registered for two rooms. He took her to one of them and sat her on the bed. He crossed the street and bought a six-pack of fruit drinks and two submarine sandwiches for their supper. Class fare it was not, but it was all he could think of at the moment.
He set things up precariously on the bed in her room, and was glad to see that she had a good appetite. She evidently was not used to this particular menu, but was experienced with bedroom meals. His pleasure became concern as he thought about it. Had they ever let her eat at the table, family style? He could see why they might not have, but it bothered him anyway. There was a human being inside that tortured shell!
His thoughts drifted to his own motives. Why had he taken this job? A week before he'd have laughed if someone had predicted he'd be sitting on a motel bed eating supper with a blind girl almost ten years his junior. But he hadn't realized how hard it would be for a budding artist with one year of college to get a decent summer job.
Jack had kicked around for two, three years— he didn't know exactly where the time went— before running into Donna. Then suddenly he had the need to make something of himself. So he went to college and studied art. Did okay, too; he did have talent. But by the time he got it together, Donna had drifted elsewhere. He never even got to tell her of the effect she had on his motivation. He grieved, of course, and considered giving it up. But he discovered that life did go on, and there might even be other girls on the horizon.
Meanwhile, he needed wherewithal to continue college; that kept him busy around the edges. He soon realized that he was not likely to make it by washing dishes at joints that had never heard of the minimum wage scale, or changing tires for tips, or taking any of the other menial positions for which one year of art seemed to qualify him.
The ad had offered a thousand dollars plus liberal expenses and the use of a good car for one week's light work. It had seemed too good to be true, and he was amazed to learn that the job hadn't been taken. No, it didn't involve drugs or anything illegal; it was just chauffeuring. If he had a valid license and a good record...
Jack had little else, but he did have those. He valued his potential career as a world-famous artist too much to mess it up with bad driving. He liked to travel; every new region was grist for his painting.
The job was to deliver Tappy to the clinic across the country. He assumed that it was legal for him to transport this child, or they would not have hired him. He needed the money, and didn't ask too many questions. He had had no idea that jobs like this existed! If he could find a couple more like this, at similar pay scales, his next year of college would be assured.
They had covered four hundred miles today. At this rate he'd have Tappy at the clinic the day after tomorrow, and could be back two days early. The pay was for the job, not the time, so he had nothing to lose by being prompt. If the girl didn't talk, at least she wasn't much trouble. After this he'd get sandwiches and they'd eat in the car, avoiding restaurants entirely.
Jack cleaned up the mess of crumbs and told Tappy he'd check on her in the morning. "You can find your way around the room okay? Bathroom's in a straight line from the bed, and there's a radio. I'm in the next unit if you need me. Just yell."