Parable of the Talents

Teach.'

She had once been a teacher in a public school in San Francisco. The school had closed 15 years after she began teaching. That was during the early twenties when so many public school systems around the country gave up the ghost and closed their doors. Even the pretense of having an edu­cated populace was ending. Politicians shook their heads and said sadly that universal education was a failed experi­ment Some companies began to educate the children of their workers at least well enough to enable them to become their next generation of workers. Company towns began then to come back into fashion. They offered security, em­ployment, and education. That was all very well, but the company that educated you owned you until you paid off the debt you owed them. You were an indentured person, and if they couldn't use you themselves, they could trade you off to another division of the company—or another company. You, like your education, became a commodity to be bought or sold.

There were still a few public school systems in the coun­try, limping along, doing what they could, but these had more in common with city jails than with even the most mediocre private, religious, or company schools. It was the business of responsible parents to see to the education of their children, somehow. Those who did not were bad par­ents. It was to be hoped that social, legal, and religious pressures would sooner or later force even bad parents to do their duty toward their offspring.

'So,' Nia said, 'poor, semiliterate, and illiterate people became financially responsible for their children's elemen­tary education. If they were alcoholics or addicts or prosti­tutes or if they had all they could do just to feed their kids and maybe keep some sort of roof over their heads, that was just too bad! And no one thought about what kind of soci­ety we were building with such stupid decisions. People who could afford to educate their children in private schools were glad to see the government finally stop wast­ing their tax money, educating other people's children. They seemed to think they lived on Mars. They imagined that a country filled with poor, uneducated, unemployable people somehow wouldn't hurt them!'

Len sighed. 'That sounds like the way my dad thinks. I'm his punishment, I guess—not that he cares!'

Nia gave her a look of chilly interest. 'What? Your fa­ther?'

Len explained, and I watched as, almost against her will, Nia thawed. 'I see.' She sighed. 'I suppose I could have wound up homeless myself, but my aunt and uncle owned this house and surrounding farmland outright. This is mother's family home. I came to live here and care for them when my job ended. They were old and not doing well any­more. Even then they were renting the farmland to neigh­boring farmers. They left the house, the land, and the rest of their possessions to me when they died. I keep a garden, some chickens, goats, rabbits. I rent the land. I survive.'

I tried to ignore a sharp stab of envy and nostalgia.

Len said, 'I like your garden.' She stared out at the long, neat rows of vegetables, fruits, and herbs.

'Do you?' Nia asked. 'I heard you complaining out there.'

Len blushed, then looked at her hands. 'I've never done that kind of thing before. I liked it, but it was hard work.'

I smiled. 'She's game, if nothing else. I've been doing work like that all my life.'

'You were a gardener?' Nia asked.

'No, it was just a matter of eating or not eating. I've done a number of things, including teach—although I'm not aca­demically qualified to teach. But I'm literate, and the idea of leaving children illiterate is criminal.''

As she smiled her delight at hearing such agreement with her own thoughts, I handed her the drawing. On the lower right side of it I had written the first verse of Earthseed, 'All that you touch, /You Change 'On the other I had written the 'To shape God' verse that she liked.

She read the verses and looked at the picture for a long, long time. It was a detailed drawing, not just a sketch, and I felt almost pleased with it. Then she looked at me and said in a voice almost too soft to hear, 'Thank you.'

She asked us to stay the night, offered to let us sleep in her barn, proving that she hadn't altogether lost her fear of us. We stayed, and the next day I did a few odd repair jobs around the house for her. I could have stolen her blind if I'd wanted to, but what I had decided that I wanted from her, I couldn't steal. She had to give it.

I told her that evening that I was a woman. First, though, I told her about Larkin. We were in her kitchen. She was cooking. She'd told me to sit down and talk to her. I'd worked hard, she said. I'd earned a rest.

I never took my eyes off her as I told her. It was impor­tant that she not feel foolish, frightened, or angry when she understood. A little confusion and mild embarrassment was inevitable, but that should be all.