Boccicelli paled. “This isn’t a DV scenario. That much I know.”
“Are you sure?” Fisher whispered. Boccicelli slapped his clammy hand away.
“Who knows?” Puppy shrugged at the many enigmas of Grandma’s House. “The laws can be vague. Maybe I’m over-reacting.”
“I think so,” snickered Boccicelli.
“Could just be a matter of them freezing any property settlements until it’s decided.”
“Freezing?”
“But we’ve paid a lot of money in rent,” whined Fisher. “Tell him, Boccicelli.”
“Does Grandma reward failure?” Puppy said. “I’m sure your mother taught you that, Mr. Fisher.”
Fisher thought about the childhood spankings for mispronouncing a word.
“You were put in this situation by your mother.” Puppy waited for Fisher to lift his head from his lap. “And Mr. Boccicelli, didn’t you inherit the Falcons from your grandfather? Good, decent, law-abiding heirs…”
“Yes we are,” Boccicelli insisted.
“Which will be taken into account. But failing to uphold the value of an inherited business is…”Puppy’s voice faded away.
“What?” Fisher grasped his elbow. Puppy’s sad eyes painted a dire picture that might include more spankings.
Boccicelli nervously ate a bar of Effie’s Chocolate without offering any. Fisher went straight for Simpy’s South Dakota Single Malt Scotch. They munched and gulped for a few minutes before Boccicelli wiped his smeared face clean like a boxer returning for a painful last round.
“You mentioned an idea, Nedick,” Boccicelli asked haughtily.
11
Every so often, one of the orphans would try crawling under or over the chain-link fence, searching for some way out. The silent sensors went off a good twenty feet before they even approached. A smiling, slightly scolding Parent would wait on the other side, arms crossed, shaking their head. They’d sit the child down on a tree stump suddenly growing out of the ground, subduing the youngster with the magic, and wipe away the tears of a loved friend leaving, the fear they’d never be taken themselves.
That never happened. All the children from Muslim Europe were wanted eventually.
Even though Grandma hadn’t arrived, Tomas wolfishly watched the cluster of Cousins gathering on stage for the ceremony. This was the safest place in the country. Twenty stealth ‘copters flew in vectors while creaky old M-3 tanks watched on the adjoining hills. HG flower gardens swept up and over in bucolic duplicity.
There was no set timing for a Cousins Adoption. When the children were old enough to learn never to discuss their experiences, they were placed on the Loving List. There was no reward system. There were no good children and bad children, just children who were sometimes good and sometimes bad.
Tomas never quite got the way a Cousin was selected as a new parent; Grandma had once tried explaining over numerous pots of tea, but the metrics, the emotional/intellectual tests just danced over his bald head. Trust always ruled. That much he got, Tomas thought, rechecking the position of his first platoon as Cheng neared in his small purple car.
Trust and love.
Eventually, a Cousin had to have a family, whether their biological own or from someone else. And while a Cousin needed greater skills to lead, they couldn’t lead and not be as one with anyone else. The grand dichotomy ruling all of Grandma’s Family as her Second Insight: How to show and yet be shown.
As wonderfully as the children were treated in The Camp, they were still children saved from the Allahs. Most of them came from ME orphanages, traded for food. All of them had scars. How long would it take for the scars to show? The trauma of losing parents could be felt in a newborn, much less a two-year-old who watched their father beheaded or their mother raped. Or their father raped and their mother beheaded. Combinations of cruelty tested finity.
Confidence in the ability of a Reg to handle such a situation could be risky. Even training by the Parents didn’t guarantee success. Nor did being a Cousin. But they were a Cousin for a reason. So the childless couples bonded with the kids in The Camp.
When the first wave of orphans were rescued just after The Surrender in 2073, some simply didn’t adjust. There were stories of children turning on their new parents, friends, teachers. Acts of violence like the twelve-year-old who chopped up his parents and two sisters while screaming Allahu Akbar wasn’t isolated, if rarely reported, but the whispers spread. Kindness and generosity and loving fell before the fear of a knife in the chest in the middle of the night.
Some around Grandma even feared the children were plants, brainwashed in the orphanages and sent like ticking time bombs to begin the final Islamic assault by once again poisoning America from within. Remember Los Angeles. Washington. Manhattan.
Grandma would have none of that. Tomas remembered the angry meeting where she nearly twisted off the head of a Second Cousin who suggested, no, insisted the shipment of orphans must stop. Keep them in The Camp, but forever. A compromise was reached. Orphans would continue, but their existence wouldn’t be publicized. Private routes would be found. Children would be saved, but secretly. Cousins as parents made perfect sense.
The decoy ‘copter hovered directly over the stage. The several hundred children sitting patiently in their white shirts and purple pants gasped excitedly; some applauded as if at the start of a show. Tomas slid into position as the second decoy prepared to land behind the audience. The children stirred, calling out for Grandma, the adults on the stage grinning knowingly.
Tomas checked the security positions. All was quiet. These orphans were especially well-behaved. Surviving terror at a young age was a strong teacher. A third ‘copter fluttered along the stage, dipping over the children, who stood and waved happily with more shouts of “we love you, Grandma.”
He always hated this part. Alone, Grandma bounded out of her tiny car and sat beside a little boy in the back row. She joined in the applause, waving as a fourth ‘copter dashed back and forth. The children slowly recognized her, whispering and nudging while Grandma
