IGMS Issue 8 by IGMS

Marie went downstairs to put a basketful of laundry in the washing machine, John took the disk into the living room to load it.
    Paul was already there, curled up on the couch, working the controls of his handheld. Tinny tire squeals and explosions emanated from Paul's headphones.
    Disk in hand, John stood watching him and thinking of the letter that had arrived the previous day. He still could not believe its contents. There had to be some mistake. For the life of him, he could not decide what he should do about it.
    He pushed the thought away and turned to the portrait wall. He pressed a button recessed on the underside of the nearest frame, opening a slot. The parade of images went dark. He pulled the disk from its sleeve, inserted it, and stepped back to watch for error messages.
    "What's
Special Ed
mean?"
    John started at the sound of Paul's voice, so like Steven's. It was as if a ghost had spoken. He turned to his son.
    Paul had doffed his headphones and set aside his handheld. A quizzical frown creased his forehead.
    John said, "Where did you hear that? One of the other kids?"
    "Mrs. Jordan said it to one of the other teachers. She said we were her Special Ed class."
    Nothing wrong with his hearing, John noted. Mrs. Jordan would find that out soon enough. "It just means you're in a special class that . . . that will help you with school."
    "Like I'm smarter than the other kids?"
    "Not smarter. Just different."
    "Like a retard?"
    John winced. "Don't say that. It's not nice."
    Paul pointed to the portrait wall. "Why do you keep his pictures?"
    John, long used to Paul's sudden subject changes, glanced at the portraits. The new disk had finished loading and the system had resumed normal display mode. The first of Paul's new stills appeared at the top left, showing him in a pullover dress shirt, his blonde hair neatly combed and flattened by gel, his teeth bared with only a slight upturn of the mouth -- more like a grimace than a smile.
    At the bottom right was a portrait of Steven -- from his fifth-year stills, if John's memory served -- in a little blue suit and tie. Steven's face and eyes were alight with a genuine grin, as if the photographer had just said something funny to him.
    "Steven's your brother. Why wouldn't we keep his pictures?"
    "'Cause he's dead."
    John took a moment to ensure his voice would remain even. "It's important that we remember him."
    "Why do you write books?"
    "Because I enjoy it."
    "I think it's stupid."
    John cleared his throat. "Why is that?"
    "'Cause it is."
    "That's not a very nice thing to say, either. And I'd appreciate it if you'd try to be a little more respectful of your brother." He ejected the disk and slipped it back into its sleeve. "I have some more work to do tonight, so please try to hold the noise down, all right?" Without waiting for a reply, he left the room on unsteady legs.
    He managed to reach his office and shut the door behind him before the trembling fit overtook him. He put a hand to his mouth to stifle a bellow of rage.
    After several moments, the trembling passed. Drained, he looked across the room at his desk and the dark monitor atop it. Actually, he had no work to do. He had long since proofed the novel galleys; the finished product would be out in two weeks. Besides, he couldn't possibly work in his state of mind. But lately his office seemed the only place he felt welcome in the house.
    Somewhere on the other side of the door, glass shattered.
    With a groan, John opened the door and looked out. Paul stood in the entrance to the living room. "It fell," he said.
    John pushed past him. On the carpet lay the broken remains of a frame amid shards of glass. He glanced at the wall; the bottom right frame was gone from its accustomed place. The remaining frames flashed
data missing
messages.
    "It fell," Paul said from behind him.
    John began breathing hard. He dimly registered that Paul was just tall enough to reach the lower portraits, if he stood on tiptoe. John