wrong with our other babies. I’d heard about a German woman—a midwife who specialized in natural childbirth—no drugs, no doctors. When I went into labor, and you were away on maneuvers, I called her.” Frannie sank to their small, rump-sprung couch and put her head in her hands. “I was in labor for over thirty-six hours. When Sammy came, she wasn’t breathing. The midwife had to help her. Oh, Carl, I’m
sorry
. I hurt our daughter somehow, and I’ll never forgive myself.”
“You put our baby in danger to test out some damned fool idea about what’s ‘natural’?” Carl’s voice shook with anger. “I’ve tried my best not to make fun of your queer ideas, but this is the limit.” Frannie looked at him miserably as he flung a hand toward Samantha, who had stopped playing to stare at them with huge, worried blue eyes. “What’s
natural
about a two-year-old who can’t even say ‘Mama’ and ‘Daddy’?”
Frannie straightened, crying silently, but determined. “She will talk. I know she will. And when we have another baby, I won’t take any chances. No more midwives. No more ‘natural’ anything. Nothing but good, modern, dyed-in-the-wool methods. I swear.”
“I don’t think we ought to have another baby until we get this mess straightened out.”
“Carl!”
Frannie rose and reached out to him, but he shrugged her hands away and left the room. Samantha, her eyes filled with tears, chirped sadly.
At the wise old age of six, Jake already knew what he was: a tuning fork. A tuning fork like the one on Mother’s straight-backed piano in the living room, and that was why, Granny explained, he could hear a kind of music no one else could hear, the music of hidden things, lost things. Eleanore was the same way. Ellie didn’t ponder their uniqueness the way he did. It worried him—being different. At a county fair he had seen bottles filled with baby animals so strange they’d died before they were even born. Tiny, two-headed calves, and three puppies joined at a single pair of hind legs. He’d asked Father if there were children, somewhere, like that—dead little babies floating in bottles, with extra parts. Father had looked at him oddly and answered—Yes, son, at medical school I saw babies like that.
Did someone kill them because they had extra parts? Jake had asked, horrified. And Father—who didn’t beat around the bush (that was what Mother was always telling him)—said most times they just died on their own, and it was nature’s way of making sure they didn’t suffer.
But what about the ones that don’t die on their own? Jake persisted. What if Ellie and I had been born with extra parts?
Father had had to think about that a minute. Well, I’m a good doctor. I’d just have cut them off, he said. Then he turned Jake around, felt his arms and legs, his back and stomach, looked into his mouth, and said, Nope, nothing there that isn’t supposed to be there.
Jake had wanted to confess that he and Ellie
did
have an extra part—like Granny—only no one could see it. But the fear that Father might look at him as if heought to be in a bottle was too awful to risk. He explained this problem to Ellie, and she agreed that they’d better keep quiet.
So they didn’t tell anyone, not even their parents, that they were tuning forks; Granny was the only one who knew, because she was a tuning fork too. She was their teacher—a whole lot more interesting than any teachers at the elementary school, in town. They happily toted Granny’s spade and pick for her on long walks into the mountains to hunt for rocks, and she showed them how to tell what was what: garnets and topazes, aquamarines and sapphires, and when the music was very, very sweet, rubies.
Most were just rocks, Granny said, but some were so special, she took them to a jeweler in town and sold them.
Being able to find things was a sacred gift, Granny said, a secret gift that bad people might try to steal or use if they knew
sorry
. I hurt our daughter somehow, and I’ll never forgive myself.”
“You put our baby in danger to test out some damned fool idea about what’s ‘natural’?” Carl’s voice shook with anger. “I’ve tried my best not to make fun of your queer ideas, but this is the limit.” Frannie looked at him miserably as he flung a hand toward Samantha, who had stopped playing to stare at them with huge, worried blue eyes. “What’s
natural
about a two-year-old who can’t even say ‘Mama’ and ‘Daddy’?”
Frannie straightened, crying silently, but determined. “She will talk. I know she will. And when we have another baby, I won’t take any chances. No more midwives. No more ‘natural’ anything. Nothing but good, modern, dyed-in-the-wool methods. I swear.”
“I don’t think we ought to have another baby until we get this mess straightened out.”
“Carl!”
Frannie rose and reached out to him, but he shrugged her hands away and left the room. Samantha, her eyes filled with tears, chirped sadly.
At the wise old age of six, Jake already knew what he was: a tuning fork. A tuning fork like the one on Mother’s straight-backed piano in the living room, and that was why, Granny explained, he could hear a kind of music no one else could hear, the music of hidden things, lost things. Eleanore was the same way. Ellie didn’t ponder their uniqueness the way he did. It worried him—being different. At a county fair he had seen bottles filled with baby animals so strange they’d died before they were even born. Tiny, two-headed calves, and three puppies joined at a single pair of hind legs. He’d asked Father if there were children, somewhere, like that—dead little babies floating in bottles, with extra parts. Father had looked at him oddly and answered—Yes, son, at medical school I saw babies like that.
Did someone kill them because they had extra parts? Jake had asked, horrified. And Father—who didn’t beat around the bush (that was what Mother was always telling him)—said most times they just died on their own, and it was nature’s way of making sure they didn’t suffer.
But what about the ones that don’t die on their own? Jake persisted. What if Ellie and I had been born with extra parts?
Father had had to think about that a minute. Well, I’m a good doctor. I’d just have cut them off, he said. Then he turned Jake around, felt his arms and legs, his back and stomach, looked into his mouth, and said, Nope, nothing there that isn’t supposed to be there.
Jake had wanted to confess that he and Ellie
did
have an extra part—like Granny—only no one could see it. But the fear that Father might look at him as if heought to be in a bottle was too awful to risk. He explained this problem to Ellie, and she agreed that they’d better keep quiet.
So they didn’t tell anyone, not even their parents, that they were tuning forks; Granny was the only one who knew, because she was a tuning fork too. She was their teacher—a whole lot more interesting than any teachers at the elementary school, in town. They happily toted Granny’s spade and pick for her on long walks into the mountains to hunt for rocks, and she showed them how to tell what was what: garnets and topazes, aquamarines and sapphires, and when the music was very, very sweet, rubies.
Most were just rocks, Granny said, but some were so special, she took them to a jeweler in town and sold them.
Being able to find things was a sacred gift, Granny said, a secret gift that bad people might try to steal or use if they knew
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