The Newman Resident (25 page)

Richard began to sense something. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt his body responding to some sort of motion. Gradually, he heard a deep, low resonating hum. His body sensed it more than his ears could hear it, but the rumble was getting louder and higher in pitch. There was shaking—constant, driving shaking. He wasn’t sure if the shaking was the floor or himself or what. The sound got louder and louder, the pitch, higher and higher. His ears hurt and he reached up to cover them. Richard worried for the boy, knowing he couldn’t cover his own ears.

The sound screeched throughout the chamber now, pounding away at Richard’s brain. He felt the room spinning, and he spread out his legs to try to keep his balance. The screech grew louder, higher, and he felt the room literally turn over. Richard fell to the floor and collapsed into the fetal position, holding his ears and rolling. He thought he felt the room turn over again, and again, and he rolled around on the floor, wishing he was strapped down as well.

The screeching stopped dead and Richard found that he was yelling, without really knowing it. He stopped and opened his eyes. He blinked. Again. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were opened or not, so he reached up and touch them with his hands. It was difficult for his hands to find his face, he was so disoriented. He wasn’t sure he was reaching up or out or at all. Finally, he touched his eyes and thought he felt they were opened. But he couldn’t see anything.

“Christopher,” he whispered. “Christopher,” he said, more loudly, as he stood up, “are you all right? Whoever you are, are you all right?”

No answer. No sound. No sensation.

Dead. Everything felt dead to Richard.

Then the room filled with a bright, searing light, forcing Richard to cover his eyes and fall to his knees. He felt sweat dripping from his forehead, under his arms, all over. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell how bright the room was, and it kept getting hotter. He stood up because his knees were burning through his jeans from touching the floor, but he still couldn’t open his eyes. Too bright.

“Are you okay?” he shouted.

No answer.

He sensed that the temperature of the room was starting to decrease, and the light seemed less bright against his eyelids. He covered his eyes and slowly opened them and began to notice faint images appearing on the one round wall, some sort of slides or movie covering the wall, from one end to the other, seamlessly. The light was now bearable, about the intensity in a normally lit room, but growing dimmer. The images became easier to discern.

A man stood on a neighborhood sidewalk, and, several houses down, a little blonde boy rode his bicycle toward the man. Toward his father. The bicycle was wobbly, like the boy was just learning how to ride without training wheels. There was no sound, but the boy was smiling, pleased with his success.

The lights grew dimmer in the room, until they were completely off and the only light came from the images on the wall. Richard stood transfixed by the image of the boy on the bicycle. The image surrounded him. In front, out of the corners of his eyes, everywhere. All he could do was stand and watch and become a part of it.

The perspective of the image shifted now, to that of the boy, as though the he were holding the camera while he rode his bike. Richard could sense how the bicycle was unsteady as the view focused down at the handlebars. The view went up, looking at
the father a couple of houses down. The father stood erect, arms folded, oblivious to the joy his son was feeling, judging the boy’s skills.

The bicycle fell and the view became shaky and out of focus as it was tossed about. Sky. Grass. Handlebars. Sidewalk. The father ran toward the camera, angry. His face was red, and his mouth opened big as he shouted. The room filled with sound. Loud. Sudden. Intense enough to be felt and heard.

“You idiot!” the father shouted. “Can’t you ride a simple bicycle? What’s wrong with you? Your brother learned how in half the time. Why can’t you be more like him?”

The sound of a boy starting to cry.

“Don’t start that, you little crybaby! I don’t want all the neighbors to see what a baby you are. It’s embarrassing. Now get up! Come on, get up! And this time do it right. Something’s wrong with you.”

The image started to fade, but the last statement echoed throughout the room repeatedly, fading with each repetition. “Something’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you.”

The wall was blank for a second or two, then a montage of images flashed by. They were quick, but long enough to pierce the mind. The father yelling at the son while pointing at a messy room...a mother watching television and ignoring the little boy nearby...the mother and father sitting at the dinner table with the little blonde boy, no one looking at each other or speaking....

Richard stood still, not able to move.

“This is what your life would be if you weren’t safe here at the Newman Home,” a woman’s voice filled the room, soft and gentle. “You would be worse than a pet, kept home by parents who only want you to work for them.”

...
the father slamming the back door as his son carries two huge garbage bags....

“Why do many biological parents like having their offspring in their house? Because it gives them someone to vent their anger at. Someone to yell at. To blame. To beat.”

...the mother throwing the toys of the blonde boy as he watched, crying....

Crying.

Richard stared at the wall.

Crying.

Richard blinked. He heard something. Was it part of the images on the wall?

Crying.

He heard it again. Someone said something about stopping. Someone was crying. Richard blinked again, bowing his head so he could look at the floor. Now he could hear better. The woman’s voice was still talking, but he was sure he heard someone crying. Someone real. Suddenly he could think again and remembered there was a boy in the room. He looked up at the boy sitting in the chair. His head was moving back and forth as he cried.

“Christopher?” Richard asked.

The boy kept shaking his head, back and forth.

“How horrible,” the woman’s voice continued. “What a tragedy for little boys and girls to be treated worse than dogs.”

The images appeared on the wall more quickly now, almost falling on top of one another.

...a crying baby left behind, alone in a dark room...the father, slapping the boy against the side of his face, forcing him to the floor....

The boy strapped in the chair jolted, his body jerking up and back as if a powerful electric current had shocked his body. If it
weren’t for the straps he’d have been thrown to the floor. Two seconds later, he jolted again.

“Christopher!” Richard lunged forward. He knelt between the boy and the wall, looking at the boy’s twisted face. The child looked haggard, exhausted, old. Sweat poured out of every pore on his face, and his eyes stared straight ahead, through Richard and at the wall.

The blonde boy from the video was sitting in front of him, passed out.

Richard stared at the boy’s face, struggling between feelings of relief and disappointment, then searched for wires. He couldn’t find any and fumbled instead with the straps, hurrying to try to unbuckle them. The images came faster, surrounding the two, smothering them.

Another jolt.

Richard felt the electricity burn through his arms, knocking him back, almost to the floor. He went back to working on the straps and finally got the arms undone. He could feel the images around them changing, the woman’s voice growing louder, more intense. The strap on the boy’s left leg was unbuckled.

Another jolt.

The boy’s arms flung up and his upper body jumped forward and then slammed back into the chair. Richard fell back again, feeling like red hot wires were running through his veins. He started on the right leg.

The images cut off and the room became completely dark. Richard couldn’t see the strap, but kept working with it. He heard the boy breathing and felt his body go limp.

Soft, relaxing music began to play, and images appeared on the wall. Richard finished undoing the strap. As he reached to pick up the boy, he felt some wires embedded in the metal of the chair.
He held the boy in his arms like a baby. He was heavy, far heavier than what his weight would normally seem, completely limp, with no strength left.

Richard carried the boy away from the chair. On the wall were pictures of the school: residents peacefully studying at their desks...an instructor kneeling in the hall, talking with a resident... the residents enjoying a meal in the cafeteria.

“But at the Newman Home,” the woman’s voice began, “offspring are people. The kind instructors and administrators at the Newman Home realize there is no difference between residents and adults—we would mistreat residents were we to treat them like children. We take very seriously our charge to raise up a generation of world leaders. Senators, presidents, CEO’s. Such leaders begin as mature, competent, knowledgeable residents.”

Without warning, the images and sound stopped. Cut off, completely. The chamber was dark again, and Richard couldn’t even see the boy in his arms. He walked forward, cautiously, not sure where the door was, his footsteps echoing. The more he stepped forward, the more uncertain he became of where he was, which direction he was going. Then he heard some clicking noise he couldn’t identify, and the room filled with a series of noises. There were so many sounds, echoing on top of one another, he had no idea what they were. He stood still, listening. The sounds weren’t coming from the speakers, he thought, but from somewhere in the room. From everywhere in the room.

The lights came on from above the glass wall, and Richard could see he and the boy were surrounded by a dozen hosts, holding their security clubs.

CHAPTER SIXTY

S
weat dripped down Richard’s forehead and cheeks. The room burned from the lights, so hot it was hard to breathe. He looked at the glass wall to the control room, but all he could see was the reflection of himself holding the boy, and the hosts standing at attention around them.

“You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Mr. Carson,” the superintendent’s voice said, filling the room. “What should we do with you?”

“This boy needs medical attention right away,” Richard said.

The door from the control room opened and the man in a lab coat came in. As he got closer, Richard could see a large bump on the man’s forehead. He held out his arms and told Richard to give him the boy.

“Will you have a doctor look at him?” Richard asked.

“We will do what we need to do,” the man said.

Richard held onto the boy. “No, you’ll have a doctor—a real doctor—look at him.”

“You’re in no position, Mr. Carson,” the superintendent’s voice said, “to make demands. Give us the boy, or keep him, whichever you prefer. Will he get any medical treatment in your hands?”

Richard looked down at the little boy. He didn’t move, but he was sweating so much his clothes were drenched. Richard kissed the boy on his forehead, then handed him to the man.

“How touching,” the superintendent said. “Now, what should we do with you, Mr. Carson? Would a little kiss on the forehead help?”

“Let’s call my wife and ask her what to do with me. She’s waiting to hear from me.”

“Your wife who claimed to know Dr. Newman? I’ve come to understand what kinds of connections she actually has.”

Richard looked up at the ceiling, trying to come up with some connection who could help, but he really had no idea about the people Carol knew. “I think the mayor’s office would be interested in hearing from her.”

“We like the mayor,” the superintendent said. “He serves on our board of directors.”

“Well, the governor—”

“Considers us one of his major contributors.”

“We have many people we could—”

“Your face is so bloodied, so bruised,” the superintendent said. “With all your fighting, there may have been an accident. Perhaps a fatal one. Our first priority is to protect the residents, you know, and a wild man running throughout the halls is a dangerous threat. It would sadden us to explain it to your wife, but the police would understand. They might even give me a medal.”

Richard licked his lips, tasting the saltiness from his sweat. “Just bring me my son.”

“You can have him,” the superintendent said, “if you can find him.”

“What do you mean?” Richard took a couple of steps toward the door to the control room, but the two nearest hosts moved in closer, stopping him.

“He’s gone. He ran away.”

“How could that happen? You’ve got more security here than the White House.”

The superintendent laughed. “Accidents happen.”

Richard ran for the door, but two hosts jumped in front of him, and a third came from behind and struck the back of Richard’s legs with a club. Richard fell to the floor, holding his legs.

“You’re a slow learner, Mr. Carson.”

Richard struggled to get up. “Just let me go look for my son. I’ll leave you and your beloved Dr. Newman alone.”

The door to the control room opened and two more hosts stepped in, clubs in hand. The light came on in the control room and Richard could see the superintendent standing behind a counter. A man, probably in his early sixties, passed through the doorway, his eyes slowly moving about the room, inspecting. He was balding on top, but had longish white hair along the sides and back. He wore the same khaki safari uniform as everyone else, but he wore it differently, not like someone playing safari, but like a regal hunter triumphantly returning.

“This room seems smaller than I remember it,” he said, never looking at Richard. “The speakers aren’t as loud as I would like. And a bit distorted. Do we need larger ones?”

“I’ll look into it this afternoon,” the superintendent said over the microphone.

“Good.”

The man walked toward Richard, still looking off to the sides. The two hosts followed closely behind him.

“A new coat of paint would be nice,” the man said.

“Tomorrow,” the superintendent said.