******************
Title: Marvels: Maggie 
Author:  DarkMark (darkmark90@yahoo.com)
URL: http://www.envy.nu/darkmark90/darkmark1.htm
Disclaimer: All characters in this story are property of Marvel Comics.  No 
money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended. 

******************



Maybe you've read the book I wrote about the Marvels.  Most likely, you just 
looked at the pictures. 

If I'm lucky, you may have read the prose book I wrote some years after that, 
telling you all about myself and my more-or-less ankle-high interactions with 
them, over 30 years or so.  But there are a few stories I left out of the book. 

This is one of them. 

I'm going to do a recap for you of one incident, in case you missed the book. 

It started back in 1965 when I caught our two little girls, Beth and Jenny, 
sneaking scraps off their dinner plates.  Well, not exactly caught.  I just noticed 
it, assumed they were stealing food to feed some stray dog or cat that wandered 
around, and pretended I never saw anything.  They pretended they didn't see me 
pretending. 

They had found a stray.  I found out what kind a few weeks later.  It was during 
a Mutie Scare.  I was almost all the way home one evening when I saw a band of 
men, several of my neighbors among them.  They were armed with shotguns, 
clubs, knives, even, God help me, a pitchfork.  One of the men was Arthur 
Lindstrom, who lived on my block.  He told me to go get my shotgun and join 
them.  I asked him what was happening.  He told me in one word: 

"Mutants." 

That was all I needed. 

I ran home as fast as my overworked photographer's legs would manage. 

A month prior to that, I'd had my first encounter with the X-Men.  I didn't like 
them.  Neither did a lot of other people, and we all seemed to fear them for the 
same reason.  They were the next step after humanity.  They'd been born with 
their powers, and we'd been born without them. 

We were the Edsel, they were the Ferrari. 

They were going to supersede us.  We and our children would become obsolete, 
maybe slaves, maybe extinct. 

Don't ask me if I analyzed them in that minute a fashion when I saw the five 
mutants.  All I know is that a brick found its way into my hand, and I threw it.  I 
flashed on a truly insane thing as I did it, Ignatz Mouse lobbing a brick at Krazy 
Kat in the old comic strips. 

Only this brick hit the Iceman square in the head, and it hurt him.  I was lucky it 
didn't kill him.  I was even luckier it hadn't hit one of the others, or it might have 
really injured them. 

He didn't look much like Krazy Kat after it hit him. 

Instead, Iceman cried out in pain, and yelled something at us.  In the voice of a 
normal, teenaged boy.  I'd like to think there was a part of me that was horrified, 
then, by what I'd done.  But if I was more honest (as I will force myself to be 
here), I'd have to admit that my real reaction was just--surprise. 

But the one with the glowing red visor, the one whom I later learned was 
Cyclops, held his partner back and said something that I never forgot: 

"Forget about it.  They're not worth it." 

Not. 

Worth. 

It. 

The next thing I knew, Cyclops turned his head, put a hand to the side of his 
visor, and let loose a stream of red power that made the mass of us cry out and 
shrink back.  I thought of Gort in THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL and 
wondered if he was going to disintegrate us like that big, creepy robot.  But no, 
he just blasted a hole in a brick wall of a dead end, and the five of them, the X-
Men, got away. 

I was numb, or thought I was, but I felt a weight in one hand and I looked at it. 

I'd picked up another brick. 

After a second, I let it fall to the pavement. 

That was replaying in my mind as I ran to my house to get my shotgun.  Muties 
in the suburbs. They didn't have any right being here.  A man had the right to 
arm himself, to defend himself against intruders, to defend himself especially 
against the next wave out to swamp humanity. 

But as soon as I stepped in my door, Beth and Jenny ran up to me, their faces 
slate-blank with horror.  "Daddy, Daddy," Beth said, throwing her arms around 
me as I knelt down to pick her up.  "Don't let them hurt her, Daddy." 

Jenny, who was a year older, came up to me but wasn't able to speak.  Her chest 
was just heaving, as if she either wanted to cry or was too far gone to attempt it.  
I asked them who this "her" was, and who was the "them" trying to hurt her. 

That was when my wife Doris walked in, and told me, "I think you'd better see 
this, Phil, down in the basement." 

So she took me down, and I saw. 

It wasn't a stray dog. 

It was a stray mutant. 

A little girl mutant. 

A little girl, just about the size of a four-year-old, even though she was eight.  A 
little girl in a tattered blue dress and sweater, and white tie-up shoes that didn't 
seem to quite fit her. 

A little girl, whose face resembled a skull with fleshtones painted over it, with 
huge globular eyes that seemed all pupil, with almost no hair on her head except 
two tufts at the sides, which were tied with pink bows. 

A little girl who was sitting there, knees clasped to her chest, looking very 
scared, and crying. 

Jenny finally found her voice.  "We found her in the park, Daddy.  After that big 
storm.  She was all wet and cold." 

The little mutant girl spoke up.  She had a normal, eight-year-old voice, a little 
on the squeaky side.  "I was hungry, mister," she said.  "Or I'd have kept hiding." 

She told me that her father had gotten fired from his job, that her mother cried 
all the time, that they claimed what had happened was all her fault, and that they 
had left her.  "They went away," she said, and she looked at me.  "Are you going 
to send me away?" 

I didn't know what to say.  There were men out there, the men with knives and 
pitchforks and guns, and they would burn this house down like Klansmen if they 
thought it harbored a mutant.  I would die, and all my family with me. 

Beth, who was sometimes the wisest of us, spoke.  "She's nice, Daddy.  She 
plays with us." 

I looked at the little girl's eyes again. 

I had another flashback, but it wasn't to a comic strip or a movie. 

It was back when Patton had liberated a concentration camp, and he'd thrown up 
when he saw what was inside, and made the people of the town nearby march 
through it and see what they had hidden from their eyes for years. 

I took pictures of the camp and its inmates.  I threw up, too.  But afterward I 
kept on clicking. 

Something in the inmates' eyes, and this little girl's eyes, were similar. 

So I looked at my wife's own eyes, which held a million questions, or one 
important one, and I said the only thing I knew to say. 

"Dear God, Doris, she's just a little girl." 

Beth and Jenny both grabbed hold of me and hugged me very hard and said 
something.  Doris stood apart, breathed, and said nothing.  And I looked at the 
little girl mutant, and she was still crying, but she snuffled and said, "Thank you, 
mister.  God bless you." 

I was damned if I knew what to do. 

 -M- 

So, for awhile after that, a matter of a few weeks, Maggie (for that was the little 
girl's name) hid in our basement, slept on a cot and then on a small bed we'd 
bought for her, telling the man at the second-hand furniture store it was for our 
kids, fed her, and talked to her.  Doris tried to be nice to her.   God knows, she 
tried.  But she still held back, didn't like to touch her, and Maggie knew. 

I didn't like touching her, either. 

But Jenny and Beth were all over her, playing games with her, throwing a ball 
and chalking out a makeshift hopscotch grid in chalk on the concrete floor, 
pitching jacks, playing Old Maid, reading to her out of Little Women or one of 
their Fantastic Four comic books.  You'd think she'd have identified with the 
Thing, but she didn't.  When Beth and Jenny played super-heroes, as they always 
did, Maggie took the role of Sue Storm. 

I think she was good at it. 

But I didn't know what I was going to do with her. 

Could I keep her down in our basement, for the rest of her life?  Could we keep 
on sneaking her in a closet when the gas man came to take his reading?  What 
could we do when we went on vacation, or even all had to leave the house at the 
same time?  Could we depend on Maggie not to be seen? 

Should we? 

What the hell was I supposed to do?  Sell her to whatever circus still had a freak 
show?  Get brave, take her to school, and demand the principal accept her in 
class?  Call the ACLU or the NAACP or the United Jewish Appeal or Johnny 
Carson? 

I saw her, Beth, and Jenny bouncing a ball on the basement floor one night.  I 
went up to my office room and placed a call to the FBI.  I asked them, 
cautiously, if they had any pamplets or such on what the general public should 
do when encountering a mutant.  The agent on the other end said that if I had a 
mutant sighting to report, they'd have a team of agents down there right away. 

I told him no thanks, nothing had happened, and hung up.  I hoped--no, I prayed 
God--that they hadn't been tracing the call.  Thankfully, they hadn't. 

Later on that week, I hung around in Greenwich Village on my free time.  I'd 
heard the X-Men had been sighted there a lot.  Maybe they'd know what to do.  
Maybe I could ask them to give Maggie a home.   She couldn't fight Magneto or 
Unus or any of their villains, but she was a mutant.  She was one of them. 

Not one of us. 

A Cadillac that was really an Edsel. 

I was lucky.  I saw two of them, one of them the Iceman, the other of whom was 
in civvies, but he had to be the Beast with the feet I saw on him.  They were 
bursting out of some coffee house like they were out to fight a fire.  I lifted my 
hand, and I think if I had yelled, they might have heard me. 

But I heard the words of Cyclops come back to me: 

"They're not worth it." 

Not.  Worth.  It. 

I let my hand drift down, and I didn't say anything, and the Beast and Iceman 
were long gone by that time. 

There were other things that summer, like the Fantastic Four wedding that all the 
heroes and villains went to, and the new Avengers lineup, and the usual cape-
basher stuff.  I took a lot of pictures.  You've seen some of them in my books. 

But the thing that shook me most was the next wave of Mutie Scare. 

It started the night Bolivar Trask and Professor Charles Xavier had the big 
debate on network TV.   It was all about--you guessed it--mutants.  Professor 
Xavier took the affirmative side, saying we didn't know what caused mutations, 
that your own kids could be mutants, or maybe even your next-door neighbors, 
and that they were humans despite the alterations in the gene fabric.  He 
sounded good, but he didn't make much headway with the crowd with whom I 
was watching it. 

Then Trask got up, said he'd invented something to take care of the mutant 
problem, and had it come in.  It was a giant robot, looking a lot more dangerous 
than old Gort, and it grabbed Xavier by the arms and yanked him out of his 
chair.  Some say that proved he was a mutant.  Others say Trask was just getting 
tired of debating him. 

The rest of the story, as far as the X-Men goes, you probably know. 

What you may not know about is the Mutant Riot that started just afterward. 

If you think you know what a riot is from reading about one or seeing a film clip 
on TV, you're wrong.  You don't have a clue.  A riot is probably the scariest 
experience you'll ever have.  Take it from me: I've been there. 

A riot is worse than a mob of vigilantes with guns.  A riot is a bunch of people 
who don't know what they're hunting, who are just mad as hell, and who'll bash 
and crush and burn and kick and stomp and kill anyone or anything in their--in 
its--multitentacular path.  A riot is a demon with many heads.  A riot is 
something you can't contain, only hope that it burns itself out before it gets to 
you or anything you love. 

I hadn't been to Watts that year, but I didn't have to.  Somebody threw a rock 
through the window of the place in which we had our party, and I knew. 

The riot was out there. 

The riot was busting windows and heads with clubs.  The riot was setting things 
on fire.  The riot was screaming "MUTIE!" at the top of its lungs, along with a 
lot of other words, none of which the Daily Globe would print. 

I went out in the street and snapped photographs.  That was what I did.  That 
was my automatic response.  I'm a photographer. 

The riot had apparently decided that a young black man, out on the town for 
something or other, was the Mutie.  The riot chased him down, cornered him in 
an alley, beat him down with beer bottles and sticks of wood and rocks, left him 
bleeding up against a trash can, and moved on.  It had a lot more people to beat 
up that night. 

As it turned out, the young black man was named Willie Carmody and he was 
on his way back from a movie.  Willie lost the sight from his left eye and some 
of the mobility in his left arm.  He never showed any mutant tendencies, before, 
during, or after. 

The riot had just designated him the Honorary Mutie, and had done its thing. 

I learned a lesson from the riot.  A lesson of terror.  But among the burning and 
beating and screaming, I heard someone calling for help.  It was a lady pinned 
under a fallen beam.  It had fallen across her legs, and she thought one of them 
was broken. 

I helped her up and it turned out she wasn't injured, just badly bruised, and could 
walk on her own.  But both of us interrupted our movement when we looked up 
and saw what was in the skies. 

Sentinels. 

Flying over us like they were the destroying angels from the book of Exodus, 
and all of us were caught without blood painted on our doors.  Or perhaps only 
the muties were the ones that couldn't celebrate Passover.  Tortured associations, 
I know, but that's what I was thinking of. 

I wondered, wildly, if they would decide I was a mutant, grab me by the arms 
just as they had the man in the wheelchair, and cart me off to their version of 
Auschwitz. 

Then I remembered who they probably would go after. 

I caught the train from Penn Station and prayed, oh God I prayed, that Doris and 
Beth and Jenny were not home.  I even prayed that Maggie would be too small 
to find, but I doubted that could be managed.  My main prayers were for my 
family, and who can blame me for that? 

I could.  I still do. 

I ran from the station all the way home and saw the lights on and managed to get 
the keys in the door and throw it open and see my Beth and my Jenny hanging 
on tightly to their mother, my Doris, who was stooped down to hug them both.  I 
asked what had happened. 

Doris freed one hand and picked up a note on the floor, held it out to me. 

It was written in green crayon.  I still have it. 

It read: 

Dear Mrs. Sheldon 
 Thank you for everything but I have to leave.  I do not want your family to get 
hurt because of me.  I took som food.  Thank you for the new clothes. 
   Love, 
   Maggie 

She was out there.  Alone.  On this of all nights. 

And I looked at my family, and thanked God, absently, for keeping them safe. 

You know this from my book, Marvels.  You might know the next line: 

"And we would never know what happened to her." 

I'm sorry, but that's not really true. 

 -M- 

This is true: 

Just on the cusp of the Galactus incident, the Fantastic Four got involved with a 
group who were, I think, very much like mutants, but who called themselves the 
Inhumans.  The Four had tried to hush things up.  But when you had things 
happening like a guy walking up the side of a building by kicking toeholds in it 
as he goes, or Dragon Man flying around with that 20-foot wingspan of his, or 
talk of a giant bulldog who can pick up a steel girder in his jaws like it was a 
Dog Yummy, it's hard to keep it on the q.t. 

So.  Just after Galactus came to town and left, I went on freelance assignment 
for Barney Bushkin of the Globe and tried to dig up what I could on the 
Inhumans.  A friend of a friend of mine in the police department put me onto 
news of a disturbance that had been reported some weeks back on the Lower 
East Side.  The disturbance, if local residents and a few winos could be believed, 
involved the Fantastic Four, several oddly-costumed people, and the 
aforementioned dog. 

The latter had to be the Inhumans. 

Nobody but the F.F. knew who the Inhumans were, up to this point.  The cops 
had cordoned off the area in which the mess had been made, which included a 
rotting building that had been given a cursory inspection.  They hadn't found 
anything the first time, and they would most likely be back to give it a better 
going over later on that week. 

It was evening and there wasn't much going on in that section of town as I poked 
around a bit.  The old Leica was around my neck and I was taking chances.  It'd 
bring enough bucks in somebody's pawnshop to pay for another bottle of 
Muscatel, and there were probably a few characters in the neighborhood who'd 
considered parting me from it for such a reason.  I didn't carry a gun, and I didn't 
have a partner with me at the time.  Stupid. 

But I got through the yellow cop tape okay and was finding approximately as 
much as they had.  Since I didn't think either Bushkin or Jameson would pay me 
for pictures of dying buildings, I was about to hang it up.  Then I saw 
something. 

Something small. 

It wasn't visible for very long, but it moved like a rabbit and didn't appear to be a 
lot bigger than one, from my viewpoint. 

I only hesitated a second, no more than that, before curiosity was lowered into 
my driver's seat like the guy in the Hertz ad and I gave chase. 

I ran past some concrete rubble and burned wood.  I stepped over a stewbum and 
threw back "Excuse me" over my shoulder, but he didn't appear to notice.  I 
could barely notice a small shadow cast on a building wall in an alleyway near 
me.  So, onward charged Phil Sheldon of the Light Brains Brigade. 

Speaking of light, when I turned the corner, I saw some. 

It was coming from a most unexpected source: what appeared to be the cab of 
something like a service elevator, which was going down while two doors 
hinged to the ground around it and camouflaged on top with rock, dirt, and crud 
were closing over it.  I had no idea how the little shadow had activated it. 

All I knew was that I might have a chance for some photos that would make the 
cab trip there and back maybe worth it.  Provided this wasn't the underground 
lair of someone of Dr. Doom's caliber, of course. 

I'd been there when the Torch and Sub-Mariner slugged it out over the city in 
`40, and lost an eye then from a flying brick.  I'd covered the action in Europe, 
when the Invaders and the regular army rolled back the Axis lines.  I'd managed 
to catch the tail end of Captain America's fight with the Red Skull at the UN in 
1953, and as for all the early Sixties stuff, I'd seen more than I cared to 
remember. 

None of that, of course, was going through my mind as I rolled into the 
descending cab just before the doors fully closed over it.  I tumbled down to the 
metal flooring of the cab on my back, yelped, wondered how badly I'd hurt my 
back, and kept my hands wrapped around my Leica. 

My eyes were shut with the pain for a few seconds, and that was just how long it 
took for the cab to reach bottom.  I rolled over to get up, on the wrong side to 
see the cab's other occupant scurry out and run away.  By the time I pulled 
myself up and got out of it, the scurrier was nowhere to be seen. 

But a lot of other stuff was. 

The interior of that place was straight out of an Irwin Allen movie.  Designs and 
furnishings that didn't look, well, human.  A number of super-scientific gadgets, 
including one hooked up to a TV screen that probably picked up things other 
than UHF.  A big water tank, smashed to pieces, with the floor still stained all 
about it.  Dominating the whole area was a large bas-relief of an open-mouthed 
demon on the wall, whose open mouth was the large passage to the next room. 

I heard something go thik-thak in the next room. 

I had to be cautious.  There's nothing more dangerous than an animal when it's 
cornered, unless it's a human being in the same predicament.  But I made sure I 
got some snaps of the scenery, just so I knew I'd have something to show for it.  
Then I walked, very carefully, very slowly, into the adjoining room. 

There was a large marble slab that had been split in half right down the middle, 
as if by a jeweler's chisel. 

There were seats and scrolls and various other accoutrements of living.  
Whoever had come here, had outfitted it as an apartment. 

There was also the equivalent of a couch, and I was conscious of some muffled 
whimpering coming from behind it.  I stopped in the middle of the room.  No 
sense in making it feel any more threatened than I felt. 

"I'm not here to hurt you," I said.  "I won't even take your picture if you don't 
want.  I can turn around and walk away if you'd like.  But I'd really like to see 
you, and see if I could help you." 

I don't know how persuasive I was.  Or if it was just the sound of a recognized 
voice that was the convincer. 

But I knew who I was going to see an instant before it sneaked part of its head 
and an eye around the edge of that couch. 

My mouth was working, but my heart was too low for it to pump any will-power 
to my brain's speech centers.  All that was functional was my eye. 

The little scurrier slowly edged more of her face from behind the couch.  She 
spoke. 

"Is it you, Mr. Sheldon?  Is it really you?" 

I sank to my knees. 

"It's me, Maggie," I said.  "It's really, really me." 
  
  






 -M-

  
















There I was, in the secret lair of the recently absconded Inhumans, faced by 
someone who was both my living guilt and my possible expiation.  She was 
probably about ten years old. 

"Maggie," I said. 

She was still behind the couch. 

"Maggie, please," I said.  I held out my arms. 

She whimpered. 

"I know how you're feeling," I offered. 

"No, you don't," she said.  "No, you don't!" 

Damned if she wasn't right.  I admitted it.  "Okay, Maggie.  I don't know.  I 
can't.  I don't know how you got here, and I don't know how it's gone for you 
since, uh, since you left." 

She was starting to cry. 

"Don't leave, Maggie," I said.  "Whatever you do, don't leave.  I want...to talk to 
you.  I want to help.  I don't know how, but, my God, I've got to help." 

Maggie was almost out from behind the couch, but she was holding onto it as if 
it were a raft. 

"I won't...I won't move, Maggie.  Don't worry.  I'll leave that all up to you." 

And then she was out from behind it and holding me and burying her little bony 
face in my chest and those big globular eyes of hers were making my tie and 
shirtfront wet and I really didn't give a damn, because I was holding her tiny 
body and resting my chin on the top of her barely-haired head and shaking and 
crying just about as much as she was. 

I don't have any idea how long we spent like that, but I don't think it was nearly 
enough. 

At the end of it, she sniveled and said, "Mr. Sheldon, I'm hungry." 

I sighed and said, "Is there any food down here for you?  If there isn't, I'll...well, 
you're coming home with me.  That's all there is to it." 

"Home," she said, holding me as hard as her small arms would manage.  They 
barely reached around me.  "This is my home, now." 

"It can't be, Maggie," I said.  "There's nobody here for you." 

"There hasn't hardly been anyone for me anytime, Mr. Sheldon." 

"I know that, Maggie, I know it.  And I'm sorry.  But you know what?" 

"What?" 

"I'm sure there is a God somewhere, now, because he brought me back to you 
tonight.  Or maybe you to me.  I'm not sure.  But...Maggie...it's been hard for 
me.  Very hard." 

"Why?  Did Mrs. Sheldon and Jenny and Beth move out on you?" 

"No. You did."  I squeezed her a little harder.  "That hurt, too.  Because...well, 
you were family, too, Maggie."  She burrowed a little closer under my arm.  
"Also, because I...well, I felt very bad about it, Maggie.  Very bad.  I'd gotten 
used to you being there.  You were a...a..." 

"I was a mutie," she said, and sounded like she was going to cry again. 

"Don't let me ever hear you say that word again!" 

"Well, it's what I am," she said. "That's why the big robots were looking for me.  
That's why I ran away.  So they wouldn't get you or Beth or Jenny or Mrs. 
Sheldon." 

"I wouldn't have let them get you," I said, rubbing her back.  "I wouldn't have let 
them, Maggie." 

"How would you've stopped `em?" 

"Told them there were no mutants in this house and they should leave at once." 

"What if they didn't believe you?" 

"It's my house and they would've had no business being in it if I didn't want 
them," I said.  "I would've told `em that." 

"Do you think they would've listened?  Mr. Sheldon, I'm hungry!" 

"I would have made them listen," I said.  "I would have made them, Maggie." 

I don't know how much of that was just to convince myself.  But at that moment, 
I think I would have said anything just to keep that wonderful, grotesque little 
girl in my arms just then. 

I've no idea how the voice of God comes.  If Moses heard it through his ears 
when he stopped in front of that burning bush, or if Adam saw Him face to face 
when he was trying to hide out in the Garden of Eden, it was never repeated in 
my life nor in the lives of any people I ever knew.  I don't know how it is.  
Sometimes I just get feelings.  Other times I hear a voice in my head that could 
be from my own brain, or another part of it.  I can't say God has any definite 
connection to that. 

On the other hand, I've never been able to say He didn't, either. 

So this voice insinuated itself into my forebrain and said the words I'd been 
pushing to the back of my mind: 

Well? What are you going to do with her?  And how are you going to do it? 

"Is there anything left in this place for you, Maggie?" I said.  "I don't know how 
I'm going to feed you before I get you home.  And I don't know how I'm going 
to get you home just yet, but you better believe it: I will." 

"They had some food for themselves and some meat for Lockjaw, the dog," she 
said.  "Most of it's gone now.  But I'll take a look." 

"Take me with you," I said. 

So she disengaged herself from my arms and led me through the demon's-mouth 
room to a smaller room beyond.  It was what passed for the Inhumans' larder.  
There were storage cabinets, some sort of freezer that didn't seem to be 
operating, a round, clear table, and low-slung seats, plus a meal preparation 
machine that was not unlike a microwave, only some years too early.  Maggie 
took hold of the top of a counter below the wall storage cabinets, pulled herself 
up onto it, stood, and opened the door of a cabinet.  There wasn't much in there 
besides a container of some floury substance. 

"I can eat that," she said.  "I have to mix it up with the spit in my mouth, but it 
doesn't taste too yucky."  She reached in her hand and crammed some of the 
stuff in her mouth, and churned it thoroughly.  Well, at least it was something.  
She sat on the edge of the countertop and dangled her legs over. 

"Maggie, don't talk with your mouth full," I said.  "But how'd you like me to get 
you a hamburger?" 

She nodded her big-eyed head, vigorously. 

"A hamburger with everything on it but cheese?"  I'm not Orthodox, but my dad 
wouldn't eat cheeseburgers and he passed the prejudice on down to me.  She 
nodded again. 

"Well, then, all we have to do is find a way to get you out of here, into a taxicab, 
and back to my house," I said.  "Without anybody seeing your face, of course." 

"Because I'm a mu--", she started, trying not to spit out paste. 

"Stop that!" 

"Well, I am," she said.  "If I wasn't, I...I could be around people, and...and..." 

"Maggie, listen to me," I said, stepping closer and taking her by the shoulders.  
"A lot of people have said this, and maybe they don't always want to believe it.  
But what's important is what's inside you, not what's outside of you.  And the 
inside of you is one of the most beautiful little girls I've ever seen.  Can you 
believe me when I say that?" 

She didn't answer me. 

"Well; all right," I said.  "But I tell you one thing: I believe it." 

For the first time I'd seen that night, Maggie smiled. 

"Maggie, listen," I said.  "The police are going to be here within a few days.  
Maybe tomorrow, I don't know.  But I've got to find a way of getting you out of 
here, and back to my place.  So it's got to be tonight." 

"They're coming after me?" 

"They just want to find out about this place," I said.  "About the Inhumans.  You 
won't have a home, because they'll cart everything out of it and take it back 
downtown.  To a police lockup, or to the Baxter Building.  So...you won't have a 
place here to stay." 

"They're always doing that," she whispered.  "Always chasing me out.  Always 
hurting me, making me run.  And I don't never do anything to them, Mr. 
Sheldon." 

"I know, baby.  I know." 

"How do you know?"  She looked at me almost defiantly.  "How do you know, 
Mr. Sheldon?" 

I shook my head.  "Because I'm a Jew.  And because that's what they did to us, 
what they've done to us, for about 3,000 years.  And counting.  Maggie." 

"What?" 

I took my coat off.  "Let me put this around you." 

I draped it around her to where her face and most of her body was shrouded.  It 
reached down to about her knees.  She still had shoes on, but they were showing 
her toes from wear.  I couldn't tell if they were the ones we bought her. 

"Do you think they won't see me in this?" she said. 

"I think we're going to have to try it," I told her.  "Now, let me do one more 
thing, Maggie, and we'll get out of here.  I have to take up this roll of film.  But I 
don't want any pictures of you.  Okay, Maggie?" 

"Okay," she said. 

"Hamburger afterward." 

She grinned. 

 -M- 

Once I was done with the snapping, I took the roll out and put it in my pants 
pocket.  Then both of us got in the "service elevator" and she stepped on a 
certain section.  The lift rose, and pushed aside the two overhead doors. 

Night outside, still.  Past midnight by a sight.  She wasn't tired.  Nighttime was 
her natural wake time, and had been since she left us...and before she came to 
us.  I was still up in the air, but I didn't know when I'd get the chance to sleep.  
I'd planned to spend the night in a hotel, but that was out of the question now.  I 
had to get Maggie out of there, and back to my place. 

The light of the chamber below was more pronounced, now, to abovegrounders.  
I could only hope that not too many of them had seen us.  Hope usually wasn't 
worth a damn, so I hustled Maggie and myself off the platform as soon as 
possible.  It went down behind us, after a few more seconds. 

A brisk early fall wind was blowing, and it was chilling my arms and chest.  
"You feel alright?" I said, in a low voice. 

"I'm okay," she said, and held my hand.  I wrapped my fingers around her.  We 
started forward, stepped over the aforementioned debris and burnt wood and 
junk and moved away from our starting point. 

One of the bits of debris was human. 

"Little girl," it said, in a 16 rpm voice.  "Gotta li'l girl." 

I clutched her hand harder and pulled her away.  "Mr. Sheldon," she said. 

"Come on, Maggie," I insisted. 

"Should we help him?" 

The "him" was the stewbum I'd almost tripped over a few hours earlier.  I looked 
at him and took in his old Army coat, the tattered and smelly jeans, the one eye 
still semi-open enough to regard us, and the bottle lying beside him, his hand 
tipping it up so the last precious drops didn't run out before he'd had a fighting 
chance at them. 

"Can't," I said, and tugged her. 

"Why not?" she said, coming with me reluctantly.  "I'd be scared of him if you 
weren't here, but now you're here." 

I hesitated, then plowed on.  "Because there's too many people in the world need 
help, Maggie," I said.  "And there's just one of me." 

I stepped on through the block, to the street, across it, glancing back every now 
and then to make sure Maggie was still holding the coat shut across her face.  
The picture we presented to an onlooker's eyes surely couldn't have been a 
wholesome one.  I got us to the car I'd rented for the night and placed her on the 
seat beside me.  God was with me when I turned the ignition key; the car started 
up. 

"Are we going home?" 

"We are," I said.  "Got to make one stop first." 

I hit a White Castle a few blocks away.  I'm not sure if it would've constituted 
cruel and unusual punishment, but I ordered some of their square, hole-punched 
burgers for myself and Maggie at the driveup window, together with some fries 
and a Coke, plus two coffees for me.  The kid working the window peered at us, 
mostly at Maggie, with some curiosity.  I didn't say anything about her.  I was 
just too blamed tired to make up any good lies. 

But we got the stuff, and she ate it on the way back, and so did I.  It was going to 
be a long drive home.  Several hours.  I needed to crash, but I just didn't dare. 

"Tell me about what happened, Maggie," I said.  "Tell me what happened after 
you left us." 

"Tell you?"  She shrugged.  "I can't even tell myself." 

"Then tell us both." 

So she told me. 

She told me about leaving the house in the dark of early morning (God, why 
didn't any of my scenes with Maggie replay with daytime as a backdrop?) and 
scurrying off over the back fence and down the alleys with what seemed like all 
the dogs in the world barking.  A few sandwiches and such in a laundry sack 
flung over her back, avoiding the streetlights, going as fast as her spindly legs 
would take her, gasping and panting and running away from the only folks who 
had given her a place of conditional warmth in the world. 

A police car slowed down for her.  She darted back into the darkness.  Some 
latenight types yelled at her.  She ducked under places through which they could 
not go.  Her small size was a benefit, perhaps the only one she had.  Along the 
way, she ducked into the wrong yard and got dogbit.  She barely made it out of 
that one.  She rolled down her sock and showed me what still remained of the 
scars. 

She worked her way down, out, and away. 

And while she did, she kept looking up at the sky for the flying robots. 

She told me she cried a lot, and even wished one would come and take her if it 
would take her someplace warm.   But they didn't. 

She learned to conceal herself in places where even night watchmen did not 
poke, and lived off what she could grab from garbage cans, shut-down grocery 
stores, anyplace that had food she could acquire.  Sometimes she was almost 
caught.  They tried to catch her.  If a flashlight beam picked out her face long 
enough for them to see it, they yelled, "MONSTER!" or some such. 

Not too many times did she get called "Mutie!"  Backhand benefit, I guess. 

She was lucky.  She had avoided people of all kinds.  I couldn't blame her.  She 
didn't get caught, didn't get abused, didn't get picked up and sent to wherever 
they sent mutants. 

She also didn't find any friends. 

But she prayed every night, she told me, because she figured that God was still 
listening, and that He didn't hate her as much as humans did, or maybe at all. 

Yeah. 

It had been over a year since I'd seen her.  She had snuck a ride on an outbound 
truck full of furniture bound for a warehouse.  She'd hopped off it during a 
slowdown point, gotten seen, gotten chased, and huffed and puffed her way to 
the block where I had seen her.  She was about to settle down in the shadow of 
one of the structures that offered enough darkness and eat what she had found 
that night.  Then something pre-empted that thought. 

She saw a girl and a giant dog riding something down into the ground. 

Of course, it was the "service elevator".  Maggie was more frozen by the sight of 
the mammoth pooch, who I later learned was called Lockjaw for good reason, 
than by the brisk air around her.  But it planted an idea in her head.  What was 
down there?  And, if she could get to it, would it be safer than what she had up 
here? 

So she waited till minutes after the elevator had gone down, then scampered 
over there, and clambered all over the spot.  It was almost impossible to tell 
where the doors covering it really were.  They were designed to be like that, and 
it was night, anyway.  She was trying to find whatever opened them, whatever 
switch you had to push, whatever rock you had to lift up, wherever you had to 
stand.  But she couldn't. 

Then she was dislodged by the doors raising, and her foodbag spilled out, and 
she rolled over what bread she'd managed to cop earlier that night. 

The redhaired girl in the white dress was back, with the big doggie beside her.  
Maggie's first impulse was to run.  But the girl looked at her in curiosity and 
said, "Are you one of us?" 

Then she did run. 

But the big dog caught her before she could get very far, and brought her back to 
the girl.  Maggie started to scream.  Crystal put her hand on Maggie's mouth.  "If 
you are one of us, you must be silent and draw no attention to us.  We are on a 
secret mission.  Understood, little one?" 

Maggie nodded.  But Crystal didn't take her hand away before the three of them 
were on the elevator again and down on the lower level. 

When she saw what was below, Maggie couldn't have spoken even if she'd been 
forced to.  It was like Disneyland to her, with all the lights and baroque decor 
and gadgets. The two of them were alone at the time.  Maggie, open-mouthed, 
was barely able to get off the platform and touch some of the things which 
surrounded them. 

Finally, she turned around to Crystal and said, "Are you Susan Storm?" 

Crystal laughed and said, "No.  No, I'm not a storm.  My name is Crystal.  
What's yours?" 

"Maggie," she said. 

"What is your power?" asked Crystal.  "Or have you been subjected to the 
Terrigen?" 

She fidgeted and said, "I don't have any power.  What's a Terrigen?  And please 
don't let your dog bite me." 

Crystal stroked Lockjaw's card-table ear and said, "He wouldn't hurt a fly unless 
I wanted him to.  Then he could tear blocks out of a building.  But I don't want 
you hurt, little Maggie." 

At that, Maggie stepped a little closer, gathered her courage, and said, "Why 
aren't you `fraid of me?" 

"Should I be?  You may look odder than these humans I've seen, but where I 
come from, there are a lot of people odder than you." 

"There are?  Are you all muties?" 

"I know not this `muties'," Crystal said.  "I am an Inhuman.  Are you one?" 

"I don't know," Maggie said.  "I'm nine years old and my name is Maggie and 
they say I'm a mutie and that's why I ran away." 

Crystal knelt down and looked in her eyes.  "I don't think you're an Inhuman." 

"No," said Maggie, tentatively. 

"That means I probably shouldn't have let you in here.  I could get in big trouble 
for it." 

Maggie didn't say anything. 

"But you don't have a home, do you?" 

Maggie shook her head "no". 

"If you promise to keep out of sight, stay in my room, and hide in my closet 
when somebody comes to the door, I may find a way to keep you.  That is, if 
you're a very good little girl.  Are you?" 

Maggie shook her head emphatically, "yes". 

"The others will be out for awhile longer," Crystal said.  "If we hurry up, we can 
get you fed and give you a bath." 

 -M- 

So they did, and it didn't last two days before their silent leader barged in and 
caught Crystal talking with Maggie.  Black Bolt stood there, arms folded, and 
turned a face of granite to both of them.  Maggie didn't know how, but he'd 
found out. 

Crystal explained as best she could, and asked to be allowed to keep her, as long 
as she kept out of sight.  Black Bolt probably gave her a look that parents or 
older relatives reserve for a kid who's just told them, "He just followed me 
home, honest."  Then he turned around and left.  Crystal turned to Maggie and 
said, "He says you can stay." 

I saw some reflected joy in Maggie's face as she repeated it.  It was easy to 
imagine what her reaction had been before Crystal.  But she didn't tell me that, 
and then her eyes went to her shoe-level. 

I finally said, "Then what happened?" 

"Something awful," she said.  "Somethin' horrible." 

Not three days after that, the Inhumans had apparently brought back Madame 
Medusa, late a member of the Frightful Four, who turned out to be one of their 
family.  That precipitated contact with the Fantastic Four, apparently, and some 
other party from whom Crystal and her family unit had been hiding. 

Crystal had burst into their room, carrying a bag of food, and taken Maggie to 
the elevator.  Maggie was all questions, but all Crystal would say was, "The 
Seeker is coming.  You must leave.  He mustn't find you here. Go." 

"But I don't wanna go!  Why can't I go with you?" 

Crystal had held her by the arms and said, "Because we are in great danger, little 
one.  We may not survive.  Can you keep safe for a week?" 

"Yes," said Maggie, tentatively. 

"Good," Crystal said.  "If you can, come back here in a week's time.  If we 
can...no, if I can...I will be back, then.  But you must leave.  You must go. The 
Seeker will not be as kind as I." 

She sent Maggie out in the elevator, boarding it with her to make sure she went.  
When Maggie hesitated, she pushed her off the platform, reluctantly, and said, 
"Go!" 

Maggie left, and hid in the shadows, and watched the elevator go down.  She 
went several blocks down the street, found another hiding place, and did what 
she knew how to do best. 

She cried herself to sleep. 

I was fighting back the same impulse in myself because I wanted to cry and I 
wanted to sleep and I knew, crossing the big damn Brooklyn Bridge as we were, 
that I couldn't afford either. 

Maggie told me that she'd heard noises and seen backwash of things happening 
on that block within the week, but didn't have the nerve to go see what it was.  
Not quite.  Besides, most of it happened during the day.  She was asleep then, or 
tried to be. 

She kept her word, almost, and went to the elevator only about 6 days later.  It 
opened for her. But the place had been darned near cleaned out.  No trace 
remained of Crystal or her family.  There was a little food left, but not a lot.  
None of the fancy-shmancy gadgets worked anymore. 

It was tolerably warm for sleeping.  But, by and large, Maggie was back where 
she'd been, where she always seemed to be.  Crystal didn't come back at the end 
of that week, or anytime thereafter.  I later learned that was because she and the 
other Inhumans were trapped behind some kind of barrier in their homeland. 

That was pretty well the end of her tale.  Except for another long pause, at the 
end of which she said, "Mr. Sheldon?" 

"Yeah, Maggie?" 

"Do you think she and Lockjaw are dead?" 

I tried to keep my eyes on the road and not her.  "I don't know, honeybunch.  I 
don't think anybody knows.   But one thing's for sure, no, two things.  I'm not 
dead yet, and neither are you.  Are we?" 

"No," she said.  "Is that a good thing?" 

"Of course it is," I said.  "And never forget how good a thing it is." 

"I'll try," she said. 

There's more or less a lull in my memory from that point on till the time when I 
finally pulled up in front of my house, feeling that I knew how Ulysses felt when 
he finally checked in with Penelope.  I got myself and my little charge out of the 
car, hoping none of the neighbors were there to see a little girl with a coat over 
her head, and fumbled with the keys until I finally got the right one to fit. 

Doris opened the door before I could, and gaped.  I herded Maggie and myself 
across the doorstep.  Then I closed the door behind us. 

"Doris, this is Maggie," I said.  "Again." 

She peeked her big round eyes out of the coat opening.  "Hello, Mrs. Sheldon," 
she said. 

"Fix her something and put her to bed," I said, and collapsed on the front room 
couch.  "Make sure the door's locked and the phone's off the hook." 

At least, I think I managed to say all of that before I fell asleep. 

-M- 

I remember waking up to somebody, probably Beth, rubbing me under the chin 
with an old Deputy Dawg stuffed toy.  "Daddy, wake up.  Wake up, Daddy." 

My glasses were still on my face and remarkably unbent.  What I could smell of 
myself assured me that the Right Guard had lost its valiant battle hours ago.  
"What the hell is this," I said, and then said, "Sorry, Daddy doesn't need to say 
those words around you, kids." 

Beth and Jenny were both on me then, Daddy as trampoline, giggling and sitting 
on top of me and shaking me and rubbing their hair in my face, saying over and 
over again, "Daddy brought us Maggie and we love him.  Daddy brought us 
Maggie and we love her." 


"Okay, okay, so Daddy brought you Maggie, shut up already," I said, rousing 
myself off the couch.  "Don't say I never brought you nothing." 

"Daddy brought us Maggie and we--" started Beth.  Jenny slapped a hand across 
her mouth to shut her up. 

I got up and fumbled for my shoes.  By the time I looked up from them, Doris 
was in the doorway.  She was Mount St. Helens before we ever knew there was 
a whole bunch of lava inside it waiting to break out.  Her even gaze let me know 
just who would be getting the benefit of the flow, when it came. 

"Mr. Bushkin called and wants to know how it went," she said.  "Needless to 
say--I do, too." 

"Mommy, isn't it just great that we've got Maggie back with us?" gushed Beth, 
grabbing her wrists and jumping up and down.  "Isn't it just fantastic that Daddy 
went and found her?" 

"Yes, dear," she said, looking straight at me.  "It's just fantastic." 

"I'll go talk to Bushkin," I said, putting on my right shoe on the way to the 
phone. 

 -M- 

Maggie was sitting at the kitchen table eating a cheese sandwich and drinking 
milk.  The curtains were closed very thoroughly over the windows and Doris 
had placed some jelly jars at certain points to make sure they stayed that way.  
Maggie smiled at me. 


I waved at her, rubbed her head for good luck, and made her giggle.  That was 
nice to hear.  Then I called up the Daily Globe, got Bushkin the Bombastic, told 
him I'd got the pix, and was praised to the skies, emptily.  But it sounded a lot 
nicer than what I would've got from Jameson.  Arrangements were made to 
come up later tomorrow and bring him the photos, after I developed them. 

Then I hung up and hovered over the table for a long moment.  "Just what you 
need, short stuff.  You like horseradish on cheddar?" 

"Love it, Mr. Sheldon," said Maggie.  "`Sides, it was what you had inna 
refrigerator." 

"Hey, you can eat White Castle burgers, you can eat anything.  Now Uncle Phil's 
gotta go play in the darkroom and make some pictures to make some money.  
Remember: if you hear the doorbell, do not answer it.  Go in the basement, and 
take your food with you." 

"Mr. Sheldon?" 

I looked at her.  She was a bit serious.  "If you want me to, I could leave again.  
Because--" 

"I do not want you should leave again.  Ever.  Is that clear, Maggie?" 

"Yes, but--" 

"Yes, with no buts.  Butt out those buts.  I did not drive you all the way from the 
Lower East Side to here with no sleep in between so you could play knight of 
the road again.  If you ever try to lam again, you are in big trouble.  With me.  
Got that?" 

"Got it, Mr. Sheldon."  She smiled, shyly.  Even with her little gargoyle face, it 
was touching to see how nice a little girl could smile.  "But I've gotta tell you, it 
might make things hard.  On you." 

"On me, why?" 

She leaned closer, glass still clutched firmly in her hand.  She whispered, 
"Because I don't think Mrs. Sheldon wants me to stay here." 

A few seconds after paralysis wore off, I said, "And what gives you that idea?" 

"`Cause.  She doesn't like being around me.  I mean, I understand.  Not too 
many people ever did wanna be around me.  Like mommy and daddy."  Some 
other little girl might have been crying tears at that, but I guess she'd used up her 
supply for the duration.  "So if she doesn't want me around, I can leave.  I can 
go.  I mean, I'm used to looking after myself." 

I knelt down so my face was on a level with Maggie's.  "Look.  Right here, in 
front of you, is the head of this household.  The man who pays the bills.  Mr. 
Breadwinner.  The Reed Richards of this here Baxter Building.  What I say here, 
goes, no matter who else says anything.  And what I say is, Maggie doesn't go. 
Maggie stays here, lives here, is part of the family, no matter who says any 
different.  Got it?" 

"Thank you, Mr. Sheldon," she said, and hugged me. 

I knew I shouldn't have bent down so low.  It took her a while to get herself 
loose from me. 

 -M- 

Later, in my darkroom, hovering over those firming-up shots of Inhuman 
interior decoration, I heard Doris on the intercom I'd rigged for there.  "Phil, 
we've got to talk." 

"I'll be finishing up here in a few minutes, Doris," I said.  "Until I do, this door 
stays locked.  Sorry." 

"All right. But I'll be waiting outside this door.  And we will talk, Phil." 

"Absolutely, Doris.  Absolutely." 

I can tell you I was in no hurry to dry off the last of those shots.  But they all 
came out like they should, and they sold a bunch of extra copies of Bushkin's rag 
when they ran in it.  Of course, the NYPD made us wait a couple of days till 
they could give the place a going over, and made me show them how to get 
inside it.  I did.  There wasn't anything there they shouldn't see, now. 

But anyway, I came out of the darkroom drying my hands, and Doris was there, 
standing behind me, arms folded.  "Phil, we cannot make this work out," she 
said. 

"Don't talk very loud, I don't want she should hear." 

"Like I shouldn't hear when you were making your big `I am Reed Richards' 
speech in the kitchen?  As if you didn't know who was Susan Storm." 

"I can feel your invisible force field all the way over here.  Don't worry, I'm not 
coming any closer." 

"Phil, stop with the jokes!  This is serious.  Don't you know what we've got 
down there?  Don't you know what she is?" 

I set the towel aside and pointed at her.  "Doris.  Don't try and convince me you 
don't have a shred of human compassion.  I know you better than that.  I knew 
you better when you were a nurse, way back when.  Even before." 

"Phil, we are harboring a--a mutant." 

"Uh huh. So? The X-Men are mutants.  So what?" 

"She is not an X-Man.  Stop avoiding the issue, Phil." 

"I am not avoiding the issue, Doris.  I stopped avoiding the issue when I saw 
Maggie's face in that Inhumans immigration place.  She is here, she is staying 
with us, end of story." 

"No, Phil." 

"What do you mean, no?" 

"I mean, she is not one of the family.  Not one of our family." 

"That is quite true, in one sense.  But we are family to her, and she has no other 
family than us right now." 

"Phil, for crissake.  You men always want to be the big idealists.  You always 
want to be the heroes, the big benefactors, the ones who always, who always Do 
the Right Thing so they can, I don't know, so you can look in the mirror while 
you're shaving and smile and say, `Gee, what a good person I am.'  But who's the 
one who's got to do all the practical stuff to make all those Right Things of yours 
work?" 

I waited.  I knew when Doris wanted to answer her own questions. 

"The women, that's who.  We have to make sure the budget stretches for the 
groceries and gas, and forget about that new hat we wanted to buy, oh no, we'll 
do without this year, so Daddy can buy his expensive new camera and take us 
out to the Steel Pier or something, and run around all night chasing photos when 
he ought to be in bed and--" 

"Doris, that's not fair--" 

"--and he comes and picks up a stray mutant and says, `Come home with me, my 
house is your house,' without even considering what we're going to have to do 
once he does it.  Without even consulting any of the family, Phil.  Without even 
thinking about me.  Your wife.  Remember?  My name is Doris, Phil. We got 
married eighteen years ago.  I can show you the pictures, if you want." 

"Doris, I know.  Please, honey, I know it's going to be hard on you." 

"`Oh, please honey, I know it's going to be hard on you!  But you'll find a way to 
make it work, old girl, `cause that's what you women are good at!  You're so 
much better at it than us men!'  And you know why we are, Phil?" 

"Tell me." 

"We are because men keep dumping it all in our laps and saying, `Do something 
about it,' and walking away.  So if we want to keep the household functional, 
and by gosh we do, because we're the only ones who think about stuff like that, 
we've got to figure out a way to do something about it.  Do you think we're 
wizards, Phil?  Sorry, witches.  Do you think every woman is like that twitchy-
nosed shiksa broad on the television, Phil?  We're not. We don't know anything 
more than you do, Phil.  We just get in there and find a way to do it.  We're the 
Seabees Corps of life, Phil." 

"I never denied it, honey." 

"You never denied it, but you never deigned to notice it, Mr. Reed Richards of 
the Baxter Building!  `Get me up at 5:00, that means you've gotta be up at 4:00, 
but you can do it, old girl.  Make sure my suit is pressed and my shoes are 
shined and you put a funnel in my mouth and pour black coffee down it and then 
shove me out the door.'  Sure, no problem.  But when it comes down to 
something that impacts our lives, where are your minds, Phil?  Tell me, because 
I've never figured it out in all my life." 

"Doris, let me--" 

"No, Phil.  No.  Let me, first.  Let me point out a few things.  You found a little 
girl mutant down there on the Lower East.  She has no home.  She was ours, 
once, and I tolerated her.  But it was hard.  I remember what you said, Phil.   
You said, `She's just a little girl, Doris.'  Oh?  Is she?  Like Beth and Jenny are 
little girls, Phil?  Like that?" 

"It does not matter what she looks like!" 
  

"If it didn't, why would she have been abandoned, Phil? Why did she have to 
live out in the streets, hiding out from people, so that the only place you could 
find her was some hideout for a super-freak show out on the Lower East Side?  
Phil, Phil...she is not like us.  She does not look like a human being.  She is 
a...she is a mutant." 

"She is a little girl, Doris.  Nothing more, nothing less." 

"She is another hungry mouth to feed, Phil.  And you know how much it takes to 
feed just the four of us, every week." 

"We can make it work, Doris." 

"Doris can make it work!  Because Phil's going to drop it in her lap and say, 
`You can make it work, old girl.'  Well, what if the old girl doesn't want to make 
it work anymore?  What then, Phil?" 

I was marshalling my arguments, but I let her go ahead.  I knew her too well to 
step in just then. 

"On top of that, Phil, how are we going to raise her if she does stay here?  Can 
you take her out to Coney Island for a holiday?  Can you even take her to 
school?  For God's sake, Phil, can we even let anyone know she's here, that she 
exists?  Do you know what people do to mutants, Phil?  Do you know what 
they'd do to us, if they even suspected we were, were harboring a mutant?" 

"I know," I said, quietly.  "I've seen what they do." 

"They'll think we're mutants, Phil. They'd kill us.  Kill me and you and, and Beth 
and Jenny.  And Maggie, too.  Kill us and burn our house and, and that's 
everything we've worked for, lived for, all these years, Phil.  It would've been 
better if she'd stayed...stayed..." 

"Doris, I am going to talk." 

"...but we..." 

"Doris.  I am GOING TO TALK." 

Silence. 

I leaned back against the wall.  "I am quite well aware of what you feel towards 
Maggie.  I am quite well aware that this is going to be a hardship and an extra 
burden on the family.  I know all this, Doris, because, no big surprise, I've been 
part of this family, too. I don't spend all my time with a camera in my hand.  But 
I know something about money, too, and how much it takes for the mortgage 
and the food and the bills and the gas for the car and the kids' teeth and clothes 
and all that.  Because, don't forget: I have to make the money.  That's not saying 
you couldn't, or that you can't, when you think the girls are grown enough.  But, 
Doris, remember: I make the money.  I know how much it takes.  And I know 
how hard it is to come by.  Believe it. 

"Let me ask you something, Doris.  Are you hostile towards Maggie because of-
-" 

"I didn't say I was hostile to her." 

"Okay, let me rephrase that.  Are you cool towards her because she looks the 
way she does?" 

She didn't answer. 

"Is it because she looks that way, and if she stays in this house, she makes you 
think--maybe not consciously, but just under it--of a deformed child you might 
have borne?" 

I don't think she had an ounce of blood left in her face a second after I said that.  
I don't see how she still stood up. 

"Well, all right.  Let's consider that idea.  Because if you had borne a child who 
was this--deformed, to put it that way--or special, to put it another--but was 
normal in every other respect, just had this looks problem--would you treat it as 
a foreigner?  As someone who was not your own?" 

"I, you know she isn't my child, I don't feel that way, Phil--" 

"Well, would you?" 

She took a deep breath, then looked at a point somewhere a foot to the right of 
me.  "I would make myself do whatever I had to, to convince myself to treat 
such a child as my very own, because she would be.  But, Maggie, Phil...I didn't 
bear her." 

"Uh huh.  So that makes the difference." 

"It shouldn't. But it does." 

"Let's just stop at the `It shouldn't.'  All right?  It shouldn't.  You're right about 
that.  Dorrie, let me tell you.  I have some qualms looking at her face, too.  But 
only for an instant.  You know why?  Because I'm only looking at the face that 
she's got on the surface for that long.  And after that, I'm looking at the face she's 
got underneath it.  And, Doris, that face that she's got underneath it is sheerest 
beauty.  The Queen of Sheba should have had such a face.  If she did, Solomon 
would never let her get away." 

She made a noise that was like the least part of a laugh.  I went ahead. 

"But there's more to it than that, all right?  Let me tell you about it.  You were a 
little cool towards Maggie when she first came to live with us, too.  I remember.  
But you didn't kick her out.  You treated her as nicely as you could.  You were 
just a little hesitant about touching her and such.  And she didn't mind.  She 
understood.  She still does.  But I don't think you understand, Dorrie.  I really 
don't. 

"Down there, hopefully sleeping peacefully for the first night since those 
Inhuman types left town, and God knows she deserves it, is Maggie.  Tonight, 
she does not have to sleep cold.  Tonight, she does not have to sleep with an 
empty belly, or one nearly empty, anyway.  Tonight, she does not have to worry 
about somebody coming upon her and maybe trying to see what she's got to 
take, or taking a look at her and hollering `Mutie!'.  And you know why, Dorrie?  
Because we happened to her.  Because you--and I--and the kids gave her a place 
to stay.   Again.  We had her, then we lost her, then we got her again.  You 
really don't see anybody's hand in that?  If not, I think I had a better rabbi than 
you." 

"Phil, don't tell me--" 

"I'm talking.  Believe me, I'm talking.  There's a lot more to it than that, Dorrie.  
She's more than just a little girl, that's true.  She's apparently a mutant...a `mutie'.  
I don't know if she's got any powers, just those big eyes and that kind of bony 
face.  She obviously wasn't in the same line that the X-Men were standing in.  
But there's been other kinds of lines, Dorrie, and other kinds of people had to 
stand in `em.  And sometimes..." 

"Phil..." 

"...Sometimes, those people had to wear uniforms and numbers around their 
neck.  And a little gold Star of David to make sure everybody knew what they 
were.  You forgotten that, Dorrie?  You forgotten?  I don't think so.  In the name 
of God, I don't think anybody will forget, not even a million years from now. 

"And maybe it wasn't too different.  They could've called those guys `Mutie' 
instead of `Juden'.  What the hell difference would it have made?  Just another 
name.  Just another tag that says, `We can beat up on you and nobody'll care, 
even kill you and nobody'll care, `cause you're not one of us.'  I've seen it, 
Dorrie.  You've seen it, too." 

I sighed.  She was sitting on the floor, her hands in her lap.  Her eyes didn't stray 
from my face.  I had to go on. 

"So.  You know, all the goyim didn't act like that?  Only a few, a very few, but 
God knows, every one of them, we remember.  Like that, what was her name, 
Corrie something--" 

"Ten Boom." 

"Right, Corrie Ten Boom, the Dutch woman, the one who had the secret places 
built in her house, and she wasn't the only one, and she used `em to hide Jews, 
and the Nazis found her out and sent her to prison.  Not as bad as ours, but a hell 
of a prison.  You know, Dorrie.  Don't you?" 

"I know, Phil.  I know." 

"And Raoul Wallenberg.  And Schindler.  And the ones who hid Anne Frank. 
And all those other names that won't come to me now, maybe some that I don't 
even know about.  In fact, I'm sure of it.  The people that made sure a few of us 
were safe, in the midst of all that.  A safe house in the middle of Hell.  The ones 
who knew they had a responsibility, Dorrie. The ones who went and did it." 

I sighed.  I had to sit down, cross-legged, on the floor, facing her.  "I don't know 
how to make speeches like I ought to, Dorrie.  But I've been taught enough in 
Temple, and on my own, to know that we're probably only in a lull.  We have it 
easy.  For now.  In America.  But we are...but we have...responsibilities.  We 
have to...face up to them, somehow.  Even when it's not convienient.  Even 
when it puts somebody at our dinner table whose face you'd rather not look at.  
Because if we don't...well, if I don't, Maggie...then I am not a Jew.  Because if 
we can have gone through all that, and have so little empathy...so little 
sympathy...then who deserves to call themselves a Jew?" 

She was silent. But I thought I saw something reflecting back, and maybe 
shimmering, in the corner of her eye. 

"Your own daughters, Dorrie.  Your own daughters love Maggie, loved her 
before we did, because they could see what she was, not what she looked like.  
We could've gotten somebody a lot worse than Maggie, Dorrie.  I think we 
really lucked out with her.  I know I did.   And I know something else." 

I made her say it.  "What?" she said, very quietly. 

"I know that you're not going to turn her out.  Because I know that's not the kind 
of woman you are." 

She broke down, then, and I had to hold her, and I was very glad to.  At the end 
of it, she finally managed to sniffle and chuckle and said, "Dear God, I must 
look like a mess.  I'll bet my eye makeup looks like a Hershey bar you leave on 
the front seat." 

"You look just fine, Dorrie.  Just whamo.  I'll show you.  Ready for some sheet 
overtime?" 

"Oh...almost."  She wiped her eyes with one hand, then stood up, went to the 
door, and called.  "Maggie?  Are you there?" 

No answer. 

"Maggie? This is Doris.  I want you to come up here, please." 

A little rustling at the stairs.  A little gargoyle face poking around the bannister.  
She looked up at us. 

"I see you, Maggie," she said, playfully. 

Maggie made her way up the stairs, not saying anything, but watching both of 
us, wondering what she was in for, hoping and not daring to hope. 

She finally got to the top of the stairs and stood there, at their edge.  "Come here, 
Maggie.  Now," Dorrie said. 

"Yes, Mrs. Sheldon," Maggie said, and was lifted up off her tiny feet a second 
later and crushed gently against Doris's neck. 

She might have been a bit hesitant at first, but she made herself hug Maggie all 
the stronger, and then didn't have to make herself do a doggoned thing.  
"Welcome to the family," she said.  "Welcome to your home." 

Maggie didn't say a thing, but I think they broke a record for hugging that night.  
I just sat near the newel post and let them go at it, and took a look over the 
bannister, and saw Beth and Jenny whispering, pointing, all smiles, and then 
backing up quickly as they saw me looking. 

It's still one helluva memory, all backed in gold foil with diamonds visible here 
and there around the edges. 

It almost makes up for the one that followed. 

Almost. 
  
  






-M-

  
















It would be a lie to say everything was easy between us and Maggie from that 
point onward.  All of us tried, I think, including her.  But she was a human 
being, as were we all, and human beings are never angels. 

Her table manners were, at the start and often afterwards, atrocious.  She had 
been accustomed to snatching food wherever she could find it, eating it as fast as 
she could, often on the run, and dealing with the digestive problems afterward.  
When my wife put a large bowl of creamed corn on the table, Maggie's instincts 
kicked in and she dragged the whole thing over to her plate and dug in like a 
madwoman.  About as much corn was on her face as was in her body.  The girls 
were aghast.  Dorrie hollered, "Maggie, no!" and I got up from my chair. 

Maggie froze like a scared rabbit.  A little corn dribbled down her spoon and 
splatted on her dress.  Dorrie saw it, transferred a percentage of her shock and 
anger to fear, and lay a reassuring hand on Maggie's shoulder while I went 
behind her and replaced the corn bowl in the center of the table.  The kids told 
me I looked like a new-painted fireplug at that moment.  I could believe it.  I 
was resisting my automatic Daddy Impulse to grab the offender and put her over 
my knee. 

But I knew she had to regain the training we'd given her during our earlier stay, 
and Doris did too. 

"Maggie, that's bad manners," she was saying.  "I know you're hungry, but you 
have to wait till you're served.  And only take the food that's offered you.  
Okay?" 

"O-okay, Mrs. Sheldon," said Maggie, the spoon in her hand at half-mast.  "You 
aren't gonna, uh..." 

"We're not going to kick you out, Maggie," I said, taking her napkin and wiping 
off her dress.  "But you are gonna learn how to eat like a little girl, not like 
Mowgli." 

"What's a Mowgli?", she asked. 

Beth said, "He's a little boy that grew up in the jungle.  I read about him in The 
Jungle Book and it's good." 

"Sure enough," I said.  "Now.  Maggie.  You do remember we had this problem 
when you first came here, right?" 

"Right," she said, looking at her lap. 

"And you do remember we had to train you out of it?" 

"Right," she repeated. 

"Are we gonna have to do it again?" 

"No, Mr. Sheldon." 

"Well, try to watch yourself," I said.  "If you live with us, you have to live by 
our rules.  And one of our rules is: good manners.  You understand?" 

"I understand, Mr. Sheldon." 

Doris said, "I'll see about some more corn, Phil." 

"The corn is fine, Doris.  We can all have some.  Now.  Think you're ready for 
some gefilte fish, Maggie?  Like your mom never used to make?" 

"Yes, Mr. Sheldon." 

"What do you say?" 

"Please?" 

"Say it to Doris.  She's the one in charge here." 

"Please, Mrs. Sheldon, may I have some fish?" 

"Certainly, Maggie," said Doris, and ladled out some on her plate.  Maggie sat 
there, hands in her lap, till Doris said, "You can eat it, dear." 

She devoured it inside of thirty seconds.  "May I have some more, ma'am?" she 
said, and burped. 

Beth and Jenny were giggling.  Doris looked at me.  I said, "You may, if you eat 
slower.  But wait till the rest of us are served.  And Maggie?" 

"Yes, sir?" 

"Don't be in such a hurry.  You've got all the rest of your life in front of you.  A 
lot more than I've got of mine." 

I think she may have nodded, slightly, but I don't recall her saying anything.  In 
that, she was smarter than me. 

Of course, compared to some other things, the early mealtimes were a paradise.  
There were the times in which, for example, we went to movies.  How the hell 
could we even take her to a drive-in?  So one of the girls would have to babysit 
with her and miss the show.  Or Doris would heroically volunteer to stay behind.  
I could tell from the look in those large globular eyes that Maggie knew she was 
missing something, an experience of communal fun that the rest of us could 
have at will, but from which she was shut out.  It hurt her and it hurt me a bit, 
too.  But I was determined the family was going to go on as normally as 
possible. 

Finally she just said she didn't need anybody to sit with her and that we could all 
go.  So, reluctantly, we did.  It was a spy picture and Beth and Jenny both came 
back breathless, recounting the heroic deeds of the good-guy agent, the wacko 
secret weaponry, and the fiendish bad-guys who made HYDRA look like the 
Welcome Wagon.  She liked hearing about it, but you could tell that she was 
wistful about never getting to see it, or any other movie.  True, she had the TV, 
and watched it assiduously.  But it wasn't quite the same. 

Worse yet was when the girls started talking about the women in the movie.  
The regulation for most spy movies was that no female between the ages of 16 
and 40 could be seen without exposing their navel, and a bikini was as much a 
prerequisite for them in these films as a suit and tie were to get into a good 
restaurant.  Hey, I'm not complaining, even though Dorrie noodged me when I 
became a little too observant of Ursula Andress. 

"Dahliah Lavi, she's Jewish, too, and she looked great," enthused Beth.  "I 
wanna look like that when I grow up.  Or get to high school.  Whatever." 

"Gotta get out of your training bra first, sis," said Jenny, and Beth grabbed her 
neck and started shaking her vigorously in mock-strangle.  Then they split up 
and faced each other, arms wide. 

"We're gonna do it just like James Bond's gypsies!" hollered Beth, and made for 
Jenny. 

"Yeah!" agreed Jenny, and correspondingly made for her.  I stepped in just in 
time to grab both in a hand apiece and play gypsy chieftain. 

"Break it up, both of you, and don't play rough in your good clothes," I said.  
"Get in your jammes and get to bed, both of you.  Or I'll smack your little 
tuchises.  Go." 

"Okay, Daddy," said Jenny. 

"All right, Daddy," said Beth.  "Good night, Maggie." 

"Good night," said Maggie, sitting in front of the TV and watching the start of 
the 10:00 news.  Then she said, "Jenny.  What's a bikini?" 

Jenny paused, then grinned and said, "You mean, `What isn't a bikini!'" 

Beth co-giggled and said, "Yeah, what isn't?  Like everything!" 

"Girls," I said.  "Maggie, a bikini is a bathing suit.  Very small, in two pieces.  
Girls who wear it have to be awfully built, or awfully daring.  Or both." 

Maggie said, "Gee.  Do you think I could wear one, when I get older?" 

Silence. 

Doris, who had come on the scene late, said, in a grand attempt at a save, "Don't 
worry about that, dear.  The only girls who look good in a bikini are in the 
movies." 

"Oh." 

More silence. 

"Put the girls to bed, Dorrie," I said.  "I'll be up in a moment." 

"Okay," she said.  Beth and Jenny looked back as their mother shooed them 
upstairs. 

I stood and massaged my forehead, not looking at her or the TV as the 
announcer's shpiel went on.  "Got anything you want to talk about, Maggie?" 

"No," she said.  "That's okay." 

"Sorry if the girls made you feel bad," I said. 

"I feel all right," she told me. 

"Okay," I said.  "All right.  If you're sure of that, I'm going to bed.  I--" I turned 
on my heel and looked at her.  "Listen, Maggie, if it makes you feel better, I'm 
not the kind of guy who could parade around in a pair of trunks on Muscle 
Beach, either.  Like Doris said, that's all for the movies." 

"I understand," she said. 

I sat down beside her.  "I don't...Maggie, I don't have all the answers.  I can't 
cheer you up all the time.  I can't even cheer me up all the time.  Understand?" 

"Mr. Sheldon, I'm not worried.  I know what I look like, and I don't even look as 
good as Herman Munster on TV." 

"That's not true.  Herman is uglier than both of us put together.  But he's nice." 

"And I know I'm not going to go out and have boyfriends like Jenny and Beth 
will.  But that's all right." 

I reached out and squeezed her little hand.  "You've got us, you've got a roof 
over your head, and you've got three square meals a day plus what you sneak out 
of the icebox when we're not looking.  That's not everything, Maggie, but that's 
something." 

"Yeah," she said.  "But I wish for one day I could look good in a bikini like a 
movie girl.  I wish I could even look as good as a Barbie.  Or as Beth, or Jenny." 

"You look just fine, dear." 

"No, I don't.  No, I don't," she whispered. 

"Well, what do you expect me to do?"  I stood up, before I even intended to.  
"It's what God gave you, Maggie.  Just like he gave me what I've got.  I can't do 
anything about it.  I'm doing the best that I can.  Can't you?  Well, can't you?" 

She looked up at me and I felt like apologizing.  But I didn't.  God help me, 
sometimes you just get sick of walking on eggshells.  But you still feel like a 
crud when they break. 

"I can, Mr. Sheldon," she said.  "And thank you for everything you've done for 
me.  I really, really appreciate it." 

"Uh, thanks," I said.  "You're very welcome.  We still love you very much." 

"But why did God give me this?  Is He that...that..." 

"No," I said.  "No.  You can't go around blaming God for things like this.  Like I 
can't go around blaming him for, I don't know, Hitler and all.  I'm very tired, 
Maggie, and I gotta get up in the morning.  Good night." 

"Good night, Mr. Sheldon," she said.  "Can I ask you something else?" 

I looked at her.  "I guess." 

"Why do you only have half a Bible?" 

I wonder if I did a double-take, figuring that one out.  "Oh.  You mean, why is 
ours just one Testament, instead of two?" 

She nodded.  "You don't have the stories about Jesus in yours." 

"Well," I said, "there's a really good reason for that, Maggie.  You see, 
Christians believe in Jesus.  But we believe in God." 

"Christians believe in God, too," she said.  "They've got his name all over the 
place in their Bible.  Don't you love Jesus, too, Mr. Sheldon?" 

I exhaled.  Phil Sheldon, Boy Rabbi.  "Listen, Maggie.  If you'll stop asking 
questions like these, I'll get you a Bible with both halves.  Just don't talk about it 
to Beth and Jenny, okay?" 

"Okay. Why not?" 

"Because I said so!" 

I waited till I was upstairs before I looked towards the ceiling and said, "Forgive 
me." 

I also prayed for the strength to resist embarrassment when I went to the 
bookstore and asked for a Christian Bible. 

I hope the first part of my prayer worked a lot better than the last. 

 -M- 

So.  Was Maggie always a little darling, the kind of kid with an ugly face but a 
heart as big as the little girl in Sorrowful Jones with Bob Hope?  She was not. 

As time went on, she sometimes became a whiny little pain in the ass.  Sorry, 
but it is true.  At first she was willing to share Beth's and Jenny's toys, their 
Barbie dolls and Mystery Date game and the cowgirl clothes that fit her--usually 
just the hat and the vest, and I had to stride into my darkroom and bust down 
laughing when I saw her in that; you would have too, believe me--and all the 
rest of their stuff. 

But all people are possessive, and Maggie was a person. 

"Why can't I have a Robot Commando?" she'd whine at the breakfast table. 

"Because a Robot Commando costs over twenty simoleons and I am not shellin' 
out that kind of cash for a kid's toy.  Period," I said, finding the sports page as 
advantageous to hide behind as my old man had. 

"But I bet all the kids have one," she pleaded.  "Please?" 

"I know three kids that don't," said Doris, "and they all live in this house.  And I 
know one kid who's gonna finish breakfast in the basement and skip lunch if she 
doesn't straighten up." 

"Oh," said Maggie, and sniffled some. 

"Maggie," warned Jenny, her hand clenching and unclenching on her milk glass. 

Beth remained silent, which was the best thing she could do. 

"Young lady," I said, pulling down the paper enough to where I could look at 
her, "you are part of this family, and being part of this family means accepting 
the authority of the man in charge.  Which, come to think of it, happens to be 
me.  You have toys, do you not?" 

"Well, yes, but--" 

"And you are allowed to share the toys of Beth and Jenny, are you not?" 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Sheldon. But--" 

"`But' is an annoying word and I wish to hear no more of it at this table.  Or I 
promise I will cause you to remember another butt, the kind which is spelled 
with two t's.  Do I make myself clear, young lady?" 

She was still sniveling. 

"Do I make myself clear?" 

Beth and Jenny knew what I was doing.  I'd been firm with them in similar 
situations, and you damned well have to.  If Maggie was going to be part of the 
family, she had to learn the rules.  Doris stayed out. 

"Yes, sir," she finally said. 

"Good," I said.  "Now let's have no talk about Robot Commandos, unless it's 
some newfangled gimmick Moshe Dayan is using against the Arabs." 

"That'll be the day," said Jenny, smiling. 

Paper came down, glare went out, Jenny shut up, paper went back up again. 

Then came the time in which Beth and Jenny came to me, which I knew would 
happen sooner or later, and asked me why they weren't getting as much attention 
as Maggie.  Actually, what happened was they both came up to me and Jenny 
said, "Daddy, why don't you love us as much as Maggie?" 

I stopped in the middle of my typing a letter to Jameson and said, "That's 
ridiculous, Jen.  Both of you are my daughters and I love you like no other.  You 
ought to know that.  What's the problem?  Really?" 

Beth spoke this time.  "Because you and Mom hardly spend as much time with 
us as you do with her." 

I ran my hand through what was left of my hair to give me time to think.  "You 
know why we're spending time with her, darlings.  Think.  Has Maggie received 
the schooling you have?" 

"No, but--" said Jenny. 

"And therefore, Mom has had to put aside a certain section of the day in which 
she teaches Maggie things, right?" 

"We know that, Daddy," said Beth.  "It's just...it isn't like it used to be anymore." 

I paused, sighed, and showed them my open hands.  "How could it be, honeys?  
Really?  Are you really feeling neglected?  If so, I apologize, believe me.  Or is 
it jealousy?  If so, I think I can understand." 

"It's a little of both, Dad," said Jenny. 

"But how can you understand?", said Beth. 

"Because Daddy, as you well know, came from a home which had five kids in it, 
and two were born after him.  You think I didn't get jealous of the little 
intruders?  The ones who got fussed over by the folks who just got done making 
him?  Or her?  You bet I was jealous.  And I won't say I got over it, quite.  But I 
learned to live with it.  And it was great, when the last one came along and the 
one before him had to live with it, too." 

"We don't want her out, Daddy," said Beth.  "We just want to know you love us 
more." 

"More than what?  More than her?  Is that what you're wanting me to say?" 

No answer. 

I looked around to see that Little Orphan Annie wasn't lurking about, though she 
could be awfully hard to find when she wanted. 

"First off, please note this: that there is a love between father and daughter that 
nothing comes between.  Absolutely--nothing.  We made you, you are our flesh 
and blood, despite the mess you leave in the bathroom, Bethie, which you are 
going to clean up, please, and despite you leaving your underwear on the floor 
of your room, Jenny, which you are going to pick up directly, we love you both 
unconditionally.   Do you understand that?" 

"Yes, Dad," said Jenny. 

"I understand, Daddy," said Beth.  I hoped they did, as I was in no way 
competition for Robert Young on Father Knows Best. 

"You also must understand that daddies and mommies can't go around saying, `I 
love you, I love you, I love you' all the time.  Not even to each other.  In family, 
this is usualy a given.  Even when we bust your tuchis for something.  
Understand?" 

Beth nodded, and Jenny followed suit. 

"The message is that love is always there, as part of the landscape.  Sometimes, 
like the landscape or the wallpaper, we ignore it.  If it does its job well, perhaps 
we're entitled to.  But take it away...and you will know about it immediately.  
Because something will be perceptibly not there.  If I suddenly tomorrow had 
the wallpaper torn away before you got back from school, you would notice this, 
right?" 

"Right, Dad," said Jenny, playing her part. 

"But normally you would pay no attention to the wallpaper, other than your 
usual, `This is yucky, Dad, why don't we get some cool wallpaper?'" Giggles.  
Good sign.  "So if I withdrew love, I believe you would notice it immediately.  I 
am right, no?" 

"You're right, I think, Daddy," said Beth, tentatively. 

"I'm right, you know, Beth.  So I do not think you are perceiving a lack of love.  
Most likely, you are perceiving a lack of attention.  Think this is the case?" 

"Well, it could be, Dad," Jenny offered.  "Maybe, like." 

"You used to read stuff to us and play Monopoly with us and talk about getting 
to see World War II and the heroes and everything," said Beth. "And all that 
other stuff." 

I mused.  It was true, I hadn't been haunting Park Place or Boardwalk very often 
lately.  "So you want more Monopoly?  It can be arranged, sport." 

"It'd be nice, Daddy." 

"And you want more war stories?  I can tell you about the time I charged up San 
Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders.  I was pushing a scooter 
at the time."  More giggles.  "But I have a feeling that what we have here is just 
a modified little-brother syndrome.  Little Brother is here.  He gets the attention.  
Why don't I?  Wah! 

"And I guess the real answer is that little brother needs the attention to help 
integrate him into the family.  Even somebody like Maggie, who is, what, ten 
years old now?" 

"Since July 15th," said Jenny.  "I asked her." 

"Good.  Well, understand this.  Though Maggie is a nice little girl, a really nice 
one, what did she have for a family?  A dad who lost his job, a mother who was 
not, let's say, affectionate, and a school system that kicked her out because she 
looked the way she did.  But I've been in the War, little girls, and I've seen 
people who had lot worse face jobs than Maggie.  Bullets and shrapnel or even 
flying wood fragments'll do that to you.  Believe me.  And they had to go back 
to the real world and try to find a way of fitting into it, too." 

"Could Maggie have plastic surgery, Dad?", asked Beth. 

"There's only so much plastic surgery can do, honey.  Maggie's eyes, and face 
structure...well, they could be modified.   But there's no way she's ever going to 
look like you, or you.  So she just has to live with it.  Just like Benny Bates, a 
PFC I knew.  He got the end of his nose knocked off by a bullet.  Don't ask me 
how such a shot can be fired, but I've seen it.  Now he wears a kind of bandanna 
thing around his schnozz, and they call him the Bandit, especially when he 
wears a hat.  But a kinder guy I never knew. 

"But now, I want you to do something for me." 

"What would that be, Daddy?" said Jenny. 

"I want you both to tell me what you think of Maggie.  Honestly." 

"Honestly?" 

"Yeah." 

"Well, she still eats too much," said Beth. 

"Mm-hmm." 

"She whines too much, too.  She's got kind of a whiny voice," Jenny opined. 

"In this, I assure you, she is not alone in this household.  What else?" 

"We wish she could get out with us, Daddy.  If we went someplace that nobody 
saw us--" 

"No, no, and no.  Period.  You know why.  What else?" 

Beth said, "We wish she could go to school with us.  And meet all of our 
friends.  She's like a--a prisoner here." 

I was silent for a long time.  Beth was absolutely, completely, one hundred 
percent right. 

I finally said, "It's how it has to be, kids.  Someday, maybe, things will change.  
But for right now--it's how it has to be."  Pause.  "What else?" 

"I wish she was my sister," said Jenny.  She pointed at Beth.  "`Cause she's 
bound to be better than this one!"  She was laughing before she got to the end of 
the sentence. 

"Oh, yeah?" said Beth, grabbing her shoulders.  "I think she is my sister!  And 
you're the mutie!  Mutie, mutie, MUTIE!"  They were both shaking each other 
in mock-fun, but I cut it down, much as I hated. 

"Beth.  You don't ever say that word here, okay?" 

"Which one, Daddy?" 

"The one that starts with `M'.  I love seeing you both having fun, but the M-
word is like the N-word, or the K-word, or even, God help us, `Christer.'  So 
there are some words we do not say in this house.  Right?" 

"Absolutely right," said Beth. 

Jenny smiled smugly. 

"She's not an M-word, she's just a dope!"  Beth finished. 

Both started trying to brawl like Marlene Dietrich and what's-her-name in 
DESTRY, and instead of pulling them apart, I called out, "And you come in 
here, little miss busybody." 

Obediently, Maggie poked her head around the doorframe.  "How'd you know 
where I was, Mr. Sheldon?" 

"My super-secret daddy sense," I said.  "You want to listen in on a conversation, 
you do it inside the room.  Okay?" 

"Okay," she said.  She was smiling.  Beth and Jenny, rolling around on the rug, 
waved hi to her and went back to trying to mash each other's face into the deep 
piling.  I contemplated them, then turned to Maggie. 

"Well, Maggie, looks like we'll be the only ones wanting to play Monopoly 
around here.  You know where the board is?" 

Both Jenny and Beth stopped and raised a hand apiece.  "I do," they chorused. 

"You think we should let those desperate she-cats sit down and play with us at 
the same table?" I asked. 

"Well, I don't know," said Maggie.  "If you say so, I guess.  I wouldn't doubt 
you." 

It was as close as she'd gotten to a joke in a long time.  I smiled, picked her up 
by the armpits, and smooched her on the forehead.  "We're a bad influence on 
you," I said.  "Before long, you'll be making your living as a comedy writer on 
TV." 

She hugged me.  I put her down, disengaged her, and turned her around to face 
the door.  "The Monopoly board. Go."  I gave her a pat between the shoulders, 
and she ran off to find it in the hall closet.  Beth and Jenny were right behind 
her. 

I sighed again, and looked at myself in the reflection of a glass that covered an 
award-winning pic I'd taken of Captain America and Bucky with some Italian 
prisoners in 1943. 

"Hello, warden," I told myself, very softly. 

My reflection did not smile back. 
  
  






-M-

  
















I must write the next part. 

I think I want to about as much as did the guy who wrote about David and 
Bathsheba in the Bible.  But he had to do it because it was part of the story.  So I 
have to, as well. 

Afterward you may know why I have waited this long to write the rest of the 
story of Maggie.  Having gotten this far, it has taken me about two weeks to get 
up the courage to write the rest.  If there is a prophet coming to my door later 
with a parable that ends with the words, "You are the man", I can't say I didn't 
have warning. 

Let me put it off a little by telling you about what I was thinking, having spent 
four months with the lovely little gargoyle-girl who fell into my life twice.  No, 
better yet, let me tell you what my wife was saying to me one night in bed, 
which was the one place we were fairly sure Maggie could not hear us. 

"We can't keep her in the house forever, Phil," she said. 

I didn't want to say anything. 

"Someday, sometime, somebody is going to find out about her," she continued.  
"Or she'll get out on her own. What then?" 

"I don't know," I said.  Honest, and it was a good all-purpose answer. 

"That's not good enough, Phil," she said, tracing a line on my chest with her 
finger.  "You know it isn't." 

"It means I don't want to talk about it and I'd like some sleep, Dorrie dearest.  It 
means I've got no good answer for you right now." 

"She's growing up, Phil.  She's going to want to be around other people besides 
us.  She'll get to be a teenager, and then--" 

"And then she'll want to find out about malt shops, sock hops, and rock `n' roll.  
No, thank you.  We have enough trouble with Beth and Jenny, and Maggie will 
just have to learn to..."  I didn't want to say it, but I had to.  "Do without," I 
finished. 

Now it was Dorrie who didn't say anything.  She just lay beside me. 

"I'm sorry if it sounds cruel," I said.  "I suppose Anne Frank felt the same way.  
You know what they had to keep her safe from." 

Dorrie snuggled a little closer.  She does that when she wants to get something 
through to me.  "What are we keeping her safe from, Phil?" 

"The real world, Doris. The world that's full of mutie-haters and people who'll 
scream at her or make fun of her or chase her." 

"Should we keep her safe from it, Phil?" 

"You want we should bring her home dead some night?  Is that what you want, 
Doris?" 

"We'll be taking almost those same risks with Beth and Jenny in a few years." 

"Oh. Right.  Like they're..." 

"No.  They don't have Maggie's face, that's true.  But we'll be sitting up, 
worrying why either of them is a little bit late coming back from a date.  We'll 
be wondering if they're going too far, or what they're drinking, or if they're 
experimenting with other stuff." 

"Not my kids!" 

"I tend to agree, Phil.  Beth and Jenny, I think we can trust them.  But you know 
what teenage is like.  Your whole world shifts perspective." 

"I know.  Dirty jokes you're just starting to understand, football players and 
cheerleaders you're starting to hate, zits popping up like ragweed on your face--" 

"Sex." 

"That a statement or a request?" 

"A comedy writer you are not.  You will disgrace the whole tribe." 

"I did that regularly when I was 14 to 18.  My dad told me every week." 

"Well, I take care of that now."  She smiled. 

"You do." 

"You've changed the subject, Phil." 

"I have.  Talented, aren't I?" 

She didn't say anything for awhile.  Then, when I was convinced I could go to 
sleep, she said, "We won't be around forever, Phil." 

"Uh huh." 

"Beth and Jenny will leave in a few years." 

"I suppose they will." 

"What about Maggie?" 

"Dorrie.  I really, really don't know." 

Pause. 

"Then you'd better find out." 

I had no answer to that. 
I was relieved that she turned over then, and went to sleep.  Or at least faked it 
enough that I could. 

I managed it after about an hour, I think. 
  

 -M- 

It wasn't long after that I found something else out when I checked on little miss 
Maggie down in the basement one night.  Didn't exactly make me Mr. Solomon 
Holmes when I did it, either.  It was just that time, she must've been too tired to 
hide it. 

Maggie's hours were sometimes different than the rest of ours, though we'd 
gotten her mostly out of her stay-up-all-night-and-spend-the-day-sleeping 
routine.  Often Doris had to get her out of bed in the morning to get breakfast 
with the rest of us, because family breakfast is a ritual that we were by-damn not 
gonna break.  No matter what kind of doghouse my brothers and I were in 
during our early years, my dad insisted every one of us, plus Mom and the 
sisters and Aunt Estelle, were down at the breakfast table every morning to be 
together.  If you tried to sleep in, he went up and grabbed you by the earlobe if 
you were a son, or just banged on the bedroom door if you were a daughter or 
aunt.  Miss dinner or lunch?  Not to worry.  But breakfast?  You missed that, 
you better run down to the temple and see if they still did sanctuary. 

Anyway, she'd do breakfast and if she was still sleepy, she'd head back to the 
basement and check out for as long as it took.  It was Sunday morning and I 
didn't have to go to work or worship.  I'd been doing one of my infrequent 
helpings of Doris with the dishes.  She'd never let me near a glass, which was 
wise.  Anyway, it had been an hour or so since noshing, and Beth and Jenny 
were outside doing whatever 12-year-old girls do when parents aren't looking 
over their shoulders.  What they did back in the mid-Sixties, that is.  So I 
decided to look in on Maggie. 

Not that anything was supposed to be wrong with her.  I just liked checking in 
on her.  You know? 

Maggie was lying asleep in bed.  A real bed, one that we'd bought for her, not a 
cot.  With blue blankets and a pink pillow in a basement which was fixed up like 
a real girl's room, which we told the meter readers and occasional guests was 
used as an auxiliary bedroom whenever Beth or Jenny felt like it.  We would've 
said it was there for their sleepover guests.  Except that they didn't have any of 
those for the last few months, though they went over to other kids' slumber 
parties. 

I am stalling. 

Maggie was asleep.  Lids over those huge eyes, her hair actually grown long 
enough to cover most of the places which would be covered on a girl's head.  
She still tied bows in it.  That made me smile.  She kept her hands under the 
covers and didn't snore much.  I knew she had trained herself--or maybe she 
didn't have to train herself--to sleep light, because she might have needed to 
light out of wherever she was if she heard a suspicious sound in times past. 

But those times were past.  She didn't seem to need to wake up when I was down 
in the basement. 

I liked that. 

She had several pairs of shoes now.  We had to buy them for her without her 
being there, so it was a blessing the darn things fit.  You wouldn't believe how 
grateful the kid was for them, or maybe you would if you knew how long she'd 
had to wear the same pair of white-top laceups between the time we lost her and 
got her back. 

Looking at her down there, sleeping on her back underneath a blue blanket, with 
a Nancy Drew book flopped down by her bedside and a kiddie record player 
with a Vogues 45 on the spindle (she always liked "5 O'Clock World" and did 
that "hep" thing in perfect rhythm), I had to admit that she was coming to 
occupy a place in my heart just under that of Beth and Jenny. 

I liked that, too. 

Did I mention shoes? 

Well, the pair that she had been wearing the night before were red Keds and the 
front edge of one of them was just poking out from under the edge of the 
blanket.  Maggie was a fairly neat child and liked to line up her shoes along one 
edge of the wall, as if invisible soldiers were standing at attention in them.  Yet, 
her Keds were under the bed. 

On a whim, Daddy reached down and picked at the shoe, figuring the other one 
was down there beside it (it was), and was going to line it up against the wall 
with her other three pair. 

I picked it up and was about to go after the other one and froze. 

I couldn't tell how long I froze, but I was sitting on the floor beside the bed 
holding the shoe in both hands when I came back to myself, and the shoe was 
facing sole-up and I didn't want to believe what I was looking at, but it was in 
living color, 3-D, and maybe even Todd-AO. 

"Jesus Christ," I said.  Then I said it louder: "Jesus CHRRRIIIIST!" 

Hey, it might be the wrong religion.  But I'm American.  I figure I was entitled.  
And even if I wasn't, we were both Jewish, so maybe I could be pardoned. 

Funny.  I still want to insulate myself with jokes. 

Maggie was sitting upright, staring at me, breathing heavy, her eyes as wide as 
they physically ever got, saying nothing.  Doris had heard me and was coming 
downstairs as fast as her high heels would allow, making creditable time, 
actually. 

Maggie looked like she wanted to bolt, but it was light enough in there for her 
not to hide, I was between her and the door, and I was who I was and not 
somebody she didn't know.  So maybe that was why she didn't try to run.  But 
she looked about as scared of me as I ever saw her, and she had damn good 
reason to be. 

"Phil," said Doris, from the stairs.  "Phil!  What's wrong!" 

I was looking at Maggie, holding out the shoe.  "Maggie," I said.  "Maggie.  Can 
you explain this?" 

She looked at me, her mouth open, not trying to say anything. 

"The shoe, Maggie," I said.  "Look at the shoe, not me.  Explain that." 

She looked at the shoe. 

It had mud on the sole. 

Doris had caught sight of it too.  She drew in a heavy breath, kneeling beside the 
bed, and expelled it.  "Oh, Maggie," she said.  "Oh, dear." 

Maggie was almost too scared to speak.  I didn't like the feeling that I was 
standing in her long-lost daddy's place by what I had to do.  But I went ahead.  
"Maggie.  You've been getting out at night, haven't you?" 

She slowly nodded.  "Yes, sir," she said, squeakily. 

"How many times, Maggie?" 

"I don't know," she said. 

"Four?  Five?  More, even?" 

"I don't know." 

Doris clutched at Maggie's arm.  "Maggie, don't you know what you've been 
doing?  Don't you know what you're risking, what they could, what they could 
do to you?" 

"I'll tell you what they could do to her," I said.  "They could do just what I saw 
them do to a guy who they only thought was a mutant, the night I first found out 
about her.  They beat him so hard it was a week before he walked without a 
wheelchair, and he can't see out of his left eye now.  And you, Maggie, you--" 

"I'm sorry!" she squealed. 

"--You chanced bringing all that down on yourself, and on us!" 

Doris didn't say a thing.  She knew when to let me carry the ball, and this, little 
as I liked it, was one of those times. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sheldon, I'm really, really sorry," Maggie said, close to tears.  
"All I wanted to do was go out and see what it was like outside again and all.  
Do some walking around.  I'm, I'm good at hiding." 

"Oh, you're good at that, all right.  So good I just found out about it when you 
didn't clean your shoe off before I could see it.  Maggie, this is your haven.  
There are people out there who would hate you.  Not just because of the way 
you look, but because they might think you are what you are.  A mutant.  There 
are people out there who could kill you.  And if they saw you coming back here, 
they could kill us, too." 

She breathed heavily, but didn't say anything. 

"My God, Maggie, my God," I said.  "I've been trying to keep you safe, to keep 
the family together, to keep you secret so that you won't have to, to live like an 
orphan hobo, and you--" 

"Phil," Doris said, more or less to let me know she was there. 

"--You go over the wall!  What the hell were you thinking?  Were you thinking 
at all, Maggie?  Were you thinking at all?" 

She started bawling then, and I didn't blame her.  But part of being Daddy is 
knowing when not to ease up, even in the face of tears, when you have to stay 
hard. 

"Maggie, I am just about at the point of putting you over my knee," I said.  "This 
is about the absolute equivalent of walking around with a yarmulke on the 
streets of Hitler's Berlin.  Where did you go?" 

"Not far," she said, still sobbing.  "I'm sorry." 

"How far?  How far, Maggie?" 

"Only a few blocks.  I kept, I kept in the alleys for a lot of it.  I didn't, let `em, 
see me, hear me." 

"But you don't know if they saw or heard you," I said. 

"Nobody came after me!" 

"You still don't know." 

She was burying her face in her hands.  "Maggie, come here," I said.  "Get up 
from bed, and let me show you something." 

"Phil, what are you going to do?"  Doris was looking motherly-apprehensive, 
and had a right to. 

"You can come along, too," I said. 

I grasped Maggie by the wrist once she was into her slippers and trundled her up 
the basement steps.  I showed her every room in the house--mine, the kids', 
Doris's, the bedroom, the darkroom, the den, the bathrooms, the kitchen, the 
dining room, everything.  Suburban splendor.  Then I took her to a back 
window, the one which looked out upon our fenced yard.  Nobody could see her 
looking out from this vantage point, since the fence was higher than the window. 

"What do you see, Maggie?" I said. 

"Beth and Jenny," she said. "Playin'." 

Beth and Jenny were out there indeed, playing with a set of Jarts.  They saw us 
and stuck their tongues out.  When they saw I was not amused, they quit 
mugging and gave us curious looks.  I spoke to Maggie. 

"Now you've seen everything I have," I said.  "Everything I stand to lose.  
Including myself.  My wife.  My two daughters.  If anybody had seen you, 
Maggie, or better yet, if anybody has seen you--that's what I will lose.  Because 
there are lots of good people out there, Maggie, make no mistake about that.  
But there are evil people as well, and they like to hurt, and sometimes kill, 
things that make them frightened.  Or just things they think don't fit into the 
norm.  I've seen it." 

"I'm sorry," she said.  "It's just that--" 

"Sorry!" I flat-out yelled it.  "Sorry?  This isn't real enough to you yet, Maggie?  
If somebody bashes you over the head with a club and you're lying there 
expelling your brains into the gutter, if they say `Sorry', will it automatically 
make your brains go up into your head again?  Will it, Maggie?" 

"No," she said, still crying.  "But I feel like I'm in jail!" 

Dead silence. 

Doris finally broke it.  "You aren't in jail, Maggie.  This is your sanctuary.  Your 
hiding place.  But if you go out there, and get seen--there'll be no place to hide.  
For any of us." 

"What do you think they'd do to us, if they found out we'd been harboring you 
this long, Maggie?" I said.  "No, don't even think about running out on us again.  
I don't want that, Doris doesn't want that, and you know you don't want that, 
either.  And you know it wouldn't solve anything.  But we haven't been sending 
you to school, we haven't declared you as a tax exemption, the real world doesn't 
even know you exist." 

Maggie said, quietly, "I'm glad." 

"Oh, that's nice.  So you tempt fate every time you go out there in your little red 
Keds, any time some galoot hears a barking dog by the fence and decides to go 
see what's making Rover go crazy, and he looks over, and he sees--" I sighed.  
"Maggie, Maggie.  What in the hell am I going to do with you?" 

She looked at me and, after a time, said, "I could leave again." 

"You can NOT!  Do you think I've gone to all this trouble to make you a 
runaway again?" I said. 

Doris said, "Don't you know we love you, Maggie?  Don't you realize, after all 
this time, that we really, truly, love you?" 

"I know that, Mrs. Sheldon," she said, her tremendous eyes holding more 
sadness than, God help us, any kid her age should have to know, and all of 
whom seem to.  "And I love you back.  You, too, Mr. Sheldon.  I don't want to 
leave here.  I really don't.  But I...I miss feeling the cold wind out there at night.  
I used to feel it lots of times.  It almost froze me, sometimes.  Didn't think I'd 
ever miss it.  But you know what?  I do." 

"Mm-hmm," I said, my arms folded. 

"And I, oh, I just miss being able to look up and see what stars you can in the 
sky.  And hearing all the night noises, and being able to, well, just walk or run 
anywhere I can get to, if I'm not seen.  Just being able to take a walk.  I'm sorry 
if I..."  She faltered, then hung her head.  "I just don't know.  I'm sorry, I 
shouldn't have done it." 

The washing machine in my head had the agitator going at full blast.  Why me?  
Why not some wealthy guy like Rockefeller or Tony Stark, who could have kept 
her on a big island or estate somewhere, waited on by a bunch of servants who 
were sworn to secrecy, and taken her places, protected by money and privelage 
from the mutant-hating nuts? 

She had a point, and I knew it.  How well was she developing in this hot-house 
environiment?  Sure, it was better for her than scrabbling for what food she 
could steal, seeking out some hidey-hole to sleep in every night, keeping away 
from people who would chase the monster.  But wasn't it, in the end, every bit as 
much a prison? 

But sometimes, a prison is all you've got. 

"Young lady, I do not want you to do this ever, ever again," I said, leaning 
against the basement wall.  "If you do, I swear, I really mean this, I will put you 
over my knee and wear you out.  You will eat your next twelve meals standing 
up, and you will sleep on your stomach because you have to.  Clear?" 

"Yessir," she said. 

"If I can...IF I can...maybe, just maybe, I will try to find a way to take you 
somewhere," I said.  Her eyes lit up like the Truman Library picture of the A-
bomb test.  Doris drew in a breath.  "This is a very big if, young lady.  I do not 
know how I will accomplish it, and your old major domo is getting awfully tired 
of all the hats he has to juggle lately.  Most likely, it will be only you and me.  
At most, some of the rest of the family." 

"Can Beth and Jenny come too?", she said, excitedly. 

"It depends.  It will most likely be at night, and you can be darn sure that it will 
not be to a place where you can be easily seen, if at all.  I'll be lucky if the 
neighbors just think I'm a Commie spy.  But your smiling face does not please 
me, young lady, because this is a serious matter.  The guys with the guns and 
torches could have come for us, just because of what you did.  You understand 
that?" 

"Yessir," she said, a bit more subdued. 

"No more uncle Phil, or aunt Dorrie, or Beth and Jenny.  That could have 
happened.  Because of what you did.  You understand that?" 

"Yessir, uncle Phil," she said.  I had to admit, I liked that a lot more than "Mr. 
Sheldon". 

"Therefore you are gonna get penalized, and it is only because of my 
withholding good judgment that I am not laying upon you the 39 Whacks.  For 
the next week, no TV.  No radio.  No records.  You can have your Nancy Drew, 
your other books, and your comics.  But none of the other.  Any infringement, 
and I shall paddle your backside.  Understand?" 

"Yes, uncle Phil." 

Doris put in, "And if he forgets it, darling--I won't." 

I sat down beside her on the bed.  "Maggie.  Uncle Phil is tired.  Uncle Phil has 
to hustle a living as a photographer, and keep the bills paid, and try to take care 
of everything with the good right arm of my Dorrie here to rely on.  It is not 
easy, even with things running well.  So do you understand that uncle Phil needs 
you to be a good girl from now on, and not to gum up the works by doing things 
that could get you killed?" 

"I'll try," she said, trying to smile and sniffle at the same time. 

"That's good," I said.  "Because you--" 

Coincidence.  It's the mark of bad writers and Charles Dickens.  But it happens.  
If this makes God a bad writer, I don't know.  You should take it up with Him, 
okay?  It happens. 

"MOM!" 

The voice of Jenny, amplified to the nth by terror.  The sobbing of Beth, as an 
undertone to it.  It came from upstairs, in the living room.  Neither Doris nor I 
could see our daughters at that moment, and it seemed as though that howl of 
Jenny's must have taken twenty seconds at least. 

Nonetheless, we were in the basement one instant, and in the living room the 
next, grabbing at our daughters, and I can swear to no interval in between.  If 
you said we teleported, I would not disagree with you. 

The damage was there and obvious in Beth's red, dripping hand.  She'd been 
holding one of the Jarts, which are a kind of lawn dart, with the tip pressed 
against her palm while she was coming inside.  She trips on the front step, 
boom, down she goes. 

The damn Jart, blunt tip and all, pierced her palm.  Jenny, not even knowing 
what she was doing, pulled it out, which made the bleeding even worse. 

I cannot reproduce any of our dialogue with a degree of accuracy.  I know I took 
off my belt and wrapped it about Beth's upper arm as a tourniquet.  I know Doris 
grabbed part of the tablecloth off the table and was trying to wrap it around 
Beth's palm.  I think I yelled at Jenny to call the ambulance, and she asked what 
to dial, and I yelled at her to dial the operator and told Doris to get some ice and 
tried with one arm to keep my Beth's face away from looking at her hand while 
we tried in our stupid way to wring lesser chaos out of greater chaos. 

I can't even tell you that Maggie said, "Let me."  But I think she did. 

She had materialized somehow on the top step, ran over, pulled the gory piece of 
tablecloth away from Bethie's gushing palm, and, taking Beth's larger hand in 
both of hers, spit up on it. 

The stuff she spit wasn't from her stomach. 

It was some clear, glistening, gluelike gumstuff that she was careful to spread 
thickly all over the wound.  And even though it didn't stop the pain, it did stop 
the bleeding.  A natural spray-on Band-Aid, ages before such stuff was even 
conceived, outside of maybe NASA. 

Maggie spit some more on Beth's hand, and wiped her mouth carefully, and 
dripped what she could from her hand on my baby's wounded palm. 

Doris and I must have been looking at her with some kind of stunned-ox 
expressions.  Actually, we probably looked as though we had witnessed some 
shock bit from a horror movie, which, though terrifying, was beneficial--and all 
the more frightening for that. 

Beth managed to say it, looking at the glistening and hardening gum on her 
hand. 

"Maggie, my hand," she gasped.  "My hand.  That stuff.  It's your mutant 
power!" 

Maggie looked up at us in astonishment.  "You mean, you can't do that, too?" 

I looked at my wife.  "Doris.  Call the ambulance." 

"Phil, she might--" 

"Call the ambulance!  NOW!" 

Bethie was still sobbing, as she had a right to.  But, as I held her there on my 
lap, I could see she was fascinated by what strange gift Maggie had been able to 
tender.  And that, perhaps, there was an upside to the thing that had made her a 
gargoyle, whatever that was. 

I looked at her.  "Maggie.  Thank you.  Thank you very much." 

"You're welcome, Mr. Sheldon," she said. 

"The record player.  But no TV or radio, still.  Understand?" 

"Yes, uncle Phil." 

I had a brand new set of things to worry about, now, superseding the old ones. 

It made me almost glad. 
  
  





-M-

  












So now Maggie had a talent.  A gift, if you will.  To say the least, we were 
pleased.  Which made her pleased, in turn.  After all, she didn't know it wasn't 
something the rest of us couldn't do. 

That solved a few mysteries from the past, like how she'd gotten dogbit and had 
healed so well in such a short time.  The gumstuff, which must have been 
produced from a sac in her throat or somewhere near it, was kind of like 
spiderwebs used for old poultices.  Only it was much stronger.  The guys at the 
emergency room gave us some funny looks when they had to cut it off Beth's 
hand.  I don't know if they analyzed it or not, later.  But she recovered, in only 
half the time it would normally take such a wound to heal. 

I brought Maggie a Chinese takeout dinner on one of our TV trays the night 
afterward.  I held her hand and thanked her very, very much.  Bethie came in 
behind me and, before I knew it, had wrapped her arms about Maggie, one of 
them ending in a bandaged hand, and kissed her on the cheek.  They didn't say 
anything while I was there, but I gave them both a squeeze and could tell they 
were just waiting till I left to turn on the tear ducts and start whispering.  So I 
left. 

She still didn't get her TV privelages until a week was over. 

So.  You want me to tell you more?  Assuming there is a hypothetical "you" out 
there, assuming I submit this for publication, assuming it ever gets out of my 
desk drawer on hard copy or floppy, assuming an editor does not delete this.  A 
lot of assumptions, there. 

We did take Maggie out, all four of us, one night, to a hill convieniently far 
away from our neighborhood and away from houses and cars and such.  We had 
our coats with us, since it was either late October or early November by that 
time, and we kept Maggie covered up with one of them in the back seat between 
Jenny and Beth.  We also had a big picnic lunch with us and a volleyball net and 
ball stashed in the trunk.  And we had our family outing out there at 8 P.M. with 
a couple of Eveready lanterns, spread the picnic cloth out, set the food out on it, 
ate same after saying grace, and set up the net so our besweatered kids could 
play. 

It took Maggie awhile to get the hang of it.  But even with the kids cutting her a 
little slack, she was having a hell of a fun time.  Dorrie looked at me, challenged 
me to a match, and had us both get up there and bat it across the net.  I lost my 
glasses at least once and she beat me handily. 

We had to make sure we listened and looked for any approaching lights, any 
approaching man-sounds, as if we were a family of deer.  Twice, the girls said 
"Shhhhh" and looked around in an attempt to track a suspicious something 
they'd heard, and we shut up and doused the lights.  But it proved to be nothing. 

On the way back to the car, Maggie hugged my right arm, said, "Thank you, 
Uncle Phil," and wouldn't let go until she had to.  And on the way back, all three 
of the kids were laughing and girl-talking, wrestling all over the seat till their 
mom had to tell them to break it up and pipe down, and then they resorted to 
giggle-whispers till we got home. 

We almost forgot to close the garage door after we got in.  Beth had gotten out, 
but Maggie wouldn't.  "You forgot the door, Uncle Phil," she said, quietly. 

"Oh.  So I did, Maggie," I said, and went to pull it down.  I was glad we'd still 
had presence of mind to cover her with the coat once we got into town.  Beth 
and Jenny told Doris that they wanted to sleep with Maggie tonight.  She told 
them, "Nothing doing. Tomorrow you have school.  Up to your rooms." 

"Aw, Mom," said Jenny.  But her patented waif look didn't ever work on her 
mom the way it did sometimes on me.  The two of them headed up the stairs.  
Doris was on her way to the kitchen.  Maggie had a wistful look on her face.  
You wouldn't think it possible to discern different emotions on her huge-eyed, 
strangely-constructed little phiz when you first met her.  But live a little with 
her, and you could read her face like the Yellow Pages. 

"Uncle Phil," she said. 

"Mmhmm?" I responded, loosening my tie. 

"Do you think I'll ever get to go to school?" 

I sighed, stopped in mid-knot.  "Believe you've been there some already, 
Maggie.  And you told me what happened." 

"I know, Uncle Phil.  But this time it might be different.  I've got Beth and 
Jenny, and it might be." 

I sighed, sat down beside her bed, upon which she was sitting.  "Maggie," I said.  
"Before you ever go to school, we would have to declare you to the world.  And 
you know what will happen then?" 

She blinked, which was quite a trick for her.  "People will be mad?" 

"Well, some will," I said, smoothing the top of her hair, which was thickening 
quite a bit from its state some months earlier.  "Some will be very, very 
surprised.  Uncle Phil's family will be in the news all over when that happens.  
We'll be lucky to get a moment's peace once it happens.  There'll be reporters 
from Jonah Jameson's paper, and Barney Bushkin's paper, and the TV and radio 
stations, and maybe even CBS and NBC." 

"ABC too?" 

"Maybe." 

She brightened.  "Then we'd be famous.  They wouldn't dare hurt us then, Uncle 
Phil." 

I shook my head, placing one arm about her shoulders.  "Wish I could say that 
was true, Maggie.  But you've heard about President Kennedy?" 

She hesitated, then shook her head up and down. 

"And he was a lot more famous than we could ever be," I continued.  "I've also 
told you about what happened to my people, twenty years ago.  And you know 
about the riots." 

"The ones where they burn things and all?" 

"Yep," I said.  The Long Hot Summer had taken place over a lot of the country, 
and we hadn't even seen a lot of the hell that was to come down.  Such as the 
1968 assassinations, and the bank bombings, and the Black Panthers, and Kent 
State, and all of those good vibes that followed soon after the Summer of Love.  
Black kids had been physically resisted from entering newly-integrated schools 
in many communities.  That was happening in that wonderful year, 1966.  So 
was the beginning of black resistance and counterattack. 

As for mutant kids, the politicians didn't even want to bring that one up. 

How do you mention all of that in a single breath to a kid? 

"So," she said.  "I might never get to school after all.  I might have to stay with 
you and Aunt Doris all the time." 

I didn't say anything.  I was conscious of Doris's presence in the room.  She was 
standing at the other end of it, waiting to hear what I had to say. 

"Well," said Maggie, "that'll be all right, I guess."  She started to get out of her 
shoes and socks. 

"Maggie," I said, before I could kickstart my superego with its "No, you don't!" 
warnings. 

She looked at me, halted, and then said, "Yes, uncle Phil?" 

I had to take a deep breath, hesitate for another good long moment, and know 
that I was getting hip-deep into a lava pit with the very next thing I would say.  
But, sometimes, there are no other things one can say.  Or at least, no other 
things that one knows to say. 

"Maggie," I said, quietly.  "Someday, somehow, some way, sometime we will 
see about getting you in school.  I don't know how.  I don't know when.  So don't 
pester me about it.  But..." 

Doris was looking at me with real horror.  I like to think I saw some hope in 
there, too.  But I'd have to dig to see it. 

"...but someday, we will...we will try.  That's all I can promise.  That may be...it 
may be too much to promise, already, Maggie.  But I will promise, I will 
promise to try." 

Hell should have opened wide underneath my feet right then.  I would have 
gladly done a free-fall into it just to get away from Doris, at that moment. 

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Phil!"  The kid, one sock off and one sock on, grabbed 
me and nuzzled me around the neck, getting her face in my five o' clock shadow.  
"You're the best uncle-daddy I ever had!  You want me to help Aunt Doris with 
the dishes, right?" 

"That would be nice, dear," I said.  I was facing Doris and she was shooting 
death rays at me from her eyes. 

"And help her with the laundry and everything?" 

"That would also be nice, dear, and I'm sure she'll have a long list of things for 
you to do.  But what I mainly want you to do right now is to get to bed.  
Capeesh?" 

"Capeesh," she said.  She let go of me and smiled at me.  "You're a good uncle.  
And you're a good aunt, too, Aunt Dorrie." 

"Thanks, Maggie," said Doris, modifying her forty-yard stare to a smile when 
Maggie turned her head towards her. 

"Get your butt in bed.  Now," I said, and followed Doris up the basement stairs, 
turning out the light as I went. 

Once we were up in the bedroom with the door closed, she turned to me and on 
me with both fists on her hips.  "Phil Sheldon, you have really done it.  I mean, 
this time, you have really done it." 

"All right, Doris, I know I've done it!  Can we get this over in five minutes, 
please?  I got work tomorrow." 

"No!" 

"Well, then," I said, and went to the bed to sit on it and take off my shoes. 

"Don't you `Well, then,' me, Phil Sheldon!"  She was hovering over me like a 
buzzard.  "You just told Maggie that we were going to give her a coming-out 
party.  What the hell were you thinking?" 

"I wasn't thinking," I admitted. 

"Oh," she said, slapping her forehead.  "As if that is news around this place!" 

"Business as usual, Doris." 

"Phil, I have put up with business as usual from you for the past several months 
now and business conditions are getting worse and worse.  I cannot tell you how 
much more I can take." 

"I'm sorry, Dorrie," I said, reaching for her.  "I--" 

"Don't!" she warned, holding up a finger.  "Don't touch me, Phil.  Not right now, 
okay?  Not right now.  My toes are dangling over the end of the plank, Phil, and 
you have just given me a very big shove." 

"Okay.  All right.  What should I have done?" 

Her eyes cut into me like tool-steel drills.  "You should not have said anything 
to her.  You should not have gotten her hopes up, Phil.  We cannot do such a 
thing.  You know that!" 

"Doris, you were part of the reason why I said that." 

"Me?"  She looked at me with the greatest display of surprise I had seen that 
evening.  "Me?  What on God's green Earth are you talking about, Phil?  I never 
said anything like that." 

"You told me that I should find out what to do about Maggie," I said.  "I'm going 
to do just that.  I haven't figured out what, yet.  But I am going to face the 
problem." 

"No, Phil, no," said Doris.  "You are going to figure out some wild and crazy 
scheme, and then I am going to face the problem.  Because that's the way it 
always is." 

"Doris." 

"It's the way it always was when you were out there chasing your crazy super-
hero pictures.  I was afraid they were going to bring you home in a box, if one of 
those rays or, or hammers missed and you were in the way." 

"Doris, please." 

"Phil, will you JUST SHUT UP!" 

I did. 

She was running her hands over her face, through her hair.  "God, I don't know 
why I stay married to you sometimes.  I honestly, truly don't." 

I said, quietly, "I imagine Maggie's real mother said the same thing to her father, 
sometimes." 

Doris was speechless for a long moment.  Then she said, "That is low, Phil.  
Even from you, that is low." 

I didn't say anything.  I just went to sit beside her and put my arms around her 
from behind.  She didn't try to pull away, but she didn't act very warm, either.  I 
knew what she wanted to do, and said, "Go ahead." 

She began to cry. 

I held her there while she let loose, and she had a lot of loose to let.  All of the 
strain and the frustration of the last few months came out.  I don't know how 
long it took, but I was sure that Beth and Jenny heard part of it.  I can't say that 
Maggie didn't either, though there were a couple of floors and several doors 
between. 

Don't ask me how you know when enough purging has been done, even though 
your wife still cries.  But you do. 

When it finally reached that point, I rested my head on Doris's and said, "I know 
you don't want anything happening to the family.  I know you don't want Beth 
and Jenny and both of us as part of some newspaper circus attraction.  I'll try to 
keep that from happening.  But eventually, Doris, we're going to have to find a 
way.  She'll have to reach the real world, somehow." 

"Phil, we can't keep her safe if you do that," Doris said, through phase three of 
her tears. 

"I know," I said.  "Any more than you can keep black kids safe all the time in a 
white school.  Or vice versa.  But somebody had to make the choice, Beth.  
Somebody had to do it." 

"We don't!" 

"We gotta do something." 

"Not while Beth and Jenny are in school.  Not till they're in college, Phil." 

"I would love to make that promise, honey.  But you told me to be very careful 
of my promises, didn't you?" 

"Phil," she said, sadly, "I will leave you if you do.  I will take Beth and Jenny 
and even Maggie if I have to, and I will leave you.  I will do that." 

I couldn't say anything for a long moment. 

"What if," I said, paused, and went ahead.  "What if I could get her in a private 
school?" 

"A what?" 

"A private school, Dorrie.  Not one of the schools around here, but a private 
school." 

"Oh, God.  How are we supposed to do that, Phil?  We're stretched thin enough 
as it is.  And private schools aren't much better than public schools for that sort 
of thing." 

"I think I know one that is." 

Dorrie looked at me, curious despite all I'd put her through.  "Which one?" she 
said. 

I told her.  Then I told her why. 

After awhile, she shook her head.  "Phil, Phil," she said.  "I am really not 
believing you.  I am really not believing you at all." 

But she believed me.  She didn't have any choice. 

So, a few minutes later, we were able to get to bed.  The next morning, she got 
up and fixed breakfast for the crew like nothing had happened. 

Except they all knew something had.  And I knew it was going to keep on 
happening till we finally got something worked out we could live with. 

Yeah. 

I stopped by a public phone booth on my way to the Globe that morning.  I 
dialed a number.  A lady answered. 

"Let me speak to Professor Charles Xavier," I said. 

A few minutes later, a voice I'd only heard once on a television program spoke 
to me.  "Yes?" 

"Professor, uh, Dr. Xavier?  My name is Phillip Sheldon.  I'm a news 
photographer, and I..."  I fumbled for words.  "I saw you on TV and I...uh..." 

"If this is about a news feature, Mr. Sheldon," he said, patiently, "I warn you I 
usually shun such things.  If you would like to put in a written request, I promise 
you I'll read it and consider it.   But beyond that, sir, I will make no promises." 

Yeah, he sounded like a high school principal, all right. 

"This is...well, this is not about that, Dr. Xavier," I said.  "I don't know how to 
say this over the line, I don't know that I want to.  But I've got a problem...no, a 
person...I need help with.  Not a problem, a person." 

A pause, then: "What is the nature of your problem, or person, Mr. Sheldon?" 

Tell him you're harboring a mutant, Phil.  Go ahead, tell him. 

"I don't know, I don't know that I can say it over the phone, Dr. Xavier.  Is it 
enough to say that it's related to the subject of the, uh, the debate you had with 
Mr. Trask?  Sometime back?" 

He didn't miss a beat.  "One of your family?" 

"Almost." 

"Would you be willing to come with this person down to my school in 
Westchester, Mr. Sheldon?" 

"Could I just talk with you first, maybe?" 

"Does the nature of this person preclude you bringing him or her down here, at 
first?" 

"Kind of.  Well, not the nature, she's...it's just the situation.  I'd like to talk with 
you first." 

"I see.  Are you or your family in any danger because of this person's nature, Mr. 
Sheldon?" 

"No!"  I laughed, nervously.  "No, no, quite the opposite, Dr. Xavier.  I 
mean...we're not threatened at all." 

"To your knowledge, does anybody outside your family know of this person's 
nature?" 

"Not as far as I know, Dr. Xavier." 

Another pause.  "You will be required to sign a confidentiality agreement.  You 
will let no one outside of one trusted member of your family know about our 
visit.  I will agree to see you for one hour at my school.  And, Mr. Sheldon?" 

"Yes, sir?" 

"If you're lying...I'll know." 

I felt like I was being called into the office for cheating on a math exam.  "Yes, 
Dr. Xavier." 

We worked out something our schedules could live with and I went to work.  
Bushkin sent me to cover some meeting Hizzoner was having with somebody 
else.  No heroes were involved.  I came home, ate dinner, excused myself, and 
worked in my darkroom, my safe haven, till it was time to come to bed. 

I didn't even confide in Dorrie, but I don't think I had to.  The way she looked at 
me, I think she knew. 

 -M- 

The Xavier School For Gifted Youngsters, as it was called back then, was on a 
tract of land well-shielded by trees and surrounded by property as private as you 
could get without calling attention to yourself.  A pair of automatic gates let me 
in after I showed my face and driver's liscence to a camera.  At a second gate, I 
was detained while a metal bar passed over the car from a rack overhead.  I 
couldn't tell what it was sniffing me for but apparently it didn't find anything.  
The second, more massive gate opened, and I drove onto the campus. 

The main building itself was quite nice, about three stories high and obviously a 
converted mansion.  There were several cars out front but I didn't see anybody 
around.  A decent-sized swimming pool lay around back, though nobody 
seemed to be using it.  Was everybody hiding, in class, or what? 

I told myself I'd be security-conscious too if a Sentinel had lifted me up out of a 
wheelchair and I tried to shrug it off, but failed. 

By the time I was within twenty feet of the front door, it opened.  A tall, lean kid 
of perhaps 18 years, wearing thick sunglasses, a cardigan, a shirt, and slacks was 
behind it.  He stepped aside, and revealed the man behind him, rolling his 
wheelchair forward himself.  He was bald in a way Yul Brynner could only hope 
to be.  He wore a maroon pin-striped suit jacket and gold cuff-links.  His legs 
were hidden by a blue blanket, but what I could see of the rest of him looked 
surprisingly fit.  He looked stern and in control of things, in a George C. Scott 
manner. 

But when he addressed me, it was not in an unfriendly tone.  "Mr. Sheldon?"  He 
held out his hand. 

I walked up the steps and shook his hand.  He had a firm handshake.  "Professor 
Xavier?" 

He nodded.  "This is my aide, Mr. Summers." 

"Hello, sir," said the kid with the shades, in a faintly James Dean manner. 

"If you'd be so kind as to follow me, we can begin our talk," said Xavier, and 
turned himself around with surprising quickness.  I stepped up, figuring I'd help 
wheel him down the hall. 

Before my hands touched the grips of his chair, he said, "That won't be 
necessary, Mr. Sheldon.  I can manage on my own, thank you." 

He hadn't turned around, before, during, or after he said that. 

I shot a glance at Mr. Sunglasses.  I could swear he gave me a slight quirked-
eyebrow smile. 

I moved aside and then followed them both down the hall. 

 -M- 

We had our session in a surprisingly tasteful drawing room.  Summers furnished 
us with tea and coffee cake, and leaned beside the doorjamb, saying little unless 
spoken to.  I figured he had to be the Professor's bodyguard, though he didn't 
look like he had a shoulder holster under that cardigan. 

After I signed the aforementioned agreement, Xavier leaned back slightly in his 
chair, fixed me with a gaze any C.O. would have been proud to own, and said, 
"Tell me about this person." 

I drank more tea at one swallow than I meant to, then put the cup down.  "I 
heard you defending mutants in that debate, Dr. Xavier." 

"Mr. Sheldon...the person, please." 

My hands felt like basketballs, if basketballs could sweat.  "Nobody outside our 
immediate family knows of this person.  I'm taking a terrible chance by telling 
you, Dr. Xavier." 

"Does this person display any remarkable traits or abilities?" 

"Uh, yes.  Yes, she..."  I'd let him know it was a "she", now.  Great, Mr. 
Sphinxlike-Keep-a-Secret Phil.  "...she has, recently.  Yes." 

"What sort of traits or abilities?" he asked.  When I told him of what Maggie had 
done, he didn't seem surprised.  As if he knew about this sort of thing, which he 
probably did.  Or if he knew what I was going to say before I said it. 

"Her name is, Mr. Sheldon?" 

I gulped.  "Do I have to give her name, Dr. Xavier?" 

Summers spoke up.  "If you want us to decide whether or not we can help her, 
Mr. Sheldon." 

"Scott, please," said Xavier.  "Just her name, Mr. Sheldon." 

I decided I'd go ahead and get it over with.  "You won't tell anybody else about 
this?  Including the government, the papers, the radio and TV, and..." 

"Mr. Sheldon," he said, in a tone that ended my shpiel.  "We will tell no one.  I 
can promise you that.  It is in our agreement." 

There was nothing else I could say.  This was the guy who had been taken by 
those giant robots I'd seen in the sky, and had lived through it.  Maybe that was 
the kind of guy who'd be strong enough to trust.  Maybe. 

"Dr. Xavier, I'm harboring a mutant. A little girl mutant.  Her name is..." 

I paused long enough to qualify for lockjaw. 

"Her name is Maggie," I said. 

His expression softened a bit, as did his bearing.  Just a bit.  But I could tell I'd 
gotten past a hurdle. 

"Well, then. Tell me about Maggie," he said. 

So I did. 
  
  




 -M-

  








After I told my tale to Professor Xavier, he deliberated, then gave me his 
decision.  I took it home with me and made it in time for a couple of sandwiches 
from the fridge and bed.  I barely had time to wave to the kids.  I can't say that 
any of them gave me a funny look.  But Dorrie did. 

Maggie didn't.  I still maintain that Maggie didn't. 

In bed, Doris asked me, "So.  What'd he say?" 

I turned to her and said, "He said he wants to see Maggie." 

"You told him." 

"If he's going to help her, I had to." 

"You sure he's going to help her?" 

A great pause.  "Maybe he can give her something we can't, Doris.  Like an open 
environment.  A, a school.  Some people who will be her friends." 

"But maybe he can't give her something we can." 

"Goes without saying.  I wanna go to sleep, Doris." 

She didn't say anything, didn't even act cold to me.  But she turned over and lay 
there with her back to me, and I supposed it was as civil a reception as I could 
hope for. 

I took what I could get from it, and went to sleep. 

 -M- 

The next morning, I made breakfast for two before anybody else could get up 
and went down to the basement with two plates.  Maggie was asleep in her bed.  
For an instant, I flashed on how she would look to an interloper, like a 
changeling who has stolen a human kid and taken her place, her bed, and her 
p.j.'s.  But it was an effort for me, because I only saw a little girl there. 

I sat her plate on the bedside table beside her clock, her Bama water glass, and a 
little photo I'd made of her.  "Maggie, darling, the giant walks," I said. 

"Unhmm?"  Large eyelids came partly back from large eyes.  "Uncle Phil?" 

"Yup.  Breakfast beside bed.  We eat, then we talk." 

She roused herself enough to sit up in bed.  "Sure.  What about?" 

"Never talk on an empty stomach.  Eat."  I was scarfing down scrambled eggs, 
hash browns, and toast.  It was one of the few meals I couldn't screw up.  Much.  
Maggie gave me a curious look, then dug in. 

After we were both done noshing, I put my plate on top of hers.  "Maggie," I 
said.  "We're gonna have company tonight." 

"Oh, okay.  You want me to stay in your bedroom or my sisters' bedroom?" 

A twinge went through me.  I realized that she'd been referring to Beth and 
Jenny as her sisters for some time now, and I hadn't even much noticed it.  Well 
and good.  "Not, not exactly, Maggie.  You see, I want you to meet our guest." 

Her face almost went white.  "Uncle Phil," she said, clutching her blanket with 
both hands. 

I reached out with both hands and put them on her shoulders.  "Not to worry, 
Maggie.  This is a special guest.  He's..." 

"You told him about me?"  She was sucking in great breaths.  "You told him 
about me?" 

"Maggie.  His name is Professor Xavier, and he's a...he's a professor of 
mutants." 

Her eyes were even wider than usual, which was an unsettling sight.  She looked 
like a frightened Martian cat.  "You told somebody about me," she breathed. 

"Maggie, yes.  I did.  Because I had to.  Because he can help you." 

"Nobody can help me," she said.  "Nobody, Uncle Phil." 

"Not even us, Maggie?  Listen, I know--" 

"Nobody can keep me from being a mutie, Uncle Phil."  She was starting to tear 
up.  "I'm gonna be like this forever, and nobody can help me with that." 

"Sugar, listen.  Listen to me.  This guy is...you remember when the Sentinels 
were loose?  The night you left us?" 

She nodded, still trying not to cry.  I stroked her cheek, as if she were a cat I was 
trying to get to purr. 

"This guy, Professor Xavier, is the one who was defending mutants that night.  
He was on TV, with the guy who made the Sentinels, and the Sentinels got him.  
I don't know if that makes him one or not, but by golly, he knows mutants.  And 
I think he runs a school for them, in Westchester." 

"You want to get rid of me," she said, her voice cracking.  "You want me out of 
your house." 

"I do not!  But, Maggie, darling, listen.  Please listen to your uncle Phil, okay?" 

"You want me--" 

"Maggie!" 

She stopped trying to talk then, and kept choking back the sobs, but the tears 
were starting up in her eyes.  I was kneeling beside her bed.  Damned if I knew 
how to play this, but I was going to have to play it anyway. 

"Maggie, darling, nothing would please me more than to have you here in our 
home for the rest of our lives.  And maybe it can be like that later, darling.  
Maybe it can.  I'd like that.  Would you?" 

She nodded her head, still leaking saltwater.  I plowed on. 

"But maybe, maybe it isn't the right environment for you here, Maggie.  If 
there's a place you can go where you can be among people who won't treat you 
like a--a mutant--" 

"You don't treat me like a mutant," she said, crying openly.  "You and Aunt 
Dorrie and Beth and, and Jenny don't treat me like a mutie." 

"I know, Maggie," I said, holding her arms.  "I know.  But, baby, this might not 
be the healthiest place for you right now.  You're only among the four of us, in 
this little house.  Xavier's got a great big place, out in the country.  And he can 
teach you things, honey.  Things Doris and I can't.  Better yet, Maggie...I don't 
think anybody out there would treat you badly.  I don't think anybody out there 
would treat you as anything but another student." 

"I didn't even finish first grade," she whimpered. 

"Professor Xavier can help you," I said, hoping I was right.  "He's got a bigger 
world out there than we do, Maggie." 

"Uncle Phil," she said, looking directly at me with those big wet eyes.  "Don't 
you know that I love your world?  An' Aunt Dorrie's and Beth's and Jenny's, 
too?  Don't you, don't you know that?" 

"Maggie, I--" 

"You're my family, Uncle Phil.  You're my real, real family." 

My God.  Did I ever want to take that little girl in my arms and hold her close to 
me and promise her I'd never, never let her go into that cold and predatory world 
again, that I'd always be here for her, that this house would be her haven and her 
home.  The terrible thing is, I could make a lot of it come true.  But not all. 

"Maggie.  Maggie, you always will be part of my family.  Part of our family.  
But, Maggie, I promised that you could attend school someday.  Didn't I promise 
that?" 

She nodded her head again, and said, "Yes," in a voice only slightly louder than 
a fireplace crackle. 

"And Professor Xavier's school is a place which you can attend," I said.  "If he 
accepts you." 

"He hasn't?"  There was a look of hope in her eyes. 

"No," I admitted.  "He wants to see you first.  Even if he can't take you in, he 
wants to see if he can help.  That's what he's coming here for tonight." 

"Uncle Phil, what do you think of him?" 

Another tough one.  "Maggie, I don't know.  I know he's not Mr. Warmth or 
anything like that.  But--I have to say--in this matter, maybe I trust him.  
Teachers are not always Mr. Warmth.  They don't have to be, so long as they 
teach you something.  And that's what he wants to do with you, Maggie.  
Maybe." 

"But you teach me, Uncle Phil. And so does Aunt Dorrie." 

"I know, Maggie.  But if that was all there was to it, Beth and Jenny wouldn't 
have to go to school.  And they do.  They even like it, most of the time." 

"Why do I have to go?" She looked at me as if she were being drafted.  "Why do 
I have to go, Uncle Phil?" 

I sighed.  "Because, honey.  Because you need to learn more about this world 
than just running and hiding and snatching bread loaves from trucks.  Because 
you need to learn more than just the space where this house stands on Earth.  
Because...every little bird's gotta leave the nest.  If you don't want to, I won't 
make you.  But, Maggie, I think it'd be the best thing for you.  And I don't want 
you to make a decision before you meet Professor Xavier." 

"Will he tell anybody else about me?" 

"He's said he wouldn't." 

"Do you believe him?" 

"Yes, Maggie.  I think I do." 

A long pause.  "I'll see him, Uncle Phil." 

I smiled.  "Good girl."  I chucked her under the chin.  "You help Aunt Dorrie out 
around the house today.  And I want you to promise me something." 

"What?" 

"Want you to promise you won't try to run away today.  That wouldn't be nice to 
our guest, or to us.  And, Maggie...it wouldn't be safe." 

A long pause.  Then she said, "I promise." 

I hugged her.  "This could be the start of a new life for you, Maggie," I said.  
"But it all depends on what you want." 

I feel right now like willing my foot across time to give myself a good swift kick 
in the pants. 

For starters. 

 -M- 

I filled Doris in on the rest of it before I left for work, making sure she was in 
the kitchen, away from Beth and Jenny.  She paled a bit, even though she knew 
a lot of it and had figured out a good percentage of the rest.  She spoke to me.  
"Are you sure about this man?" 

I hesitated, and she caught that.  "Doris.  As much as I can be for meeting the 
gentleman only one time, I am.  What's done is done.  He knows, now.  It's up to 
Maggie to see if she trusts him." 

The girls were looking at us from the other room.  We kept our voices low.  
Doris said, "You realize we may be giving her up, Phil.  Giving her to a 
stranger." 

"We do that every day with Beth and Jenny for eight hours, Dorrie.  Someday 
soon, we'll have to do it entirely." 

"They're not what Maggie is." 

"I know."  I waited. 

Finally, she went to the sink and started running hot water into it, shaking dish 
soap into it.  "You want me to tell Beth and Jenny," she said, not looking at me. 

"If you would," I said.  "After they get home from school." 

Doris looked up at me.  "I'm in two pieces right now, Phil.   I wish I could feel 
good about this thing.  But I won't know until it's over.  And you'd better be 
right." 

I shook my head.  "I never know when I'm right, Dorrie.  All I know is that I'm 
trying to do the right thing." 

"So far, I think you've done that.  And look where it's gotten us."  She paused.  
"But I'm glad you did." 

I smiled.  "She's going to help you with the house and fixing dinner tonight.  She 
promised not to run away." 

"Hope she can keep that promise, Phil." 

"So do I, Dorrie.  So do I." 

 -M- 

The day passed with a flurry of pictures.  For Jameson, I did a few shots of the 
Avengers at their mansion. I remember it because it was the first time I got to 
shoot that big galoot, Goliath.  He used to be Giant-Man, and I preferred him as 
that, since I'd once gotten a great shot of him that later made the cover of 
MARVELS.  When I asked if he'd mind changing to normal height for a before-
and-after picture, he looked grim, and said, "Sorry."  Captain America defused 
the situation by saying that Goliath couldn't be pictured at normal height for 
security reasons.  I said okay and went back to my shooting. 

I didn't learn until later that, at the time, Goliath couldn't shrink.  He was stuck at 
10 feet tall until they invented a means by which he could get back to regular 
height. 

Things were tough all over, that year. 

I gave the negatives to the Bugle and headed back home, my brain disengaged 
from driving, my body on automatic. 

When I got home, Jenny and Beth wouldn't talk to me.  "Evening, girls," I said.  
"Where's your mom?  And Maggie?" 

Jenny sullenly pointed to the kitchen.  Beth wouldn't look at me. 

Time to play Daddy again.  I put down my camera case and valise.  "You think 
this is easy for me, either?  You think I want to get rid of her?" 

Now neither was looking at me. 

"You want to answer me, or spend the rest of the night in your rooms?" 

For a long time, neither one spoke. Then Jenny said, "You're giving Maggie to 
somebody else.  We'll never see her again." 

"That's not true, Jenny."  I knelt on one knee before her.  "And you know it isn't.  
Do you think your dad would be that uncaring?" 

Pause. 

"Okay, if that's the case, you can both go up to your rooms.  Now." 

"Daddy," said Beth.  "We know you're not trying to be mean.  It's just..." 

"Just what, Bethie?  You think I've forgotten what she did about your hand?  
You think I haven't come to love her, too?" 

"That's just the point, Daddy," Jenny burst out.  "She came here, we loved her, 
she ran off.  Now you bring her back, we love her again, and you say she's got to 
go.  We just can't take it like that!" 

I sighed.  "Okay, little girls.  Let me sit down, and then Daddy will give you an 
answer.  Deal?" 

"Okay, Daddy," said Beth. 

"All right, Dad," Jenny agreed.  Neither of them sounded very enthusiastic. 

I went in the front room.  I sat down on the couch, and pointed at the opposite 
end of it.  Beth and Jenny sat down where I had indicated.  Then I began. 

"Love," I said.  "You think you know about love.  Jenny, Beth, I assure you: you 
don't know half about love.  You're going to learn. 

"Do you think that love is just some, I don't know, some kind of miracle fluid 
that gets injected into your heart and all of a sudden you feel good all over, like 
you're walking on Cloud 76?  Well, it can be.  That's part of it.  But not the 
whole. 

"Love is more than, `Oh, I love you, Beth, and I love you, Jenny, and I'm never 
gonna let you go.'  The truth is, girls, it's more like, `I love you, Beth, and I love 
you, Jenny, and that's why someday, I'm gonna have to let you go.' 

"Do you doubt it?  Do you doubt that someday, you're gonna get outta high 
school and pack your bags and go off to college?  And that you're gonna 
graduate, and don't think you aren't, and that you're going to move off and get 
jobs and get married?  You sure as hell are.  Because I'm going to make you.  
Because I love you enough to give you the things you're gonna need to survive 
in the big world out there, darlings, and I love you enough to kick you out there 
when the time comes." 

They were both staring at me, wide-eyed.  I'd spoken to them before about future 
plans, but I don't think they ever got it in their gut.  Now they knew, and I cursed 
myself on one track of my mind for having to tell them.  On the other track, I 
knew that I was doing the right thing, and that was love, too. 

"Don't get me wrong.  We'll be here for you if you need us, we'll give you a 
place to stay if you need it.  We'll always be family.  But someday you're going 
to want to get out of here, because that's built into the human animal.  It's built 
into all the other animals, too.  You go out, you get a job, you get a guy, you get 
married.  The cycle repeats itself.  It's not just something out of a storybook or a 
TV show, Beth, Jenny.  It's life.  We all gotta leave, sometime.  I had to, your 
mom had to, and you will, too.  Faster than you think. 

"If it was the best thing to keep Maggie here for the rest of her life, I would.  If 
there were no other alternative, you bet.  This has been a good place for her, and 
she's probably had the happiest time of her life here.  Both of you have been part 
of that.  But she's still being stunted, to a large degree, by just being with us and 
nobody else.  I can't give her the education she deserves, just by having Doris sit 
her down with an arithmatic book.  She's a lot younger than Doris and I, and 
we'll die long before she does.  When we do, she needs to know more about the 
real world than just how to run and hide in it." 

I paused, and wondered how much I was arguing to convince them, and how 
much to convince myself.  Then I went on. 

"Now.  If there was any chance that I thought this school would be bad for 
Maggie, or that Professor Xavier would be bad for her, there is no way I would 
agree to her doing this.  Absolutely no way.  Do you think I'd turn a little girl out 
into a trap?  Especially one whom I love almost as much as I love either of you?  
Well?" 

I waited. 

Beth finally said, "I don't think so, Dad." 

Jenny shook her head. 

"Well, I'll tell you how much I love Maggie.  I love her enough to want her to 
get some learning, in the classroom, and with people who might--might--not be 
so different from her.  I will not relinquish her before I see the facility where 
she'll be learning.  I will not let her go without meeting the students.  And I will 
not let her go if she does not want to.  At the same time, I want her to go, 
because I think it'll be the next step in her development.  She can't go through 
the next sixty years or so just being a little scared rabbit-girl.  Maybe out there--" 
I sighed.  "Maybe, out there in a place where there aren't a bunch of people who 
fear mutants, she'll learn something.  I think it's darned well worth a try. 

"That's how much I love Maggie, children.  I love her enough to let her go, when 
the time comes. 

"That's just about how much I love you, too. 

"Now.   If Maggie does not want to go, she does not have to go.  If I don't think 
it's a good idea for her to go, she doesn't go.  Either way, I will insist that we get 
visitation rights, that we can go and see her at times.  But, darlings...which is 
better?  Maggie having to hide in the house all the time, and only knowing us?  
Or Maggie getting into part of the real world, where she can be out in the open, 
among other people?" 

Beth finally said, "Dad, it may be best for her, but I still don't like it.  I don't 
want her to go.  She's our third sister." 

"I don't want her to go," said Jenny.  "I just don't, Daddy." 

"I understand, Beth, Jenny," I said.  "But later, maybe when you get 
older...you'll understand me, too.  I expect you to behave nicely to Professor 
Xavier tonight.  Promise me you'll do that?" 

"We'll try, Dad," said Jenny.  "At least I will." 

"I'll be nice to him," said Beth.  "I guess." 

"No `I guess' about it.  You treat him as a guest, or you'll answer to me.  Clear?" 

"Yes, Dad," they both said, approximately. 

Dorrie called from the kitchen.  "Phil, I think company's coming." 

"Great," I said.  To Doris I called, "I'll be ready."  To the girls, I said, "Jump up 
to your room and make yourselves look even neater.  Make me proud of you, 
and, most of all, make Maggie proud of you." 

They scooted off to do so.  I took a peek through the window and saw the big 
touring car of Xavier's heading up the street.  I straightened my tie and was 
about to grab my camera case and valise from the floor and stow them away.  
They weren't there. 

Maggie was. 

She was wearing a pink dress and sensible white shoes and bows in her hair, 
which had grown in thickly enough to cover the formerly bare spots on her head.  
There was a Band-Aid on one knee where she had scraped it, playing with Beth 
and Jenny on the basement floor recently. 

I looked at her and wondered how anybody could see her as a little gargoyle.  
All I could see was a lovely little girl.  Then again, I saw with my heart. 

"I put your things away, Uncle Phil," she said.  "Hope you don't mind." 

"Mind?  No, no, Maggie.  You look gorgeous." 

"Thank you."  I could tell she was tense.  Didn't blame her. 

"Maggie."  I stooped and took her in my arms.  "I guess you heard some of my 
conversation with Beth and Jenny?" 

"Yes," she said, as the doorbell rang. 

"Listen well.  What I said, I meant.  You don't go anywhere unless I say it's all 
right, and you wnat to.  Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Uncle Phil," she said, embracing me.  "At least, I'll try to." 

"Good, good.  Now go in the other room, andale."  I set her down and she 
scurried into the kitchen.  The doorbell rang again. 

I opened it.  A huge guy was there, wearing glasses, and sporting the biggest 
pair of hands I had ever seen on a human being in my life.  He was wearing a 
cardigan, a tie, a blue shirt and dark blue pants, and a pair of brogans the size of 
which rivalled the dimensions of his mitts.  His brown hair was cut short and 
well-combed, and he gave me the impression of an intelligent guy who could 
mop the field with any ten football players. 

He smiled, and stuck out his big hand.  "Hank McCoy.  Mr. Sheldon?" 

I took it and shook it, looking over his shoulder.  Xavier was at the bottom of the 
steps in his wheelchair.  "Uh, yeah.  Phil Sheldon.  Do you, uh..." 

"Mr. Summers couldn't make it," he said.  "You may have assiduous assurance 
that any secrets given to me are as safe as they would be in the hands of James 
Bond.  Or Price Waterhouse." 

I wasn't sure that assured me, but I didn't seem to have any choice.  From below, 
Xavier called, "Good evening, Mr. Sheldon.  Hank, if you'd be so kind." 

"Absolutely, Professor," he said.  The big guy turned, stepped down to Xavier, 
went to the back of his chair, and gripped the back handles of his wheelchair. 

Then he lifted the thing right off the sidewalk, stepped up the three steps to our 
porch, and sat Xavier and chair on it without even seeming to strain.  I must've 
been gaping. 

"Hank is one of our stronger students, Mr. Sheldon," said Xavier, as if that 
explained everything.  "May we come in?" 

"Sure, sure," I said, moving aside.  I was wondering if I hadn't gotten in way 
over my head, wondering if I'd made the wrong decision for a confidante.  But it 
was a bit late for that, now. 

McCoy came in behind Xavier, and I could swear the floorboards groaned under 
him.  I shut the door and locked it.  Then I called out, "Ladies, we have 
company." 

Xavier looked at me, appraisingly.  I sensed he'd played this scene out before, 
like a football coach recruiting players for a team by going to their houses.   I 
felt numb and inadequate.  I think I prayed, and I hope I prayed the right thing. 

Beth, Jenny, and Doris, still in her apron, appeared in the doorway leading to the 
kitchen.  Doris stood protectively beside the girls and pasted on a smile.  "Dr. 
Xavier?" she said. 

"Professor Xavier, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, holding out a hand.  Tentatively, she 
came forward and shook it.  "And this is Mr. McCoy." 

"How do you do, ma'am?" asked Hank, with surprising warmth.  He did the 
handshake with her as well, and I could see her gape when her hand was 
engulfed by McCoy's massive paw.  Despite themselves, I saw Beth and Jenny 
giggling.  "Don't worry, ma'am, big hands run in the McCoy household," he 
assured her. 

"Uh, I'm sure they do," said Dorrie, disengaging. 

"And these would be your children, Mrs. Sheldon?" prompted the professor. 

"Yes, yes, they are," said Doris, trying to be cordial and still size the guys up at 
the same time. "This is Beth and this one is Jennifer." 

"Call me Jenny," said Jen, and both held out their hands.  McCoy smiled and 
offered them his two forefingers, which were about big enough for them to 
shake. 

"It is an honor, ladies," said McCoy, not laying it on too thickly.  "Henry P. 
McCoy, at your service." 

"Thank you," said Beth.  "Do you play football or something?" 

McCoy looked innocent.  "Well, I used to, but they made me quit.  You see, I 
had the simply awful habit of hiding the ball in my hand, so the other side 
couldn't see it, and kind of walking for a touchdown.  They didn't think that was 
fair to the other players, so they made me quit."  He winked.  This time Beth 
giggled.  Doris still looked suspicious, but we were in for the whole enchilada, 
like it or not. 

Professor Xavier said, "I believe there's someone else here, Mr. Sheldon.  Could 
you call her in, please?" 

I hesitated, took a deep breath, and called out.  "Maggie.  It's all right.  Professor 
Xavier's here."  Another pause.  "Come on out, darling.  Please." 

Another pause. 

Then a tiny form in a pink dress poked her upper head past one side of the jamb, 
tentatively.  She was scared as hell.  I didn't blame her. 

I shot a glance at McCoy and Xavier.  The big-handed guy looked straight at 
her, without hesitation.  He didn't look frightened by her at all.  Instead, he 
looked sad...very, very sad.  Xavier didn't smile, but his expression, or what I 
could read of it, looked much softer. 

"It's all right, Maggie," he said, quietly.  "Believe it or not, I'm somebody like 
you.  My name is Charles Xavier." 

Hesitantly, with a step that took her the longest second in the world, Maggie 
stepped into view.  I don't think even the insects in our immediate vicinity would 
have moved at that moment, if there were any. 

For a moment, Maggie didn't say anything.  Xavier drew a bit closer in his chair, 
though keeping his distance.  McCoy went to one knee and said, "Hi, Maggie.  
My name is Hank." 

"Maggie, we've come from--" Xavier started. 

She cut him off, looking straight at him. 

"Stop walking around in my head," she said. 

 I had no real idea of what Maggie meant by that statement, at the time.  But I 
was beginning to understand, and I didn't know if I liked it.  In a flash, that 
insight: Xavier wasn't just a guy interested in mutants. 

He was a mutant. 

Perhaps the big guy, McCoy, was one, too.  The kid with the shades might have 
been one as well. 

On the other hand, I told myself, I might be going overboard with this thing: 
seeing mutants at every corner.  I was apprehensive.  Had I exposed my family 
to--them? 

Still, I had to admit that I trusted Xavier.  If my wife and daughters had to meet 
with a mutant, at least it was the kind of mutant who seemed honorable, if stern. 

The man was pained by what Maggie had said.  "Forgive me, Maggie," he 
replied. "That was an inconsiderate action, I agree.  I just wanted to understand 
your situation, your...life, as it was." 

"Don't let him get near me," said Maggie, looking at me.  "And don't let him get 
in my head anymore." 

I went towards her, trying to reassure her.  McCoy was saying, "It's all right, 
Maggie.  We're not here to hurt you, we're here to help you." 

"It's all right, Maggie, it's all right," I said, grasping her hand.  But she looked at 
me as if she'd been betrayed. 

"It's not all right, Uncle Phil.  It's not!  I don't want somebody in my head!" 

"Daddy, what's going on?" said Beth, nervously. 

"Doris, I think you should get the kids up to their room," I said.  "Please." 

She looked at me, then said, "All right.  Beth, Jenny, if you please." 

"But, Mom," Jenny started. 

"Jen," said Doris, in the don't-go-one-step-farther tone.  Then she herded both of 
the girls upstairs.  I could tell she didn't want to do it. 

There I was with three mutants.  The dark side of the Marvels.  The kind of 
beings at whom I had once thrown a brick.  I had to admit I felt a little wary.  If 
Xavier wanted to, I had no doubt that he and McCoy could have picked Maggie 
up and taken her with them despite any efforts we could make to get her back. 

But Xavier wasn't playing it that way. 

"Maggie, you have my sincerest apologies," Xavier said, and looked sincere as 
he did it.  "This is one of the things I do, to get to know someone better.  
Especially one of our kind." 

"I'm not like you!" 

McCoy said, "That's where you're wrong, little lady.  You are one of us, no 
matter what you look like.  And we've got a school full of people like you, and 
we help each other get by." 

"I've seen another of them, I guess," I admitted, thinking of Summers. 

"Do they look like me?" demanded Maggie, defiantly.  I didn't know whether to 
be proud of her or to put her over my knee. 

"No," admitted Xavier.  "Some of them are more, shall we say, normal in 
appearance, others are oddly-made in their own ways.  Sometimes, only when 
they use their abilities." 

"Their abilities," I repeated, my arm about Maggie's shoulder. 

McCoy said, "There's a lot we can't tell you for security reasons, Mr. Sheldon.  
Suffice it to say, the School For Gifted Youngsters is a place for people who 
share some of Maggie's traits.  You already know this, I'm sure." 

Maggie looked at me in horror.  "You want to get rid of me!" 

"Maggie, no!"  I grasped her by both shoulders.  "You ought to know that by 
now.  We've been over all of that before.  Haven't we?" 

Now she was looking at me in sadness.  "Is it because of my looks, Uncle Phil?  
Is it because I'm ugly?" 

"No, Maggie," I said, squatting down to come face-to-face with her.  "To me, 
you're still one of the loveliest little girls I know." 

McCoy chimed in, "And myself, as well.  Care for a piggyback ride, Miss 
Maggie?  I promise not to let you touch the ceiling." 

"No," she said, shrinking back just a little.  But at least it wasn't a lot.  McCoy 
looked hurt. 

"Seems like a good response to me, too," said Doris, reappearing after 
shepherding the girls. 

I was frustrated.  "Dorrie, please.  We're trying to..."  I couldn't say anything 
else.  I had no idea what the hell we were trying to.  I only know we seemed to 
be kicking it all over the place, whatever it was. 

Xavier came to the rescue.  "Maggie, please listen to me, and do not say `No' or 
cut me off till I am finished speaking. We are of your kind, Maggie. We are 
mutants.  It is my hope that man and mutant may someday walk side-by-side 
without fear, though that goal seems all too distant at present.  However, 
because of that, I have brought together a group of people, of mutants, to benefit 
ourselves and humanity at large.  For we are part of humanity, Maggie...a very 
special part of it, to be sure, but a part, nonetheless.  No matter what you see in 
the mirror, Maggie, you are a human being.  Just like Mr. Sheldon...and just like 
me." 

Her face softened just a bit, and I was able to draw her a little closer without her 
protesting.  Doris was standing by the doorway with folded arms, a bit more 
skeptical. 

"In my brief time within your mind, Maggie, for which I apologize again, I have 
learned something of your--fear," said Xavier.  "A feeling with which I am not 
unfamiliar.  I have learned something of how you had to run and hide from the 
outside world.  Just as my first student had to, years ago, when I went to find 
him.  We mutants know fear, truly, Maggie.  But I promise you, there is no 
reason to fear me." 

She didn't say anything, but she was still wary. 

"Every day, Maggie, I teach youth of your kind, a bit older, to be sure, but still 
mutants.  There are more that I have not yet taught.  More like you.  People who 
understand what we are.  Do you think that you are the only one of us to be 
rejected, alienated?  Sad to say, it's more of a group trait among us." 

She almost shouted the next thing she said.  "They'd be scared of me, too!" 

"No, Maggie," said McCoy.  "Surprised, yes.  But we've grown used to people 
who look different from the norm.  And we...look a bit below the surface, too." 

"Don't you start walking in my head, too!" 

McCoy looked downward.  "I wouldn't even if I could.  And I can't." 

I had to step in, so I did.  "Maggie.  Remember, when we talked about this 
earlier?  I told you that Professor Xavier might be the only chance you could get 
to find a decent education?  And people of your...your own kind?"  I blanched 
inwardly as I said it.  The leitmotif of the day was supposed to be anti-racism.  
But you don't have to be Jewish to know how comforting the community of 
people more or less like you can be.  People who understand, or at least you 
think they do. 

"I remember," said Maggie.  "But I don't wanna go with him!" 

"Maggie," said Xavier, softly.  "You have an advantage over me.  Your adoptive 
father is so much a nicer man than the one I had." 

All three of us, Maggie, Dorrie, and myself, looked at him with various degrees 
of astonishment, I wager. 

She said slowly, "You lost your father?" 

The bald man nodded.  "I did.  My mother married a horrible man who promised 
to take care of her, and he took her into the grave after a very few years.  I spent 
the rest of my childhood with a stepbrother who tried to abuse me, and a 
stepfather who really didn't care.  If I seem a little...cold...at times, perhaps that 
is the reason why." 

"My father," said Maggie.  "He...tried to like me, but he...he didn't..." 

Impulsively, McCoy gathered her into his big arms and hugged her.  She didn't 
shrink away, and Dorrie stood there with her mouth open.  Maggie was sniffling, 
but she put her arms around his neck.  McCoy didn't say anything.  After awhile, 
he managed to put her down again.  He touched the wetness on her cheek. 

"You dry those tears, little one," he said.  "We like you just fine." 

She smiled.  Dorrie, behind her, shook her head.  I don't know what I did, but I 
hope it was adequate. 

Xavier wasn't crying, but he looked a lot more human to me.  Then he spoke 
again.  "I have to use a cliche here, Mr. Sheldon.  In my response to you, I will 
have good news and, regrettably, bad news.  I will have to give you both, in that 
order." 

"Okay," I said, glancing at the group.  Maggie was holding onto Hank McCoy, 
her eyes still wet and wondering.  McCoy looked sober, though not unfriendly.  
Beth and Jenny, both very tense.  Dorrie more or less the same, trying to conceal 
it. 

"First: if Maggie would wish to come to a school for mutants, a school 
administered by myself, in absentia, then she is perfectly willing to do so."  A 
gasp from Maggie.  Xavier continued, "Tuition would be worked out between 
us, probably in the form of long-term payment upon which we would both 
agree." 

"So far, so good," I said.  "As long as I get to check the fine print.  And we visit 
the school ourselves beforehand." 

"The second part is the hardest," Xavier acknowledged.  "As of yet, Mr. 
Sheldon, I have no such school." 

Boom. 

There should have been a big rock falling into my living room from some point 
above, to emphasize the impact of his words.  But there was just me, standing 
there with my jaw hanging out, and Maggie, who was in more or less the same 
state, and McCoy, who hugged her a little tighter, and my three other family 
members, who were also astonished.  Plus Xavier, who was looking grim and a 
little regretful. 

"I intend to build such a school within a year," Xavier said.  "The School For 
Gifted Youngsters, Mr. Sheldon, is not for all mutants, much as I would like it to 
be.  It is for a specific kind of mutant, for the adolescent whose great powers can 
be and must be trained towards the public good.  For those younger than that, for 
those whose mutations are benign, but not of great power, I have no facility, at 
present." 

"But you said--" I started. 

"I came here to ascertain your situation, to meet Maggie, to understand her and 
how she lives here," Xavier said.  "Mr. Sheldon, if Maggie was in an intolerable 
situation, I would spirit her away from you today, and find a place for her 
somewhere.  Not in my school, perhaps, but in the hands of others who would be 
trusted to raise her.  However, Mr. Sheldon, and you may be proud of this, you 
and your family are taking exemplary care, very good care, of Maggie.  And for 
that--" He hesitated.  "For that, I must ask you to wait a little longer." 

"A little longer?" I said.  "A little longer?" 

Maggie choked down a tear, unsuccessfully.  Dorrie went and took her from 
McCoy's arms and hugged her.  Beth and Jenny were trying to fight back 
sniffles.  Not ten minutes ago, they were hurting because Maggie might be 
leaving them.  Now, they were hurting because Xavier wasn't accepting her. 

He sighed.  "Yes.  A little longer.  But, Maggie...look at me, dear, please...this is 
not a rejection.  Not of you in any way, either as Maggie, or as a human being, 
or as one of us.  For you are...indeed...one of us.  I accept you.  Will you accept 
me?" 


She looked at him with some difficulty.  Then she said, "I don't know.  First you 
want me.  Then you don't want me.  You walk inside my head.  Why should I 
accept you?" 

Hank McCoy clenched and unclenched his big hands.  "Maggie, sometimes 
we're in danger.  Both from people who hate mutants...and sometimes, from 
other mutants.  We're not all one big happy family." 

"Regrettably not, Hank," Xavier said.  "But if you can understand this, Maggie, I 
do want to help you.  Those and others like you.  Because, you see, there are 
others like you out there. Some whose fathers and mothers have to hide them, 
just like you.  Or, worse, some whose fathers and mothers wouldn't hide them." 

"Just like me," she said, dully. 

"Yes," Xavier said, softly.  "Just like you." 

I was angry, obviously.  "Listen, Mr. Xavier, do you mean that you've come all 
the way up to my house just to welsh on me?  To tell me that you lifted our 
hopes so high, that there might be a place in the world for Maggie, and then tell 
me that there isn't?  Not yet?" 

The professor looked at me.  "There is a place in the world for everyone, Mr. 
Sheldon.  Perhaps not the place they would choose, but a place nonetheless.  In a 
year's time, if everything can be brought together, perhaps there will be a place I 
can offer to Maggie and other children like her.  But for now, Maggie's place is 
here.  And it seems a very pleasant place, indeed." 

"Thanks a lot," said Dorrie, sarcastically. 

Xavier looked at her.  "Mrs. Sheldon, do not make light of such a great thing.  
Most persons, faced with Maggie's appearance, would totally reject her.  Drive 
her into the street.  Then forget about her, unless they did what too many people 
do to people they don't like or understand.  You did not.  You took this little girl 
in as one of your own family.  Do you think this is a small thing, Mrs. Sheldon?" 

Slowly, Dorrie said, "I guess not." 

"You shouldn't, because it is a great thing," said Xavier.  "And as people who 
have accomplished it, you should be proud of yourselves.  As I am proud of you, 
as a symbol of what man and mutant may do for one another once they have 
accepted each other for what they are." 

"Yeah," I said.  "Makes me feel warm and toasty all over." 

Hank McCoy said, "If you knew what has happened to us, Mr. Sheldon, I think 
you'd be a little more understanding.  In fact, quite considerably so.  But there is 
only so much I can tell you, sir.  For the rest, you'll have to trust me." 

I sat down.  "So what now?  Now that you've taken up my hopes, maybe 
Maggie's hopes, up and then brought `em down like they were on a grease 
rack?" 

Xavier said, slowly, "I attempt to fulfill them." 

I waited. 

"The existence of Maggie, and of others like her, is a goad to me to negotiate 
with those whom I speak with for money enough to build another school.  To 
staff it with persons I can trust.  To educate not merely the mutant who can be a 
showpiece--forgive me, Hank--but the mutants who simply need help.  If you 
can agree to keep Maggie for at least another year, Mr. Sheldon--" 

"I planned on keeping her a lot longer than that," I put in. 

"--as I said, for at least another year, then I may be able to report results.  
Twelve months is an awfully long period in Maggie's life.  Is it in ours?" 

"Not as long as I wish it was," said Dorrie.  "Believe me." 

Xavier said, "Despite what you may think of me, Mr. Sheldon, I am not 
heartless or unfeeling.  But I do deal in the possible, in what I can accomplish.  
Ofttimes I am pushed to accomplish much more than I thought possible, as are 
my students.  I will leave you with my personal number, not to be given out.  
You may call me to keep in contact, and I would definitely like to hear from 
Maggie.  In twelve months' time, we will see what we can do.  If you wish, if 
circumstances permit, I could pay more visits.  But I warn you: these visits, like 
Maggie's existence, must be kept secret." 

Maggie said, softly, "I don't like you." 

The professor nodded.  "I understand, Maggie.  But perhaps, in time, that will 
change.  I certainly hope it will, because I like you." 

I didn't know if I liked Xavier at that moment.  But at least I believed him. 

I sighed.  "So, Mr. Xavier, will you and Mr. McCoy be staying for dinner?" 

"I believe we've got a long journey ahead of us, Mr. Sheldon," said the 
professor. 

McCoy said, "It's all right, Professor.  I'll drink a lot of coffee." 

He looked at Hank and said, "On your head, Mr. McCoy.  Well, then, Mrs. 
Sheldon, if you would have us?" 

Dorrie said, "You're not walking around in my head, are you?" 

"I wouldn't have asked the question, if I was." 

"Okay," she said.  "Girls, help me with the potatoes." 

 -M- 

So we had dinner together and made conversation.  He asked me a lot about my 
work as a photographer for the newspapers, and was intrigued by my idea of a 
photo book about the Marvels.  In fact, he insisted on me bringing down a book 
of shots which started in `39 and went up to about ten years after.  He was 
interested in the shots of Prince Namor, the Sub-Mariner, though I wasn't quite 
sure why. 

Maggie and the girls got on well with Hank McCoy, who told them a story about 
his football days when a couple of crooks had tried to heist the box office at a 
stadium and he'd brought them down with a couple of nicely-hurled footballs.  I 
thought he was probably full of it.  Then again, looking at his hands, feet, and 
general build, I wasn't quite sure. 

Finally, the two of them took their leave.  I let Maggie get as far as the kitchen 
door.  Xavier insisted on facing her, there in his wheelchair.  She stood before 
him.  He said, "Well, Maggie.  If I can get a school together, would you like to 
try it?" 

"I don't know," she said.  "But I don't know that I wouldn't." 

"Good," he said.  "Goodbye, Maggie.  For now."  He held out his hand. 

After a second or two, she took it and shook it.  I couldn't tell the character of 
the shake, but at least she hadn't rejected it. 

I followed Xavier and McCoy to the door.  "I hope you meant what you said in 
there," I said. "About the school." 

"Mr. Sheldon, I can assure you I meant everything I said," Xavier confirmed.  
"And I thank you for your trust.  Especially for Maggie's." 

"We've done a dangerous thing, letting you in here tonight," I said.  "If any word 
gets out about her..."  I couldn't complete the sentence.  Part I didn't know, the 
rest I didn't want to. 

"I have done a dangerous thing as well, letting you know what we have," Xavier 
said, seriously.  "Can we trust you?" 

I nodded.  "As much as I can trust you." 

"Very well, then.  Goodbye, Mr. Sheldon, and thank you.  For Maggie, as for the 
rest of us, there is hope." 

McCoy said, "Good night, Mr. Sheldon. Give Maggie my best."  Then he 
wheeled Xavier out the door and got him and himself into their car, and drove 
off.  I stood at the door and watched the car go until it was lost from sight. 

Benny Bolinsky, my next-door neighbor, came out to his front porch to smoke a 
pipe and take in the stars.  He saw me.  "Hey, Phil," he said.  "Relatives come 
over?" 

I looked at him.  "Nah," I said.  "My agent."  Then I went back inside. 

 -M- 

So now I must tell the end of the story.  There are other things which went on 
with the family, and with Maggie, in between that time and what I will write 
now.  But a lot would be called mundane--feh!  I would call it normal--and there 
is only so much time I have alloted to the telling of this tale.  Believe me, in time 
to come, and perhaps when it was happening, I was very, very grateful for the 
mundane. 

This is how it ended. 

It may seem strange to you that Maggie only stayed with us for a few months.  
From early September to December of that year, the length approximately of a 
school semester.  As you know perhaps from your own memories of school, a 
lot can happen in that time.  All of it seemingly marked in indelible ink. 

Ink is a flowing metaphor which I do not care to think very much on.  Let me 
move past it. 

Our Jewish ways may have seemed odd to Maggie...she had, in her brief time at 
school, met her share of Jewish kids, but didn't live with them, of course, and 
her parents were, I believe, Baptist.  She accepted them and at times wanted to 
participate, which she did, peripherally.  But there was a sense of the Other, that 
these ways were not her ways, and hers were not ours.  We knew this, and we 
made do.  I've related the story of buying the Christian Bible for her and will 
trust this to stand for the differences we sometimes experienced. 

Then there was Hanukkah. 

Now, this is not one of the Big Primes of Jewish holidays, but I still love it.  I 
think it's because when I was a kid, with all the things we had to put up with 
(and Hitler was still not in power in Germany, half a world away), the story of 
the Maccabees taking the temple away from the Greeks reminded me that, 
somewhere, somewhen, we could still kick somebody's ass.  Of course, God 
knows, we've done it again enough since then, but back then, it'd been a long 
time since. 

Maggie wanted to know why we were doing the things with the menorah and the 
latkes and the yarmulkes and such.  So Doris explained to her about the Greeks 
wanting to do a number on us back then ("Like you were the Indians?", Maggie 
asked, and I think Doris nodded), how Judas Maccabeus and his brothers stood 
up to them and organized a revolt, and how a supply of oil which was 
supposedly only good for one night's worth of temple lamps miraculously 
extended to eight nights. 

Then it was nightfall, and we lit the first candle.  We did the blessings: 

"Blessed are You O Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, 
Who has made us holy through Your commandments, 
And instructed us to kindle the Hanukkah light. 

"Blessed are You O Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, 
Who performed miracles for our forefathers 
In their era at this season of the year." 

Maggie had her head down, her eyes closed, and her hands clasped in prayer.  
"Thank you, Jesus," she said, in a subdued voice. 

I looked up.  Beth, Jenny, and Dorrie were looking at Maggie, at each other, 
then at me.  Not necessarily in that order. 

"Maggie, not now," I hissed. 

She looked up at me, bewildered.  "You don't want me to thank Jesus?" 

"It's not in the ceremony.  I'll tell you later!" 

"Okay," she said. 

She looked a bit troubled, but stayed silent thru dinner.  Afterwards, I asked 
Beth and Jenny to do the dreidel thing with her.  She thought that was fun, and 
thought the challah money was really fun.  So afterwards, when the kids were in 
bed and I should have been, too, I sat her down and tried to explain. 

"Maggie, Jewish ceremonies are not Christian ones," I said, holding her on my 
lap in what I hoped was a granduncleish fashion.  "They are different, and you 
don't mix them up." 

"Why not?" she asked. 

"Because they are two different religions," I said.  "And it is disrespectful to one 
religion to mix it with another. Savvy?" 

"But don't they both believe in the same God?" 

"They do," I said.  "But we don't believe that, well...let's say there are important 
differences." 

"You said we believe in Jesus, but you believe in God," she prompted.  "Does 
that mean you don't believe in Jesus?" 

"Not in the same way you do, Maggie," I said.  "We believe he was a good man, 
but not that he was the Messiah." 

"The Messiah?" 

"The Christ," I said. 

"Oh," she said.  I think I felt her shrinking away, and I squeezed her hand. 

"You don't need to feel bad, Maggie," I insisted. "Judaism and Christianity sorta 
started out as the same thing, but we took two different paths.  At least we've got 
something in common.  Even though it doesn't seem like it, most of the time." 

"Why not?" 

I set my jaw and then said, "Because, Maggie, not so long ago a bunch of 
Christians killed a bunch of Jews.  Almost six million of them." 

I didn't know her eyes could look any bigger than they usually did.  I found out 
then they could. 

There was nothing left to do but finish it.  "Between 20 and 30 years ago, in 
Germany, a guy called Adolf Hitler tried to kill every Jew he could get his hands 
on.  And he got his hands on a lot.  That isn't to say that he just killed Jews, or 
that all Christians killed them.  There were a lot of `em fighting on our side.  But 
six million Jews are dead because of him."  I paused. "That's not such an easy 
thing to forget." 

"I'm sorry," she said. 

"You didn't do it," I said.  "Just like I didn't crucify Jesus.  But some people 
don't wanna believe that." 

"Why don't they?" 

"You remember awhile back, that conversation you listened in on?  When I was 
talking with Doris about letting you stay?" 

"Yes," she said, meekly. 

"Well, in Germany at that time, we were the muties.  It was a lot worse than 
what you've had, believe me.  If I hadn't been an American, Maggie, I probably 
wouldn't be here today." 

She was starting to cry.  I hugged her against my chest.  "Why do they do that 
thing, Uncle Phil?  Why do they have to hurt us?" 

Us. 

"Because, Maggie," I said, and I think I was rocking her back and forth as I 
spoke.  "Because in the places where we're different, some people hate us for not 
being what they are.  If you hate enough, you want to get rid of the thing you 
hate.  Drive it out of your neighborhood.  Or your country.  Or maybe even kill 
it." 

I could sense it was going to be rough going if Maggie ever read the book of 
Joshua and asked me about the Canaanites.  (Yeah, they sacrificed babies, 
Maggie, and they did lots of other things like that, so it was a punishment...) 

(Like the Indians?) 

(I don't know....) 

"I don't want them to do that to me, Uncle Phil," she whispered. 

"They never will, Maggie.  Not if I can help it.  You just stay inside and keep to 
the family, and we'll all do fine." 

"What if we have to move?" 

"The house is paid for." 

"What about the school?" 

"We've been through that before.  If you want to go, when it's built, if it's built, 
you can.  That's still in the future." 

"Uncle Phil," she said. 

"Yes, Maggie?" 

"Do you ever sing Hanukkah carols?  I used to like to sing Christmas carols.  
Like `Silent Night', and `O Little Town of Bethlehem'." 

"Sure.  You heard us sing the Maoz Tzur.  That's `Rock of Ages'.  We have 
some others, but that's the main one." 

"Do you go from house to house and sing them?" 

"Don't think so.  It's mainly in Temple, and at home."  I hoped she wasn't going 
to ask me to sing it again.  Believe me, when it comes to such stuff, I am no Al 
Jolson. 

"When Christmas comes, will you sing some carols with me?" 

"I don't think my rabbi would like that very much, Maggie. But you can sing 
them yourself, if you want." 

"My mom said I had a pretty voice," she said, wistfully.  "That's one of the nice 
things she said about me." 

"You're very pretty, Maggie," I said.  "In all the right ways.  Now.  Off to bed 
with you." 

I thought I'd done pretty well, all things considered.  Maybe it was a down 
payment on understanding, and I'd have some time before Christmas to figure 
out other answers to her questions.  Or to figure out what I was supposed to do 
for her, when it rolled around. 

As it was-- 

But it was what it was. 

  -M- 

Christmas carols. 

My God, Christmas carols. 

How was I to know what it meant to her?  Or if it meant a thing to her, before 
that time? 

Was I supposed to know a thing about them?  Sure, I had a rabbi once who got 
highly upset if you even mentioned the name of Jesus.  But living in America, 
even in New York City, how could you fail to pick up something from the 
dominant culture? 

Apparently I failed to pick something up.  Perhaps there were a lot of things 
lying around that I took no notice of, but, God help me, there is only so much a 
man can notice.  Especially if he's trying to keep a roof over his head, bread on 
the table for himself and four others, and a secret that was getting more and 
more difficult to keep. 

No, Christmas carols was only a symptom.  I do believe this.  The reality was 
that Maggie, who had no friends for years before she met us, was already lonely 
for other people.  True, she loved us.  This was obvious, and we loved her back.  
But you get tired of the same four faces, even if there's all the love in the world 
behind them. 

Did I mention that I was a fan of pulp magazines, back in the 30's?  I was.  So 
was just about every red-blooded young man in P.S. 74, except for some of 
those sissies who read F. Scott Fitzgerald years before they were supposed to.  I 
loved Doc Savage and the Whisperer and the Avenger and the Shadow.  
Especially the Shadow.  I never missed a one of his shows on the radio if I could 
help it.  98 percent of the time, I could help it. 

But I grew up and out of it, and gave a lot of my pulps to the paper drives to beat 
Hitler.  Some of them were easier to sacrifice than others.  I knew I was never 
going to look like Doc Savage, even with a Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension 
course.  But the Shadow...I couldn't give him up all the way.  So, although I 
yielded up my pulpwood library to make wrappers for artillery shells and such, I 
kept five issues of The Shadow Magazine.  I still have `em today.  When I open 
them up, which is not often because they're as crumbly as the Dead Sea Scrolls, 
I am struck by two things:  how lousy the prose is, and how much I still love Mr. 
Big Nose with the floppy hat and twin .45's. 
And I still have a small batch of the old radio shows on tape.  I have subjected 
my daughters to them at times and have been warned that such may be 
prohibited by the Geneva Convention. 

I will not subject you to more of this nostalgia.  It's only taking me away from 
what I have to write. 

About a week or so before Christmas, Maggie saw me in my easy chair with a 
copy of The Shadow from 1935 in my hands.  "What's that about?" she asked. 

"Come up here and I'll tell you," I responded.  So my lovely little gargoyle-girl 
crawled into my lap and I told her. 

"This is about the Shadow, a guy with the power to cloud men's minds and root 
out the weed of crime that bears bitter fruit," I said. 

She peered at the cover with those huge globular eyes.  "He's a gardener?" 

I cracked up.  "No, no, he's a hero. A super-hero." 

"Oh," said Maggie, and pondered it.  "Where's his costume?" 

"This is his costume," I said, pointing at the cover.  "Right here." 

"I don't see any costume."  Maggie had been educated in the reality of New 
York super-heroes by Beth, Jenny, and myself, and had seen photos of 
everybody from the first Human Torch to Goliath.  She knew what a super-hero 
costume looked like: skin-tight with a bunch of gaudy colors. 

"Well, this is what the well-dressed hero wore before there were costumes," I 
said.  "This big floppy slouch hat, the muffler pulled up over his mouth, the 
black suit, and the gloves." 

"Guns, too?" 

"Guns, too." 

"I thought super-heroes didn't carry guns, Uncle Phil." 

"Well, the Shadow was just in the books and on the air.  He was a made-up 
character, Maggie." 

"Did he have a secret identity?" 

"Yup.  Lamont Cranston.  Secret to everybody who didn't read the books or 
listen to the radio." 

"And people didn't know who he was when he dressed up like this?" 

"Didn't seem to, Maggie." 

"Oh." She thought again.  "That must have been a good thing." 

"Why do you say that?" 

"Because he could go out among people and he didn't have to worry about them 
knowing who he was." 

"That's why he did it," I said. 

"Uncle Phil?" 

"Mm-hmm?" 

"Will I ever get to go out with other people?" 

I sighed.  "I don't know, Maggie.  I really don't know." 

"Do you think they'd hurt me if I went to church, Uncle Phil?" 

"Maggie!" 

"Nobody's supposed to hurt anybody in a church.  Jesus wouldn't like it." 

"I wouldn't like it either.  But set one foot outside that church, and see what 
they'll do to you.  Or anybody with you." 

"Couldn't we try and get away real fast?  Before they could get to us?" 

"No, Maggie."  I straightened up.  "You can watch the services on TV on 
Sunday morning.  Just make sure you don't have it on too loud." 

She stood up and looked about as pensive as she could.  "Wouldn't God protect 
me?" 

I looked at her.  Should I have asked her if He protected the six million?  This 
would be a hard image to reconcile with bringing somebody back from the dead 
just because Jesus liked him. 

"It's not for me to say, Maggie.  Just...be satisfied with what you've got.  Okay?  
Because that's all we can give you, right now." 

"Okay," she said. 

"Want me to read some Shadow to you?  It's great stuff." 

"No, that's okay," she said.  "Aunt Doris wants me to study my math, anyways."  
Maggie used our kids' textbooks in what amounted to her education, with Doris 
and I (mostly Doris) helping out. 

"All right.  Have a nice math," I said, and Maggie scampered off to her 
basement room. 

I returned to the Shadow but somehow couldn't get interested in him again and 
eventually went to bed. 

 -M- 

After things happen, you always want to go back and see the signs.  But the 
signs are usually too small to set off warning bells.  Otherwise, why would 
suicides and murders and things like that happen?  They shouldn't.  But they do. 

You should have seen this.  Well, what if I couldn't see it?  What if the sign was 
too small, even in her mind, let alone my own?  I was not the only one who 
missed things.  So did Doris, Beth, and Jenny, although their suspicions may 
have been greater than my own. Women notice things that men don't.  Maybe 
we notice things that they don't.  Damned if I know. 

Damned, I hope not.  Unless you can be for ignorance. 

We couldn't notice everything.  I had to take pictures for Jameson and Bushkin.  
Dorrie had to keep the house running.  Beth and Jenny had to go to school.  
Through all that, we had to make space for Maggie, and don't think we didn't 
feel the burden at times. 

We did what we could. 

Could we have done more, seen more?  I'd like to say I doubt it. 

I just know we didn't. 

 -M- 

At the dinner table a night or two later, Maggie asked, "Uncle Phil, will I ever be 
able to meet anybody else?" 

"Oh, God," said Jenny, putting a napkin between her face and the tomato soup. 

"Jenny, don't say that, it's disrespectful," said Mom.  "Maggie, we've been over 
this before." 

I sighed and sat down my fork.  "Maggie.  If Mr. Xavier manages to get a school 
together, and if it turns out that you are suited for such a school, then yes.  It is 
possible that you will be able to meet some people from outside." 

"Could you take me to your church?" 

"Maggie, it's not a church," Beth said.  "It's called a synagogue.  We've told you 
that." 

"Well, could you take me to your synagogue, then?  I'm lonesome." 

"Oh?  You're lonesome?"  Doris looked at her evenly.  "How much less 
lonesome were you before we took you in, young lady?  Would you like to tell 
me?" 

Maggie hesitated.  "Well, I...a lot more, I suppose, Aunt Doris, but--" 

"Yes, a lot more, and you had to hide from everyone you saw, right?  And grab 
your meals from fruit stands or trash cans or the back rooms of grocery stores 
when you could do it, isn't that right?" 

Maggie looked at her lap.  "Yes," she said. 

"Then it would seem to me that you should show a little more gratitude than you 
have.  Isn't that right, young lady?" 

"I'm sorry, Aunt Doris," she said. 

"Maggie, look at me," I said.  She did.  I continued, "It may not seem like we're 
doing this for the best reasons, but we are.  Back under Hitler, like I said, there 
were people that had to hide Jews in their homes and not let anybody know 
about it.  With mutants, God help me...it's almost the same thing." 

"Do they have places where they kill muties?" she asked. 

"I don't think so," I said.  "But we don't even want to see you get hurt.  So for 
now...we've got to hide you as if you were a Jew." 

"As far as I'm concerned, she is," said Jenny, and drank her milk. 

"But maybe I could get dressed up with something over my face," said Maggie.  
"Just like the Shadow, maybe." 

"Maggie, no," I said, firmly. 

"The Shadow?"  Doris looked at me.  "Where'd she get that from?" 

"It doesn't matter," I said.  "Maggie, you are not the Shadow and we are not 
going to let you get killed.  The subject is closed, over, finished.  Now eat." 

"But, Uncle Phil--" 

I stood up.  "Maggie.  Take your food and go to your room.  If you say one more 
word, you're getting a busting.  Go." 

She went.  I felt like a storm trooper, but I'd had to feel that way before. 

After she left, three pairs of eyes were on me.  I turned to Jenny.  "So.  Tell me 
about school today." 

She did.  We got through the meal somehow.  Later, after a decent interval had 
passed, I went down to see Maggie.  I don't remember exactly what I said to her 
or what she said to me, but we got through that somehow, too.  We separated 
and both turned in for the night. 

It was three days before Christmas. 

 -M- 

We should have seen the signs. 

Christmas Eve it was, and it was during dinner we heard the doorbell rang.  As 
usual during such things, I had Maggie go to her room with her plate, which 
she'd put on a TV tray there and close the basement door. 

I opened the door when it was safe.  I expected it was Bronowski from a couple 
doors down wanting to borrow something and take half an hour of my time 
talking.  Instead, I found seven people clustered about my doorstep, a woman in 
headcap, coat, and muff, a couple of guys in coats, hats and gloves, and four 
kids of varying sizes, all wrapped up tight against the weather, which was 
somewhere around 40 degrees with a brisk wind. 

There they were, all chapped lips and red noses of `em, and before I could say 
anything they broke into a rendition of "Away In a Manger." 

I sighed.  At this time of night I would have welcomed a travelling salesman 
more than a Christian barbershop septet.  But I am polite with strangers, though 
not as much as, say, Abraham, and I doubt I had any angels on my doorstep, 
anyway.  So I let `em get to the end of the song and said, "That's very nice, 
thank you.  Do I make a donation?" 

"No, sir!" said one of the men.  "Just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.  
Can we do one more for you?" 

"I--" 

Beth and Jenny had materialized at my sides.  They looked at me questioningly.  
What the hell was I supposed to do, let `em start singing, "I had a little dreidel, I 
made it out of clay"? 

So I shrugged.  "Make it a short one," I said. 

The seven of my doorstep acapella choir ran through a version of "Silent Night".  
I'm Jewish, but that one doesn't set my teeth on edge.  After some things I saw in 
the War at wintertime, soldiers warming their hands by the flames of burning 
debris and such, I could empathize with a poor couple on the road who had just 
found a place out of the cold to have a baby.  And hey, they were Jewish, too. 

Actually, they sang quite nicely.  Even Doris came from her dishwater to hear 
the rest of it.  One of the kids, a young boy, said, "Merry Christmas!" like a 
time-lost Tiny Tim.  I told him, "Same to you.  Have a good night, folks, and 
goodbye." 

They said their goodbyes, and my kids wished them happy holidays, not merry 
Christmas.  I don't think anyone really cared.  Christmas in New York is awfully 
nice sometimes, whether you're a Christian or not. 

The seven of them went their way and I closed the door.  "Well, I guess that 
does our contribution to this year's holiday spirit," I said.  "If the two of you are 
finished, go help your Mom with the dishes." 

"Okay, Dad," said Beth. 

"Affirmative, Daddy,"said Jenny, who had watched more Lost In Space than 
was good for her.  They both scampered to the kitchen.  I went to check on 
Maggie. 

Before I could open the door, I heard her voice.  It was a nice voice, for a child.  
She was singing. 

"Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright..." 

I stood there and listened until she got to the end of it.  Maggie could sing.  I 
was surprised, sometimes, at how well she sang.  Her natural voice could be, as 
I've said, a little whiny.  But when she sang, she had a nice kid's tenor.  After the 
last "Sleep in heavenly peace," I opened the door. 

"Very good, Maggie," I said.  "You finished with dinner?" 

She was sitting there on the edge of her bed, with the TV tray pulled up over her 
knees.  "I think so, Uncle Phil.  Do you think I sing all right?" 

"You sing fine, my dear.  Any better and you could audition for the King 
Family, if they took people who weren't named King."  I leaned against the 
doorway, scratching my back with the edge of it to get in between the shoulder 
blades. 

She looked wistful.  "Wish other people could hear me sing.  If they could hear 
me, and not see me, you think I'd be all right, Uncle Phil?" 

"Oh, I suppose," I said, vaguely. "You can sing to us all you want, Maggie.  But 
right now, Uncle Phil has to go upstairs and get a couple of last pictures 
developed for Jameson.  Go take the plate up to Dorrie and be good." 

"I will," she said.  "Uncle Phil?  Merry Christmas." 

I considered it for a second, and then said, "Thanks, Maggie.  Merry Christmas 
to you, too." 

She smiled.  But it was still a wistful smile. 

I turned and went.  She clambered up the steps behind me, plate in hand.  
Christmas Eve or not, the Daily Bugle would have an edition out every morning, 
and I had some stuff Jameson wanted for the 26th.  So I hit the darkroom. 

It couldn't have been as much as an hour later that I heard Doris banging on my 
door.  "Phil!  Maggie's gone.  She's gone!" 

"What?"  Ears relaying stuff to my brain.  It got hung up in transit, stopped by 
disbelief.  "What?" 

"Maggie is gone, Phil!  We have to find her!" 

"Gone?" 

"She is not here, Phil!  She's gone!  We've got to look for her!" 

"Oh, crap."  That was all I could manage.  I made sure the shots were drying on 
the line, got to the door, turned out the red light, and went out quickly.  Dorrie 
was still in her apron and looking like she did the night Jenny got the Jart in her 
hand. 

And where were Beth and Jenny right now?  Down on the first floor in their 
nighties and bare feet, catching the conversation and knowing what was going 
on because Doris had looked in their room first. 

"Daddy, we're--", Beth started. 

"You are NOT!" I replied, stabbing a finger out at them.  "You are going back to 
your room right now and you will not come out till I tell you to. Go!" 

"She's our sister, too, Daddy, she's our sister, too!" wailed Jenny. 

"That is precisely why I want you here," I said, already at the bottom of the 
stairs.  "So that she will have a pair of sisters around when I get back with her.  
Go to your room, and that is an absolute order!" 

I didn't have to spank them too often, but they knew when it was coming if they 
didn't obey orders.  Despite that, they might have defied me to go find their 
almost-sister.  I could see that in their eyes. 

They must have seen something else in mine, because they turned and went back 
to their room.  Neither one of them looked at me. 

I grabbed my coat and hat from the rack near the front door.  Dorrie, bless her, 
already had two of the big metal flashlights we've had ever since the damned 
1965 blackout.  She handed me one.  She was already in her overcoat. 

I'd almost made it to the door when I thought of something and started to lurch 
for it.  Doris got me by the arm.  "Phil.  She's out there!" 

"Yeah," I heard myself saying.  "I need to get my Leica." 
  
She looked at me and her expression looked like I felt after I said it.  I covered 
her mouth.  "Don't say it.  Let's go.  Forget the Leica." 

I was halfway to the car when she threw me the keys to it.   She had almost 
joined me when I said, "Dorrie. Call Xavier." 

"What?" 

"Call Xavier.  Just do it, will you?" 

"What should I tell him?" 

"I need to tell you?" 

Dorrie rushed back in the house.  I started the engine running.  Within a minute 
or two, she was back.  She got in the car. 

"You get him?", I asked. 

She looked at me.  "Somebody else answered the phone.  I told him.  He said 
he'd be over as soon as possible." 

I sighed.  Having her make the call was not part of a rational decision-making 
process.  It may have been the most rational decision I've ever made. 

"Let's go," I said. 

"Shouldn't we head next door first?" 

"We will.  I want to find out where that bunch of singsongers went." 

"Oh, Phil!" 

Nothing left to say.  I didn't go too far for the first stop, just stopped next door 
and asked Lindstrom if he'd seen the Christian chorale and which way they'd 
gone.  He said yeah, and pointed up the block.  They weren't there, of course.  It 
had been awhile.  What kind of people can get out in 40 degree weather with a 
wind and walk around for a couple of hours singing Christmas carols for a 
couple of hours? 

I had a feeling I knew one who could. A very, very sick feeling. 

We went to the next block and Doris went in this time, asking if they'd seen 
Christmas carolers.  Yes, the couple inside said.  Why?  She cooked up some 
story about one of them leaving his wallet behind when they were at our house.  
I don't know if they bought it, but at that point, neither of us were that concerned 
at being convincing. 

"My God, we're going about this all wrong," I said, once she was back in the car.  
"Maybe we should be out on the sidewalk, calling her name." 

"Oh, great," she fumed.  "And who will you tell them Maggie is?  Our dog?" 

"Great idea!"  I parked the car.  "Let's do that." 

"Not yet, you idiot.  It's been almost an hour.  How could she be with them, even 
if she could find them?" 

I said, slowly, "Doris.  You have a floppy hat.  Do you remember seeing that 
floppy hat before you came out?" 

Her eyes got almost as big as Maggie's.  "Phil?  What are you talking about?" 

I got the car in gear again.  "Dorrie.  I wish I'd never told her about the Shadow." 

 -M- 

A couple of blocks down we lost the trail forward.  The folks in the next block 
hadn't been visited by our strolling players.  Doris and I split up, one taking the 
blocks to the north, the other to the south.  Doris got the car, by my insistence.  I 
went on foot, flashlight in hand.  Whether she was using the dog story or the 
wallet story, I don't know.  I stuck to the dog.  The folks I visited thought I was 
one damn dedicated pet owner. 

At least it gave me an excuse to call out, "Maggie!  Maggie!" while on the 
sidewalk. 

Apparently nobody else within earshot was named Maggie, or wanted to see a 
guy fool enough to be out in the cold without even a Hannukah carol to sing.  
But some folks had seen the carolers.  I followed their lead, which took me 
closer to the highway that ran as close as such things did to our subdivision. 

A cop car crossed the street ahead, blinkers on.  A chill went through me worse 
than the one that was creeping down my coat collar.  Before I knew it, I was 
sprinting after it.  Dorrie could have done better with the car, but not by much. 

There was a house up ahead with one squad car already parked in front of it.  
Two cops were grilling some people in the yard.  Most of them seemed to be the 
carolers.  But there was one semi-hysterical woman there, who seemed to be 
repeating one word over and over again: "Monster!  MONSTER!" 

I covered the blocks between as closely as I could.  One of the cops asked me 
what I was doing there.  "My dog got loose," I said. 

"You'd better get inside, mister," said the cop.  "We've got a search in progress." 

"I might be able to help," I said, fumbling. 

"We ain't lookin' for no dog!"  The cop's face was full of anticivilian contempt.  
I was taken aback. But damned if I was going to let even him stop me, at that 
point.  I shoved past him and grabbed one of the male carolers by the coat 
sleeve.  "What happened here?" I asked. 

The guy looked at me as if I was Rasputin.  But he told me anyway.  "We--
somebody wanted to sing with us.  We thought she was a little girl. We thought-
-" 

"Which way did she go?" 

"That way," he pointed. "At least I think she did.  But don't go that way, mister." 

"Why not?" 

"`Cause this woman's husband went that way, too.   And he's got a shotgun." 

I took the name of the Christian Savior in vain and prayed God to lend swiftness 
to my feet, slowness and a slack trigger finger to the other guy, and a more-than-
generous stash of stealthiness to Maggie.  They said I took off like I was running 
for my life. 

If that was all I was running for, I might have been slower. 

But the guy with the gun had a lead on me.  It was about six blocks down when I 
saw him.  I was too late to have even heard the shotgun blast. 

He was lying there, in pain, but not bleeding.  People had already gathered 
round him from nearby houses.  The gun was on the ground beside him, within 
reach, but he wasn't touching it.  He had a hand clamped to his side. 

"She spit on me," he was saying.  "I tripped.  The damn gun--oh, God, this hurts!  
She spit on me, and it stopped bleeding!" 

"Ambulance is comin', Jack," said somebody else.  "I called `em.  You sit tight." 

I grabbed him by the shoulder so roughly he yelped in pain.  "Where did she go? 
Which way?" 

"Who in hell are you?" 

"Which way, dammit?" 

Apparently I had given him a look Joe Friday would have envied.  He pointed 
towards the highway.  I started that way. 

"She was tired," he said.  "She was real tired after she spit on me.  She used a 
lotta spit." 

I ran.  I was yelling "MAGGIE!" at the top of my lungs.  The flashlight was out 
and in force. 

I was over a hundred yards from the highway when I saw two things.  The first 
was a highballing semi which was hauling steel from someplace upstate to 
someplace downstate.  It announced its 70-mile-an-hour passage with a trainlike 
blast of its horn.  The second was  a small patch of blackness seem to break 
away from the surroundings and run towards the road itself.  Not a great idea, as 
the semi was bearing down, but she could probably have made it across if she 
tried. 

She. 

Maggie. 

If she tried.  And if she wasn't so tired, from using her liquid-bandage power to 
save the life of a man who had been coming after her with a shotgun. 

And maybe, just maybe, if she hadn't heard me scream "MAGGIE!" one more 
time. 

She turned her head.  As God is my witness, she turned her head. 

Stealthiness had worked against her, for perhaps the first time in her life, as the 
trucker was unable to see her until she hesitated, until she did that, and she... 

It... 

A frame of memory still lingers, flash-framed like the last picture they say can 
be found on a dead man's eyes.  The truck intersecting Maggie's path, trying to 
turn away, but at such an angle that it caught her a glancing blow, no more than 
that, and knocked her spinning down the short incline, into a ditch. 

She didn't scream, and I didn't hear the sound of the contact. 

It caught her on the side and smashed ribs and sent the pieces into places they 
were designed to protect. 

I was in the ditch with her no more, I think, than three seconds after it happened. 
She wasn't wearing the floppy hat of Doris's anymore, but she still had the 
muffler on, though it was dangling about her neck, not up around her face where 
she'd had it to shield her features before. 

Like the Shadow. 

I believe I was calling her name.  Over and over again, I was calling her name.  I 
was on my hands and knees, and I was touching her, and... 

Her eyes, almost shut, opened a bit. 

"Mr. Sheldon," she said, and it took her an effort. 

"Maggie," I said.  After another second, I said, "Maggie, don't talk.  Don't make 
the effort.  We're going to get you to a hospital.  There'll be an ambulance, 
Maggie, and I'll see you're in it, and we'll get you to the hospital, and--" 

"Mr. Sheldon," she repeated.  "I...disobeyed.  I'm sorry." 

By this time I know I was crying.  "Oh, Christ, Maggie, why?  Why?" 

"I wanted to..."  She coughed.  A bad cough.  She couldn't get out what she 
wanted to tell me.  But I could imagine the gist of it. 

She wanted to see if she could be with other people, and be accepted, even in 
disguise.  She wanted to use the gift she had that didn't point her out as a mutant.  
She wanted to sing, on the day before her people celebrated Jesus's birthday.  
She wanted to sing Christmas carols. 

On a night like tonight, it might be possible for folks to accept a little girl with a 
muffler around her face, and not ask why. 

It would have been worth a spanking, to her. 

I didn't know what to say.  You don't ever know what to say.  But I was 
listening, and I heard a song. 

"Silent night, holy night..." 

She was singing. 

"All is calm, all is bright..." 

About the time she got to the bit about round yon virgin, I was holding her to my 
chest and singing with her.  I didn't even know that I knew all the words, until 
then.  But I do know that when I got to the part in which you sing, "Sleep in 
Heavenly peace" twice... 

...I was singing alone. 

There were a few others around by that time.  Some of them, the carolers.  A 
couple were cops.  I don't know who the rest were, and I didn't care.  Somebody 
said, "Did this--belong to you, mister?" 

I didn't even see them when I said, "She was a little girl.  Her name was 
Maggie." 

 -M- 

To this day, to this very day, I do not know exactly why Maggie insisted on 
trying to run across that highway.  Escape?  Certainly, but there were other ways 
she could have run.  Our suburb was hardly an armed camp.  She probably just 
thought she could make it across before the truck did, and anybody following 
after would have to hesitate till it got past.  That would give her at least a one-
hop lead on her pursuers.  She'd been doing that stuff for years. 

But there was the fatigue factor.  To seal the wounds of the guy who had shot 
himself with his own shotgun, she'd had to use a lot of her sac fluid.  It took an 
effort for her to use her power, tired her out quite a lot with that amount of 
expenditure. Perhaps she was so tired, her reflexes were just a tad off.  Or her 
judgment. 

Then, too, hearing me call her name caused her involuntarily (I hope) to turn at 
just the wrong time.  So I, too, have my guilt in this matter.  I did not mean it to 
happen, but it did.  This stone I will carry for the rest of my life.  I've just gotten 
used to the weight of it. 

Most of the time. 

But one last possibility remains.  Was Maggie finally just tired of the stone she 
had to bear?  After her almost fitting in with a group of humans from outside my 
family, and then having her muffler pulled down a bit by a playful and curious 
five-year-old at the house they visited last, and being chased by an idiot with a 
gun, and knowing that the scenario would be replayed from her earlier years, 
even if she escaped...the hunt, the running, the avoiding, the scrounging for food 
and shelter beneath the eyes of the Outer World that seemed to peer more deeply 
into her shadows every year...and, finally, having to leave me and my family 
behind if she did go on the run again... 

...it may be that she knew full well what she was daring when she ran onto the 
highway, and welcomed it. 

I hope not.  But I cannot know. 

I cannot know. 

 -M- 

What happened afterward I have to reconstruct from the memory of Doris and 
what shards I remember.  The police took me to the station house as the 
ambulance came for Maggie's body.  I wanted to go with her but they wouldn't 
let me.  Doris arrived at the police station as I was making my statement.  I told 
them the truth, plain and simple.  Part of me knew that, tomorrow, Maggie and I 
would probably be in the headlines.  SECRET MUTIE FAMILY LIVING IN 
N.Y. SUBURBS. 

The privacy of my family, the right to our own lives, and especially Beth's and 
Jenny's rights to theirs, would be immolated like a bit of paper in the media 
flame.   Among them would be two newspapers I had worked for. 

Maggie would become a symbol, wouldn't she?  Either of the Monsters In Our 
Neighborhoods or of the Little Girl Mutant Martyr.  Nobody would miss the 
implications of the time of the death, either.  We would lead the news on Walter 
Cronkite's broadcast.  Probably Chet's and David's, too. 

I didn't want it. God help me, I did not want that.  But more than that, more than 
anything, I wanted Maggie back alive. 

After the statement was made, the cop in charge said, "You can go now, sir."  
Just like that.  "You can go now."  I couldn't have made it, I don't think, if Doris 
hadn't been there to help me out to the police car.  A cop drove us both back and 
another one drove our car back.  Jenny and Beth both knew something was 
wrong when, standing on our lawn, they saw both cars pulling up to our drive.  
But there was another car already in the drive, by then. 

"Will you be all right, sir?" asked the cop, as he helped me out. 

"What the hell do you think?" I shot back, and let Doris take my arm. 

The two girls were chorusing in soft Daddy-Moms as they walked us into the 
house.  I got through the doorway and saw two men in our living room.  Both of 
them looked grim.  One of them I had met before. 

"Mister Sheldon," said Professor Xavier.  "I was too late.  I am sorry." 

All four of us broke down in tears, then, and Xavier and his aide left the room. 

 -M- 

So why didn't you read about the Mutant Martyr of the Sheldon Family, or see it 
on TV news, or in a movie of the week some years later? 

Because Professor Xavier came prepared. 

He did not reveal to me exactly what he did, but he was able, in some way, to 
confound the minds of those who participated in the deadly drama of that night.  
Some of them forgot exactly what happened.  Others were prevented from 
revealing it.  The guy with the shotgun, Archie Giles, reportedly just thought he 
saw something spooky outside, tripped, and discharged the gun into his side.  
There was no semi-transparent bandage on him by the time Xavier's treatment 
was done, and he didn't remember it.  Neither did the paramedics who cut it off 
him and replaced it with normal dressings. 

The trucker knew he'd hit a girl.  That was all he knew.  He was released from a 
wrongful death thing.  I didn't see any point in punishing him.  If he was going 
through a fraction of what I was, that was enough. 

The carolers knew they'd seen something, but weren't quite sure what it was.  
Maybe it was the little girl who'd joined them.  The little girl who'd run in front 
of the truck.  They didn't remember what she looked like. But somebody had 
scared her, and she ran off, and boom.  Terrible thing, terrible, terrible thing to 
happen on a Christmas Eve night.  But maybe Jesus had a new angel now. 

At least, that's what they said. 

All of this happened as a result of the conversation I had with Xavier that night, 
hours later, after I left the kids with Doris in their bedroom.  We told them what 
had happened, and they knew mortality head-on for the first time in their brief 
lives.  If anything, they cried harder than we did. 

Xavier sat in his wheelchair at our kitchen table. The young man with him, 
whom he called Robert Drake, sat beside him in a normal chair, and was terribly 
quiet and terribly pained, from the looks of him. 

"Now you know what we face, every day, when someone pulls our mask away, 
Mr. Sheldon," said Xavier, quietly. 

"You sonofa..."  I couldn't even finish the curse. 

He said, "I agree.  If I had taken her in, she would not have died today. But she 
might have been in greater danger, Mr. Sheldon.  Nonetheless, I accept my part 
in the blame of Maggie's death.  I--" He bent his head lower, looking at his lap.  
"There are some--I cannot save," he finished. 

"Can you save any of them, dammit?" I was halfway out of my chair.  "Can 
you?" 

Drake looked at me, and there was fire in his eyes.  "He saved me, Mr. Sheldon.  
He saved me." 

I looked at the youth, and there was something familiar about him.  But nothing 
I could get a handle on. 

"Mr. Sheldon," said Xavier, "I shall do--am, in fact, doing--something similar in 
your case to what I did when I first met young Mr. Drake here, years ago.  The 
persons involved will forget, or be given altered memories.  They will not 
remember the events which took place tonight.  They will remember something 
like them.  But they will not remember you, or your wife.  Or Maggie." 

"Altered memories?"  I wasn't up on psychic mumbo-jumbo, or pod people, or 
anything of that nature. 

Drake spoke up again.  "The Professor has a way of making people not 
remember what he doesn't want them to remember. Call it mass hypnosis.  It 
works, Mr. Sheldon.  I've seen it work." 

Eerie.  But the next thing I said was, "Don't alter my memories.  Not even of 
tonight." 

Xavier nodded. 

I faced the window.  "I want them to know," I said.  "I want them to know about 
Maggie." 

"I know you do, Mr. Sheldon," said Professor Xavier.   "So do I.  Emotionally.  
But are you willing to become what you would have to become, once you told 
her story?" 

I was about to break down again.  "Beth," I said.  "Jenny.  They'd--" Drake was 
coming towards me, to try and help, but I waved him back.  "Not--not right now.  
Not while they're--with us.  If they could..." 

"If they could grow up first, Mr. Sheldon?" 

I turned, looked at him, and breathed outward, hard.  "Maybe.  Maybe long after 
that.  A long time after that." 

"In the book which you are planning to complete?" 

He meant Marvels, the photo-book.  "No.  That's, that's...too soon." 

"Mr. Sheldon," said Xavier, "my security must not be compromised.  I could 
compel you to do this, but I would prefer--" 

"You'd prefer I do it voluntarily," I said, and damned myself for speaking so 
rationally when I wanted to crawl up in a ball and hide under the bed and cry.  
"Okay.  I'll leave you out, when I write about her.  When I write about her the 
first time..." 

I had to spit it out, so after a long pause, I did. 

"...I'll only tell what happened, up to when she left us the first time.  That's tragic 
enough.  Is that all right by you?" 

Xavier nodded.  "And after the first time, Mr. Sheldon?" 

I was sitting down by this time.  "How long should I wait?" 

"Perhaps till after I am gone, Mr. Sheldon," he said.  "Perhaps till after I am 
dead." 

"What if I die first?" 

"Write your story, Mr. Sheldon.  Leave a copy with your family, and a copy 
with me.  We shall agree not to publish it until after my death, and only with the 
permission of those of my students whom you name in it, if you name any of 
them." 

I shook my head.  "Tragedy. The world should learn from it. The world has got 
to learn from it." 

Xavier said, quietly, "The world learns from tragedy, Mr. Sheldon.  Your people 
know that.  But do you wish them to learn of all this tragedy, all at once?" 

I had to say it.  "No," I said. 

"The FBI can deal with the police reports," said Xavier.  "I have dealings of my 
own with them.  May I make another suggestion?" 

"What?" 

"Have her buried on the grounds of my mansion," he said.  "To prevent the 
curiosity of others, to ensure that her memory remains as a reminder to my 
students, and...as a reminder to myself.  Will you allow us to do that, Mr. 
Sheldon?" 

"You can have her buried there?  And still keep her secret?" 

He didn't say anything, but I could feel the yes-message in my mind. 

"All right, then," I said.  "But my family and I must be in attendance." 

"I would insist on it." 

"Mr. Xavier, I..." 

"I understand, Mr. Sheldon.  I understand that you and your family need to be 
alone at this time.  Drake and I will go.  I shall remain in town for a day or so 
longer, until matters are attended to." 

Drake was almost at the back of Xavier's wheelchair when I said, "Wait a 
minute.  Wait a minute, Xavier.  You say you've deal with the FBI, and with 
mutants?" 

The kid looked suspicious, but Xavier just said, "Yes, Mr. Sheldon, to both 
questions." 

"Then I have to ask you...do you know the X-Men?" 

"I have, at times, as I might put it, had dealings with them.  This is a secret of no 
small import, Mr. Sheldon.  To reveal it might cost either of us our lives." 

I was leaning hard on the table.  "I need you to take a message from me.  To the 
X-Men." 

He waited. 

"Tell them about Maggie.  Tell them about what happened, and why it 
happened.  Tell them all." 

Xavier nodded again.  "You may rely upon it, Mr. Sheldon.  You may rely upon 
it." 

"There's more," I said. 

He waited. 

I forced it out.  "Sometime back, when you were on TV, the night of the Mutie 
Riots.  I was with a group of people.  We saw the X-Men.  I..." 

Drake was looking at me quizzically.  I went ahead. 

"...I picked up a brick and hit one of them in the forehead.  The one covered with 
ice.  I hit him.  I guess I didn't know what I was doing.  But I did it." 

Silence. 

"And I'm sorry.  I'm as sorry about that as I've been for anything in my life.  Can 
you tell the X-Men that?  That I was wrong?  And that I hope the ice guy can 
manage to forgive me?" 

It wasn't Xavier who answered me. 

Drake said, "I'll convey the message to the ice guy personally, Mr. Sheldon.  
And I can tell you right now...he'll forgive you.  I know him well enough to say 
that." 

After a pause, Xavier said, "Mr. Sheldon, I've seen to it that your family is 
sleeping, now, hopefully in some degree of peace.  Would you like the same 
treatment?" 

I looked at him, and wondered if I should be horrified.  "Don't walk around in 
my head," I said. 

He looked a bit pained.  "Very well, Mr. Sheldon.  I'll be in touch tomorrow." 

I got to bed.  Doris was already asleep, as were Beth and Jenny, who had made a 
pallet on the floor and were sleeping in our room that night and for a few to 
come.  I could see the marks of tears on Dorrie's makeup, but she seemed to be 
as peaceful as Xavier had assured me she would be. 

Some people have all the luck. 

 -M- 

Don't ask me how Xavier got the coroners and the funeral home establishment to 
forget that they were working on a mutant girl.  If their memories can be altered, 
then they were.  I just never heard about it from them or anybody else.  I don't 
like to think about it. 

I do know that Maggie's funeral, as it was, was held on the grounds of the 
Xavier School three days afterward.  I took Doris, Beth, and Jenny to the 
mansion for the first time.  Despite their grief, they were impressed by the place 
and by the security measures we had to pass through.  The only others in 
attendance by the closed coffin were Xavier, Drake, the big-handed McCoy, the 
one called Scott Summers, and a healthy-looking blonde guy and a pretty 
redheaded girl, both of whom I hadn't met before.  They tried to make us at 
home, as much as they could, but our attention was focused on the small coffin, 
and the one who lay in it. 

In a way, the closed coffin was cruel.  The girls wanted to see her.  I suppose 
Dorrie and I did as well.  But Maggie had her privacy now, and it would not be 
violated.  The only and final privacy we can ever claim. 

Xavier performed the funeral ceremonies himself.  "At last, Maggie has found 
peace," he said.  It should have sounded inadequate, but somehow it didn't.  
Looking at the ones with him, I had a feeling they would have given a lot for 
some peace themselves, as long as it was above the ground. 

He spoke of her hard life, her innocence, her kind deeds, and the kindnesses our 
family had shown her.  I can't recall it all, since I was about as teared-up as the 
girls were, at the time.  But I do recall something he said during the service: 

"The survivors of a loved one often feel the emotion of guilt.  Especially at the 
passing of a child.  The questions come: Why did we not do this?  Why did we 
not do that?  The recriminations: If we had done this, or we had done that, this 
child, Maggie, would be alive today.  But none of us...none of us...are prophets.  
None of us are given the vision of God.  The only faculty we seem to possess in 
that respect is hindsight.  Perhaps even that is not perfectly accurate. 

"But it is perfectly accurate to state this: that Maggie's life on this earth, as 
terrible as it was, was enlightened by the kindness and common humanity of a 
single family, the Sheldons.  They took her in, despite her appearance, despite 
her being branded mutant--or `mutie', if you will--and showed her the love and 
warmth of a family, perhaps in a manner her birth family would have been hard-
put to equal.  They looked beyond the mask, the face that Maggie wore, and saw 
the human being, the precious child within.  They made her last days what her 
entire life should have been: worth living. 

"This is not a small thing, for either her, them, or us.  How few people shielded 
the Sheldon's own kind from the Holocaust?  How many people took the path of 
Corrie Ten Boom, or Oskar Shindler, or those who concealed Anne Frank's 
family, as opposed to those who did not?  Alas, very few, and hardly enough. 
And yet, of those who did, we are told that they are known by a special name 
among the Jews who survived that terrible fate.  They are the Righteous 
Gentiles.  The Righteous Gentiles. 

"When Phil Sheldon and his family were asked to do such a thing, for a new 
race of persecuted people, they looked beyond the banners of `human' or 
`mutant', saw them for the falsities they are, and shielded one small girl from the 
terrors of a hostile world.  The persecution of mutants is hardly on the level of 
the persecution of Jews in times past, but it exists.  This grave before us stands 
testimony to that. 

"But the one in that coffin before us stands testimony to kindness, and love, and 
bravery, and to the perception of a common humanity among homo sapientes 
and homo superior.  When Phil Sheldon was asked what to do with Maggie, the 
first time he saw her, I am told he said, `She's just a little girl.'  Yes.  Just a little 
girl.  As his daughters already knew, and as his wife came to know.  For all her 
appearance, for all her genetic differences, Maggie was nothing more, nothing 
less, than just a little girl. 

"A little girl whose last months of life should give us faith in hope and 
understanding between our peoples.  A little girl whose hell was made more of a 
heaven by their kindness.  And a little girl whose ultimate fate--marked by an 
act of her own kindness, to a man who threatened her--was marked, finally, by a 
kindness of her own. 

"If there was a label to be coined for the Sheldon family, it might be the 
Righteous Humans. 
But such would not be adequate, either for them, or for Maggie.  All that needs 
be said is that, for as long as she lived with them, Maggie and the Sheldons were 
one family.  And that, if we remember it is possible for humans and mutants to 
live together, and to love together, the death of Maggie need not be in vain. 

"Thus, we commit Maggie's body to the Earth, and her soul to Peace." 

I was trying to comfort Dorrie, who was trying to comfort Beth and Jenny.  Five 
of the students were at the six straps used to lower the coffin into the grave.  
They were waiting.  I finally figured out who they were waiting for. 

I got up, took my place at the sixth strap, and slowly said my final goodbye to 
Maggie. 

Except I guess I never really have. 

 -M- 

We told our associates that there had been a death of a family friend without 
getting too specific.  Anything more, we stonewalled.  I don't think anybody put 
it together with the reported death of a girl on the highway on Christmas Eve.  If 
they did, I don't know about it. 

What did we do afterward? 

We did what we had to.  We lived with ourselves, and with our lives. Beth and 
Jenny grew up a lot that year.  Yes, I did eventually see them smile again, and 
laugh again.  But they knew a hell of a lot more about life as a result of that 
four-month crash course we'd experienced. 

It was very hard on Doris, as can be expected.  Losing an adopted daughter, 
which she had in a de facto way, can be almost as hard as losing one's own flesh 
and blood.  Especially if the child was as good a one as Maggie. 

For myself, I functioned, and I finished the MARVELS book, and I took 
pictures and sold them to Jameson and Bushkin.  I eventually climbed out of the 
hole, a step at a time.  Or an f-stop at a time.  The superheroes posed for me, or I 
caught them in action.  Pop, another shot for the files.  Another piece of super-
powered history.  You know it all stopped in 1972, and I don't have to tell you 
here; if you want to know, read my other book. 

Beth and Jenny grew up, made lives for themselves, married, graduated college, 
not all in that order.  Both have become activists of sorts, especially in 
FriendsWatch, the group that tries to keep tabs on Friends of Humanity.  One 
does not, believe me, use the word `mutie' in a conversation around them. 

Doris has continued being my rock and harbor, and I hope I have performed 
some similar duties for her.  I kept taking pictures and getting a paycheck.  I 
wrote two books, one of which was mainly photos and captions. 

This, if and when it is ever published, will be the third. 

My contact with Xavier lessened over the years.  Sometimes he was not 
available at all.  I suppose there are things which are best not speculated on, 
even in the pages of this book.  Perhaps they will not be revealed even by the 
time it sees print. 

But I do know that I feel a great relief at the making of this final revelation.  I 
feel confident that, someday, someone else will know the entire story.  Or at 
least all of it that I could write.  Perhaps someday Beth and Jenny will write 
their own books about it.  Or perhaps they already have. 

Did we learn her last name? Of course we did. But it is of no use to reveal it 
here, as it was of no use to reveal it back then.  Her parents were long gone from 
her life years before we met her.  They know who they are, and, if they read this, 
they will know who she was.  I have no idea if they are alive at all.  I hate to say 
it, but it doesn't matter to me. 

What does matter to me is that, in one part of my life, I was given a second 
chance.  Perhaps I blew it at the end, but I didn't try to.  In as much as I could, I 
tried to give Maggie the home that she needed, that she deserved.  How we 
would have coped with the facts of her becoming an adult, I cannot say.  But we 
would have tried, as hard as we coped with the facts of her childhood. 

And those facts remain very dear to me, and to Dorrie, Beth, and Jenny as well. 

So now you know the whole story, or as much of it as I can tell. 

Perhaps Xavier is dead by the time you read these words.  Perhaps I am, also.  I 
am not so concerned with either of us being remembered, though that would be 
nice. 

There is only one person whom I hope the world never forgets in this story, as I 
never have, and never will. 

Maggie. 
  
  

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******************

Afterword: 

I'm glad so many of you have written and indicated you liked this story.  I 
enjoyed writing it, hated to finish it, perhaps hated the finisher I had to give it 
but knew was coming from the beginning.  Somebody said all stories end in 
death, if you keep them going long enough, and I guess this one went at least 
that long. 

The inspiration for this one came from rereading MARVELS #3, naturally, and, 
after taking in the segment in which Phil Sheldon and his family meet Maggie 
and lose her, doing a mental "What-If?".  But the real impetus was from the 
source upon which Alex Ross based Maggie's visual appearance.  It was from a 
story called "The Loathsome" in EC's WEIRD FANTASY #20 (July-August 
1953), a Wally Wood-drawn tale of another lonely little mutant-girl, and one 
which will tear your heart out if you read it.  If you haven't, by all means, hunt 
up a reprint and do so. 

I don't know there's anything else to add here.  Hopefully, all that's to be said is 
in the story.  Except to say, Thank you for reading, thank you for telling me you 
liked it, and for all the Maggies in the world, let us hope there are Phil Sheldons, 
as well. 

DarkMark 

3 / 26 / 2001 
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