I didn’t get very far before I found a jackrabbit lying in the middle of the arroyo half dead (but half alive, too), all bit and torn. I’ll bet I’m the one that scared off whatever it was that did that. That rabbit was a goner if I didn’t rescue it. I was a little afraid because wounded rabbits bite. Grandma’s cape was just the right thing to wrap it in so it wouldn’t.
Those jackrabbits weigh a lot. And with the added weight of the cape.…
Well, all I did was sprain my ankle. I mean I wasn’t really hurt. I always have the knife Grandma gave me. I cut some strips off the cape and bound myself up good and tight. It isn’t as if Grandma has a lot of capes. This is her only one. I felt bad about cutting it. I put the rabbit across my shoulders. It was slow going but I wasn’t leaving the rabbit for whatever it was to finish eating it. It began to be twilight. Grandma knows I can’t see well in twilight. The trouble is, though she used to see like an eagle, Grandma can’t see very well anymore either.
She tried to fly, as she used to do. She did fly. For my sake. She skimmed along just barely above the sage and bitterbrush, her feet snagging at the taller ones. That was all the lift she could get. I could see, by the way she leaned and flopped like a dolphin, that she was trying to get higher. She was calling, “Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Where are yooooowwww?” Her voice was almost as loud as it used to be. It echoed all across the mountains.
“Grandma, go back. I’ll be all right.” My voice can be loud, too.
She heard me. Her ears are still as sharp as a mule’s.
The way she flew was kind of like she rides a bicycle. All wobbly. Veering off from side to side, up and down, too. I knew she would crack up. And she looked funny flying around in her print dress. She only has one costume and I was wearing it.
“Grandma, go back. Please go back.”
She wasn’t at all like she used to be. A little fall like that from just a few feet up would never have hurt her a couple of years ago. Or even last year. Even if, as she did, she landed on her head.
I covered her with sand and brush as best I could. No doubt whatever was about to eat the rabbit would come gnaw on her. She wouldn’t mind. She always said she wanted to give herself back to the land. She used to quote, I don’t know from where, “All to the soil, nothing to the grave.” Getting eaten is sort of like going to the soil.
I don’t dare tell people what happened—that it was all my fault that I got myself in trouble sort of on purpose, trying to be like her, trying to rescue something.
But I’m not as sad as you might think. I knew she would die pretty soon anyway and this is a better way than in bed looking at the ceiling, maybe in pain. If that had happened, she wouldn’t have complained. She’d not have said a word, trying not to be a bother. Nobody would have known about the pain except me. I would have had to grit my teeth against her pain the whole time.
I haven’t told anybody partly because I’m waiting to figure things out. I’m here all by myself, but I’m good at looking after things. There are those who check on us every weekend—people who are paid to do it. I wave at them. “All okay.” I mouth it. The president of the Town and Country Bank came out once. I told him Grandma wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t exactly a lie. How long can this go on? He’ll be the one who finds out first—if anybody does. Maybe they won’t.
I’m nursing my jackrabbit. We’re friends now. He’s getting better fast. Pretty soon I’ll let him go off to be a rabbit. But he might rather stay here with me.
I’m wearing Grandma’s costume most of the time now. I sleep in it. It makes me feel safe. I’m doing my own little rescues as usual. (The vegetable garden is full of happy weeds. I keep the bird feeder going. I leave scraps out for the skunk.) Those count—almost as much as Grandma’s rescues did. Anyway, I know the weeds think so.
THE GIFT BEARER, by Charles L. Fontenay
It was one of those rare strokes of poetic something-or-other that the whole business occurred the morning after the stormy meeting of the Traskmore censorship board.
Like the good general he was, Richard J. Montcalm had foreseen trouble at this meeting, for it was the boldest invasion yet into the territory of evil and laxity. His forces were marshaled. Several of the town’s ministers who had been with him on other issues had balked on this one, but he had three of them present, as well as heads of several women’s clubs.
As he had anticipated, the irresponsible liberals were present to do battle, headed by red-haired Patrick Levitt.
“This board,” said Levitt in his strong, sarcastic voice, “has gone too far. It was all right to get rid of the actual filth…and everyone will agree there was some. But when you banned the sale of some magazines and books because they had racy covers or because the contents were a little too sophisticated to suit the taste of members of this board…well, you can carry protection of our youth to the point of insulting the intelligence of adults who have a right to read what they want to.”
“You’re talking about something that’s already in the past, Mr. Levitt,” said Montcalm mildly. “Let’s keep to the issue at hand. You won’t deny that children see this indecent statue every day?”
“No, I won’t deny it!” snapped Levitt. “Why shouldn’t they see it? They can see the plate of the original in the encyclopaedia. It’s a fine copy of a work of art.”
Montcalm waited for some rebuttal from his supporters, but none was forthcoming. On this matter, they apparently were unwilling to go farther than the moral backing of their presence.
“I do not consider the statue of a naked woman art, even if it is called ‘Dawn,’” he said bitingly. He looked at his two colleagues and received their nods of acquiescence. He ruled: “The statue must be removed from the park and from public view.”
Levitt had one parting shot.
“Would it solve the board’s problem if we put a brassiere and panties on the statue?” he demanded.
“Mr. Levitt’s levity is not amusing. The board has ruled,” said Montcalm coldly, arising to signify the end of the meeting.
* * * *
That night Montcalm slept the satisfied sleep of the just.
He awoke shortly after dawn to find a strange, utterly beautiful naked woman in his bedroom. For a bemused instant Montcalm thought the statue of Dawn in the park had come to haunt him. His mouth fell open but he was unable to speak.
“Take me to your President,” said the naked woman musically, with an accent that could have been Martian.
Mrs. Montcalm awoke.
“What’s that? What is it, Richard?” she asked sleepily.
“Don’t look, Millie!” exclaimed Montcalm, clapping a hand over her eyes.
“Nonsense!” she snapped, pushing his hand aside and sitting up. She gasped and her eyes went wide, and in an instinctive, unreasonable reaction she clutched the covers up around her own nightgowned bosom.
“Who are you, young woman?” demanded Montcalm indignantly. “How did you get in here?”
“I am a visitor from what you would call an alien planet,” she said. “Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “it isn’t alien to me.”
“The woman’s mad,” said Montcalm to his wife. A warning noise sounded in the adjoining bedroom. Alarmed, he instructed: “Go and keep the children out of here until I can get her to put on some clothes. They mustn’t see her like this.”
Mrs. Montcalm got out of bed, but she gave her husband a searching glance.
“Are you sure I can trust you in here with her?” she asked.
“Millie!” exclaimed Montcalm sternly, shocked. She dropped her eyes and left the room. When the door closed behind her, he turned to the strange