Now:
Alice wasn’t sure what she expected.
She’d heard from both Janesha Craig and Freddy Ali that a Neanderthal family had moved into Bolton. The rumor was there was a boy and he’d be in school today. Home room came and went. Rumors washed over the school: He’d come and decided the school was too intimidating, the school wasn’t good enough for him, he wasn’t good enough for the school, the secret service decided security wasn’t sufficient, he’d run away from the secret service. The rumors agreed on one thing: He was here in town and he wasn’t coming to Bolton Middle School.
“I bet there is no Neanderthal,” Alice whispered to Janesha in third period. “I bet it was just someone who had himself modified to look like a Neanderthal.”
Janesha thought for a moment. “Then they better have a good lawyer,” she said. “My Daddy was on the Mattel team against a Neanderthal form copyright suit last year? And he said Mattel never had a chance. And that was just over that silly action doll and not an actual modified person.” Janesha shook her head. “Daddy says everything’s covered by copyright. Nothing left for us but piercing and scarification. Boring.”
Neanderthals had been all over the news as long as Alice could remember, brokering a peace deal in Malaysia, managing environmental reconstruction in Brazil. It seemed like every Social Studies class had some current events topic in which they figured prominently. She especially liked the restoration of the Brazilian highlands. But she’d never seen a Neanderthal in the flesh.
When she had a chance, Alice looked up Neanderthals. They were recreated fifty or sixty years ago from a frozen Neanderthal woman found under the retreating Paradies Glacier. Now they had two reservations—one in North Dakota and the other near Basel, Switzerland. She could access all the technical literature she wanted, and if she ever wanted to learn about nucleotide differences and phenotypic expression of hox complexes, she’d know right where to look. Just not right now, thank you very much. But there was next to nothing about their likes or dislikes, culture or marriage practices. She lowered the credibility rating and found out it was really the Neanderthals that had caused the melting of the Greenland glaciers, triggering the coastal flooding and collapse of the arctic fisheries at the same time. Neanderthals used up rationed power for their own purposes, thus causing the brownouts. That was how they melted the glaciers. Neanderthals had penises the size of your arm—and you could, too! Neanderthal girls were born with beards. Don’t make a Neanderthal mad; he’ll rip off your head and crap down your neck. Really. No fooling. Really.
In other words, only Neanderthals knew about Neanderthals, and they weren’t talking.
Then:
Tom Nicholson spoke to himself under his breath as he wrote the words. “Outside of Antarctica, the glaciers of Greenland are the largest on earth.”
He liked writing with a pencil, by hand, on white ruled paper. He liked the smoothness of the sheet, the texture of the graphite on the paper, the feeling of the tiny yellow pencil impossibly dwarfed by his huge hand. Later, he’d scan or dictate the report into his computer. But for now, he enjoyed just writing it out.
“The warming trend now seems irreversible,” Tom continued. “But even so, it will be fifty years or more before the Greenland Glacier is completely melted. The consequences—”
“Tom?” called his mother from downstairs.
“Working on my paper, Mom,” he answered.
“Come on down,” Agatha called up.
Tom sighed and slipped off the chair. He stretched for a moment. He should figure out how to cushion the chair to fit the curve of his back. One of these days.
He started to jump down the stairs, checked himself. While it was fun to jump the full length down to the landing, the noise scared Mom. Tom walked down instead.
He turned the corner into the kitchen. She was waiting for him, standing next to a small table with a cake on it. On the corner counter was a continuous news feed. This time it was environmental destruction in Brazil and how the denuded rainforest was being destroyed by an unconfined Amazon River. He ignored it. There was always something on. Mom was a news junkie. Tom stopped in front of the cake. It wasn’t his birthday. Not Christmas. Then, he had it.
“Conception Day.” He laughed.
“You forgot?”
“Hey, I bet most people would forget once in a while if they had two birthdays.”
Agatha nodded and led him into the kitchen.
It was chocolate with bananas. Nice. “Any ketchup?”
Wordlessly, she pulled a bottle out of the refrigerator and set it in front of him.
“The paper’s almost done,” Tom mumbled around a piece of red-smeared cake. “I can hand it in later today.”
Agatha nodded absently and sat across the table from him. “You’re fifteen now.”
“Not until spring, Mom. It’s Conception Day. Not Birth Day.”
“Would you like to be home schooled?”
Tom chewed on a piece of cake so he didn’t have to answer immediately. He glanced at his mother warily. “No,” he said after he had swallowed.
“Are you sure?”
‘‘Mom, I like school. Absarokee is fine. I got friends there.”
“Other modified children.”
“Not all of them but some. Yes. Modified just like me. We have a good time together.”
“You could learn more at home. I could teach you.”
“Mom. I like school. I want to stay. In school. Okay?”
“All right.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands. “You are fourteen years old, after all. You should be able to make some of your own decisions.”
Great. Now he had hurt her feelings. It was only the two of them. Agatha had told him about an anonymous sperm donor when he was six. Tom had never wondered much about his absent father. He’d read about kids so desperate to know their fathers they’d traveled hundreds or thousands of miles to meet them. He didn’t understand it. What did he need with some man he’d never met?
“I only want what’s best for you,” she said distantly.
‘‘I know. But I’m doing okay at school.”
‘‘I know.”
Tom bit his lip. He really didn’t want to get into this. But if he didn’t, who knew what might come later? “Is there something wrong?”
“No.”
“This is about Kurt Nakana, isn’t it? His mom called, right? I just picked him up and held him. I didn’t hurt him. I know the rules. I was careful. But he kept after me about looking different. He hit me a couple of times, but I didn’t think anything of it. And then he picked up a rock. Somebody was going to get hurt. Not me, maybe. But Sol isn’t very strong. Rahul looks like a wolf boy, but he scares easy. Kurt wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I took the rock away and held him up in the air until he started crying. I wanted him scared. But that’s all that happened. I swear!”
His mother watched him for a moment. She put her hand on his. “I’m not concerned about Kurt Nakana. I’m sure you didn’t do anything I wouldn’t be proud of.”
“Then why all the worry about school?”
‘‘Go on. You’ll be late.”
Now:
Alice used her personal project time to see if there actually was a Neanderthal in Bolton. There was no news about Neanderthals, of course. Whenever she searched for news about Neanderthal families, minus all the political rot, she found no more than articles on old Tom Nicholson, P’Chk Pandit Nicholson, and the relentless Neanderthal use of public privacy laws.
But the real estate records were a matter of public record and easily accessible.
Alice looked at properties recently bought and sold, figuring Neanderthals would buy rather than rent so they could renovate a house to suit their needs and because they could probably get better privacy. She found three sales that might suit and after school, she lied to her mother. Then she told Janesha she was going looking for cave men.
“Want to come along?” Alice zipped up her backpack.
“You have got to be kidding. I’d rather do homework,” Janesha said with a smile. “But have fun. Maybe he’s cute.”
“Don’t be mental.”
The second sale was on a cul-de-sac not far from home. It was a nondescript white ranch house with a slab porch. The property butted up against park land. The yard was trimmed but uninspired. There were no flowers, but a small fruit tree grew in the middle of the front lawn. A boy sat at a picnic bench, writing in a notebook. From the slant of his neck and size of his shoulders, Alice guessed she had found pay dirt.
When the boy looked up, she knew she was right.
They stared at each other for a moment. Then the boy closed the notebook and walked over to her.
“Bill Nicholson,” he said and held out his hand. “I’m the Neanderthal you must be looking for.”
Bill was shorter than she was—he couldn’t have been more than five-three—but broad. He wore a T-shirt that had a picture of a gerbil tightly wrapped in black tape labeled “Spastic Holocaust.” Not a great band, but not bad. He wore thin shorts even through there was a hint of frost in the air. Maybe the cold didn’t bother him. Alice noticed the muscles in his arms and the size of his hands, the thick cords of his legs. Even Tim Matthias, who had been in gymnastics since he was three, didn’t have muscles like that. Bill looked like he could toss Tim over the top of the school.
He had black eyes marked with thin white streaks and a hint of laughter. That’s what struck her then: Bill looked like he was about to laugh. Not at anything particular. Just in general.
“Who says I’m looking for anybody?” This close, she could smell him, a dusty, papery smell. Like old books, but completely different.
“I know the neighbors. You don’t live around here. And nobody is going to walk up this road by accident; they’re going to be looking for one of us—me or Tom. You’re too young to be a reporter—and they would know better than to look for one of us anyway. So: it’s either celebrity hunting for Tom or some high school girl looking for the new Neanderthal in town.”
“Tom?”
“Old Tom Nicholson is visiting us,” Bill said. “You want to stay for dinner?”
“Tom.” She blinked at him, not immediately comprehending. “Tom Nicholson? The first Neanderthal?”
“You catch on quick, “ Bill grinned at her. “He flew in last night from Basel. You have a name?”
“Alice.” Alice felt suddenly shy. Tom was famous.
Bill picked up on it. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. You’ll like him. Raised by humans to be a regular guy.”
“Oh.” She made the connection. “So, is he your grandfather?”
Bill laughed, a sound like a bass drum being pounded by walnuts. “It’s only been three generations. Truth is we’re all related. And just to confuse matters, a lot of Neanderthals take the Nicholson name to spread the blame.” He grinned at her.
She stared at him. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Was it a joke? “Who’s to blame?”
Bill chuckled. “Exactly. We’ll get along just fine.”
Then:
The discussion in biology class was on organ modification. The instant the subject came up, the class looked at Tom and Rahul. It bothered Rahul but Tom didn’t mind. After all, wasn’t Rahul the spitting image of Jack Brubaker, the Wolf Man? Wasn’t Tom, himself, the perfect representation of the Swiss Ice Maiden? That is, if she weren’t dead. If she hadn’t been frozen thirty thousand years ago. If she were male.
It was just the nature of the town. The first whole body modification had been publicly uncovered here in Absarokee when that reporter discovered the Wolf Man. People interested in variations on the human theme tended to settle here. There was nothing special about it. Everybody started out from the same human embryo.
Class ended and Tom made his way to the gym. As he walked past Price’s math class, he saw Kurt Nokana watching him.
The locker room was quiet. The current PE class was still in the gym and the next class hadn’t arrived. He grinned. Tom liked to change by himself.
What he’d said to his mother was only generally true. He did like school. He did have friends. But that didn’t mean the school didn’t have its share of idiots. Kurt Nokana didn’t stand alone. Tom liked baggy clothes that hid the differences in his physique and he could meet taunts with a smile. The modifications his mother had purchased included strength and speed the others couldn’t match. Nobody in his right mind would fight him. But kids were like dogs; they gained strength in numbers. His big hands, slope shoulders and slanted face couldn’t be hidden. They invited the pack’s interest. Tom didn’t like to give them any extra opportunities.
Sol was standing next to the wall when Tom came down the row of lockers. Oh, well. Sol was better company than some.
“Sol,” Tom said gently. “You have to change. We’re playing baseball today.”
Sol shook his head. “Catolico Rojo bomb threat in New York again. I saw it on the bus.”
“That’s got nothing to do with us out here. Not today. You need to change your clothes.”
“Don’t want to.” He looked completely miserable.
Tom could see what was coming clearly now. Sol was going to start whining during baseball. Kurt or one of his friends would do something to Sol, something calculated to cause one of Sol’s spinning seizures. They’d stand around Sol, laughing at him when he couldn’t stop walking in a circle. Tom wondered if Sol’s parents thought Sol’s enhanced math ability was worth it.
Then, when Coach Driscoll was distracted, Kurt would have his chance at pay back against Tom. It could be something innocent—yanking Tom’s pants down or something—but Tom doubted it. Kurt had already learned he couldn’t embarrass Tom. You had to care what the pack thought to be embarrassed. Tom was perfectly able to pull up his shorts without stopping play. And what was worse, Tom had embarrassed Kurt in a test of strength the way an adult would calm down a toddler. Kurt needed visible effect. That meant something more serious.
Tom sighed. It seemed to him he wasted a lot of time figuring people out. Did people like Kurt even realize what they were planning or did they think things just happened to them? As far as Tom could tell, most people never knew what they were going to do.
Tom wasn’t ready to face Kurt just yet. Tom chuckled. Kurt was the alpha male in his monkey group. Stronger and louder than the rest of them. But to get revenge on Tom, he had to use someone as weak as Sol.
He thought it through, then stood up and walked over to Sol. Sol was crying quietly. Pretty funny any way you look at it.
“Be quiet, Sol,” Tom said softly.
Sol shrugged. “Can’t.”
Tom slapped him gently.
Sol shook. Then, slowly and steadily, he began to turn in place.
Tom arrested the spin and got him to walk outside the locker room to the hall. As soon as Tom let Sol go, Sol began spinning again.
Vice Principal Brigham was walking down the hall.
“It’s Sol Pearson, sir,” Tom told him. ‘‘He’s having a seizure. He gets them all the time.”
“I know that,” Brigham snapped. He was one of those teachers who didn’t like children. “I’ll take him to the nurse.”
“Thank you, sir.”
By the time Kurt and his buddies reached the field, Tom was hitting pop flies to the coach.
“Hey, guys,” he said cheerily. “Ready to play ball?”
Now:
Alice didn’t know what to expect from a house filled with Neanderthals. On the porch was a worn cane bottom chair. As they walked up the driveway, an older Neanderthal opened the door and stepped out. “Hey, Bill,” he said.
“Hi, Dad. Alice, this is my dad, Sidney Nicholson. “
Bill’s father looked past him. “Bill! You brought somebody for dinner. How thoughtful.” He grinned.
Alice had a sudden image of the main entrée.
Mister Nicholson waved at her. “Got you. Saw it on your face. We’re vegetarians.”
“Really?” Alice was surprised. It didn’t fit.
“Yeah,” Bill said. “Doesn’t taste the same if you don’t kill it yourself.”
Alice stared at him. “Is that a joke?”
Bill stared back. “Not if I have to explain it.”
Sidney chuckled. “Go on in and get a soda or something. Frieda got to be a little much so I came out here for a rest. I’ll be in directly.”
“Frieda?” Alice murmured as they stepped through the door.
“Sidney’s wife.”
“And your mom?”
Bill shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
The house opened to the living room. One wall had been turned active and there were various windows open here and there on different landscapes and a few news stations Alice didn’t recognize. But on one she recognized P’Chk Nicholson making a speech; she knew him from assignments in Mrs. Dalglen’s class. There was a Neanderthal in an adjacent window commenting on the image in a guttural, clicking language.
Bill followed her gaze. “All news. All Neanderthal. All the time. Come on.”
Frieda was in the kitchen cooking something with garlic in it. Alice could smell that much. She was taller than either Sidney or Bill, pale and fully human. Now, Alice was really confused.
Frieda glanced up from the stove, saw Alice past Bill. “She better not be a girlfriend.”
Alice barked a short laugh, more out of surprise than anything else. Bill smiled at her.
Frieda turned back to her stove. “You say that now. But then he gets under your skin and the next minute you’re married to him. Believe me, I know.”
Bill stepped up behind her and kissed her cheek. “Come on, Frieda. Don’t you love us?”
“What do you know about love?” She pushed him away. “You or your father.”
“Everything you taught us. Where’s Tom?”
“In the back. Dinner in twenty minutes. Get out of here.”
“She’s not your mother, is she?” asked Alice as they walked down the hall.
“Hardly. It’s—”
“—complicated. You said.”
Bill nodded, unfazed. “We do things differently. Partly because we’re not human and partly because we only got started a few decades ago. The Mothers raise us until we’re of age. Then, we move in with the Fathers. That happens most of the time. But I like Sidney—he’s not just someone who took me in. He’s my real dad—and he has a human wife. So the Fathers allowed me to come down here with him. In a couple of years, I’ll go back to the reservation and sire a few kids. Then, it’s time to go to work.”
“Your marriages are . . . arranged?” Alice was appalled.
“We don’t usually get married at all. Just the Fathers and the Mothers. Sometimes, people pair up, but not all that often. Neanderthals don’t pair bond the same way as humans.”
“Sidney did.”
Bill smiled thinly. “Yeah. We’re still trying to figure that one out.”
The hall ended in the back porch. Instead of a slab with a narrow roof over it, as in the front porch, this was an enclosed deck. The sun was getting low in the west and the light on the porch was golden.
An old man sat in a captain’s chair facing the sun. He looked old. Thin and used up. His fingers were curled into loose fists and the skin was blotched. But Tom Nicholson couldn’t be much more than fifty. Sixty, tops. She’d read that much. He looked twice that age. His head leaned to one side and he was snoring softly. A cane leaned against the wall in front of him.
“Have a seat,” Bill gestured to one of the other chairs.
“What do we do now?” Alice sat as far from Tom as she could.
“Wait for him to wake up.” Bill settled himself down, comfortably. “Or until dinner...”
