“What does Dr. Colubra think? About this mitochondria bit?”
“That it’s a possibility. Louise thinks the bad flu strain this autumn, which has caused a lot of deaths, may not be flu at all, but mitochondritis.”
“And that’s what Charles maybe has?”
“I don’t know, Meg. I’m trying to find out. When I know something, I will tell you. I’ve already said that. Meanwhile, let me alone.”
Meg took a step backwards, sat down on one of the dining chairs. Her mother never talked in that cold, shutting-out way to her children. It must mean that she was very worried indeed.
Mrs. Murry turned towards Meg with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Megatron. I didn’t mean to be sharp. I’m in the difficult position of knowing more about the possible ailments of mitochondria than almost anybody else today. I didn’t expect to be confronted with the results of my work quite so soon. And I still don’t know enough to tell you— or.Louise—anything definite. Meanwhile, there’s no point in our getting all worried unless we know there’s a real reason. Right now we’d better concentrate on Charles Wallace’s problems at school.”
“Is he well enough to go to school?”
“I think so. For now. I don’t want to take him out until I have to.”
“Why not?”
“He’d just have to go back eventually, Meg, and then things would be harder than ever. If he can just get through these first weeks—“
“Mother, nobody around here has ever known a six-year-old boy like Charles.”
“He’s extremely intelligent. But there was a day when it wasn’t unusual for a twelve- or thirteen-year-old to graduate from Harvard, or Oxford or Cambridge.”
“It’s unusual today. And you and Father can hardly send him to Harvard at six. Anyhow, it isn’t just that he’s intelligent. How does he know what we’re thinking and feeling? I don’t know how much you’ve told him, but he knows an awful lot about mitochondria and farandolae.”
“I’ve told him a reasonable amount.”
“He knows more than a reasonable amount. And he knows you’re worried about him.”
Mrs. Murry perched on one of the high stools by the kitchen counter which divided the work area from the rest of the bright, rambly dining and studying room. She sighed, “You’re right, Meg. Charles Wallace not only has a good mind, he has extraordinary powers of intuition. If he can – learn to discipline and channel them when he grows up—if he—“ She broke off. “I have to think about getting dinner.”
Meg knew when to stop pushing her mother. “I’ll help. What’re we having?” She did not mention Charles Wallace’s dragons. She did not mention Louise the Larger’s strange behavior, nor the shadow of whatever it was they had not quite seen.
“Oh, spaghetti’s easy”—Mrs. Murry pushed a curl of dark red hair back from her forehead—“and good on an autumn night.”
“And we’ve got all the tomatoes and peppers and stuff from the twins’ garden. Mother, I love the twins even when they get in my hair, but Charles—“
“I know, Meg. You and Charles have always had a very special relationship.”
“Mother, I can’t stand what’s happening to him at school.”
“Neither can I, Meg.”
“Then what are you doing about it?”
“We’re trying to do nothing. It would be easy—for now to take Charles out of school. We thought about that immediately, even before he— But Charles Wallace is going to have to live in a world made up of people who don’t think at all in any of the ways that he does, and the sooner he starts learning to get along with them, the better. Neither you nor Charles has the ability to adapt that the twins do.”
“Charles is a lot brighter than the twins.”
“A life form which can’t adapt doesn’t last very long.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Neither do your father and I, Meg. Bear with us. Remember, you do have a tendency to rush in when the best thing to do is wait and be patient for a while.”
“I’m not in the least patient.”
“Is that for my information?” Mrs. Murry took tomatoes, onions, green and red peppers, garlic and leeks, out of the vegetable bin. Then, starting to slice onions into a large, black iron pot, she said thoughtfully, “You know, Meg, you went through a pretty rough time at school yourself.”
“Not as bad as Charles. And I’m not as bright as Charles except maybe in math.”
“Possibly you’re not—though you do tend to underestimate your own particular capacities. What I’m getting at is that you do seem, this year, to be finding school moderately bearable.”
“Mr. Jenkins isn’t there any more. And Calvin O’Keefe is. Calvin’s important. He’s the basketball star and president of the senior class and everything. Anybody Calvin likes is sort of protected by his—his aura.”
“Why do you suppose Calvin likes you?”
“Not because of my beauty, that’s for sure.”
“But he does like you, doesn’t he, Meg?”
“Well, yes, I guess so, but Calvin likes lots of people. And he could have any girl in ‘school if he wanted to.”
“But he chose you, didn’t he?”
Meg could feel herself flushing. She put her hands up to her cheeks. “Well. Yes. But it’s different. It’s because of some of the things we’ve been through together. And we’re friend-friends—I mean, we’re not like most of the other kids.”,
“I’m glad you’re-friend-friends. I’ve become very fond of that skinny, carrot-headed young man.”
Meg laughed. “I think Calvin confuses you with Pallas Athene. You’re his absolute ideal. And he likes all of us. His own family’s certainly a mess. I really think he likes me only because of our family.”
Mrs. Murry sighed. “Stop being self-deprecating, Meg.”
“Maybe at least I can learn to cook as well as you do. Did you know it was one of Calvin’s brothers who beat Charles Wallace up today? I bet he’s upset—I don’t mean Whippy, he couldn’t care less—Calvin. Somebody’s bound to have told him.”
“Do you want to call him?”
“Not me. Not Calvin. I just have to wait. Maybe he’ll come over or something.” She sighed. “I wish life didn’t have to be so complicated. Do you suppose I’ll ever be a double Ph.D. like you, Mother?”
Mrs. Murry looked up from slicing peppers, and laughed. “It’s really not the answer to all problems. There are other solutions. At this point I’m more interested in knowing whether or not I’ve put too many red peppers in the spaghetti sauce; I’ve lost count.”
They had just sat down to dinner when Mr. Murry phoned to tell them that he was going directly from Washington to Brookhaven for a week. Such trips were not unusual for either of their parents, but right now anything that took either her father or mother away struck Meg as sinister. Without much conviction she said, “I hope he has fun. He likes lots of the people there.” But she felt a panicky dependence on having both her parents home at night. It wasn’t only because of her fears for Charles Wallace; it was that suddenly the .whole world Was unsafe and uncertain. Several houses nearby had been broken into that autumn, and while nothing of great value had been taken, drawers had been emptied with casual maliciousness, food dumped on living-room floors, upholstery slashed. Even their safe little village was revealing itself to be unpredictable and irrational and precarious, and while Meg had already begun to understand this with her mind, she had never before felt it with the whole of herself. Now a cold awareness of the uncertainty of all life, no matter how careful the planning, hollowed emptily in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed.
Charles Wallace looked at her and said, unsmilingly, “The best laid plans of mice and men …”
“Gang aft agley,” Sandy finished.
“Man proposes, God disposes,” Dennys added, not to be outdone.
The twins held out their plates for more spaghetti, neither one ever having been known to lose his appetite. “Why does Father have to stay a whole week?” Sandy asked.
“It’s his work, after all,” Dennys said. “Mother, I think you could have put more hot peppers in the sauce.”
“He’s been away a lot this autumn. He ought to stay home with his family at least some of the time. I think the sauce is okay.”
“Of course it’s okay. I just like it a little hotter.”
Meg was not thinking about spaghetti, although she was sprinkling Parmesan over hers. She wondered what their mother would say if Charles Wallace told her about his dragons. If there really were dragons, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, in the north pasture, oughtn’t their parents to know?
Sandy said, “When I grow up I’m going to be a banker and make money. Someone in this family has to stay in the real world.”
“Not that we don’t think science is the real world, Mother,” Dennys said, “but you and Father aren’t practical scientists, you’re theoretical scientists.”