Home Before Home

Their Second Autumn

Like the birds of Earth, the birds of Tara flew south for the winter, fearing (Sarah suspected in one of her rare fanciful moods) that the rains would melt the color from their feathers, making it run off in the deluge and turning them the same dull brown as the winter landscape. The first autumn, when Jill was still an infant, her busy mother had barely noticed the birds, or much of anything else. But by the second one, she had developed an oppressive apprehension regarding the annual migration. In some irrational corner of her psyche, the bright splashes of color were her only companions--inviting her to enjoy the day in the morning, singing her into relaxation in the evening, and keeping her company during the long, light spring and summer days. Their migration felt like desertion, and their impending absence from her life was a heavy burden. The last of them were going now, and as she and Jill watched them from the beach one afternoon in early November, her eyes were stinging with unshed tears.

Lately, she cried much too often.

"Flying." Pointing skyward, she tried to distract the child from her virtually ceaseless crawling. Jill was never still when she could be moving, and had to be watched every moment. There were times when Sarah found it difficult to remember what it had been like to do anything but watch Jill crawl. Pink-skinned, surprisingly plump considering their situation, and perennially filthy, Jill found more than enough to occupy her days and much too much, in her mother's weary estimation, to occupy her mouth. Now she plopped on her round behind and gazed up at the sky. Blue-eyed still, her pale hair wispy around her ears, she formed the word with her mouth and then brought it out in triumph.

"Frine!"

Irritable and bored as she was, Sarah dropped to the sand and hugged her. At fifteen months, Jill showed no inclination to walk; since she could get around just fine without it, she appeared disinclined to try it. But she had been repeating single words for a month, and Sarah had noticed that even Spock was impressed. No doubt Jill had noticed it too. Like any healthy small child, she knew what buttons to push to get her strokes, and pushed them every chance she got.

"They're flying south for the winter." Taking the child on her lap, Sarah tried to continue the conversation, what little there was of it. There was not much conversation to be had elsewhere. Jill repeated the word, but she was already wiggling. Why can't she sit still when I hold her? Sarah wondered. It was clear that the child liked to be held, but whenever Sarah held her, she couldn't seem to keep still.

"Frine," she repeated, examining her mother's fingers. And then she was off again--pat, pat, pat along the beach. The sand was damp and mushy from an early morning rain; this would be the fourth miniature tunic-and-trousers set she had soiled today. Sarah felt her irritation rising, and quelled it. What did it matter? If she didn't have Jill to feed and change and talk to, what else would there be to do on this godforsaken....

Rising, she ambled down the beach after the scuttling baby, her gaze wandering toward the small structure where Spock had been working all day. What else indeed? He had renovated and refinished everything he could get his hands on, and now he was renovating the kennel where the Bounders had kept their research animals, the remains of which the two of them had had to dispose of. The present tenants were also casualties of the holocaust, but in an even more tragic way.

"We should put it down," Sarah had said in despair, cradling the first-found wingless bird in her hands. A healthy, bright-eyed young bird, with stumps where its wings should have been.

"No," Spock had said. "Life is its right." Knowing his people's views on the subject, she had agreed. The bird was still there, still bright-eyed on the perch that Spock had made for it with the Bounders' primitive tools. But it had never sung a note....

One more creature whose life would never be the same.

"Jill," she said abruptly, "let's go home. It's time for dinner."

"Ho," Jill agreed. She couldn't say "dinner" yet, but she knew what it was.

After the initial peace offering, Spock had not permitted Sarah to prepare his food. "That would be...inappropriate," he had insisted when she had questioned him about it, but he would not tell her why. Since he rarely ate anything that could be called a meal, the opportunity for her to prepare it did not often arise, and so the question was seldom open to debate even if Sarah had chosen to debate it. He was a Vulcan, and so she did not doubt that he was eating enough to sustain his life and maintain his health as well as possible in the circumstances. If he chose to do it in solitary, arguing would do her no good.

While she and Jill ate their supper of nuts and fruit, Spock changed venue from the kennel to the house. The window frames needed replacing, he had told her a few weeks before. He would do it before winter. Although it was widely believed that Vulcans cannot lie, she did not believe him. He had even less to occupy his time than she had, and was obviously determined to fix everything fixable, whether it was broken or not.

This evening he chose to work at the window closest to the table, which at first surprised Sarah. But difficult as it was to believe, she soon realized that he had done it to be near Jill. The baby "talked" all the time--in few words that were recognizable as such, but in a conversational tone and with an uncanny habit of looking at the person she was talking to from time to time, as though that person could understand every word. As she mashed, mushed, and annihilated an object that both Spock and Sarah now referred to as a banana, she kept up a constant prattle to Spock, as though she were telling him a long story. Oddly enough, he too would look up from time to time, meet Jill's gaze, and occasionally nod as though to encourage the child to continue.

"Are you in telepathic contact with her?" Sarah had asked when she observed the phenomenon.

"No," he had answered, and volunteered nothing more. So much for that conversation. But since his silent responses appeared to encourage Jill as much as her mother's verbal responses did, Sarah was grateful that he cared to give them. What he actually felt for the child, if anything, she had no idea, since he seldom touched her.

After she had removed the third of the banana that had ended up on Jill's hands and face, the two of them went for another "walk." This time, Jill chose to do her crawling in the vicinity of Spock's labors. Once, when he stepped back while removing the old window frame, the baby was directly behind him.

"Jill," he said quietly, "please move away. I do not wish to step on you." To Sarah's surprise, Jill complied.

"You're so patient with her," she said wistfully. "I would have snapped at her, but you never raise your voice."

"That would serve no purpose." Setting the old frame against the wall, he grasped the new one and raised it until it was opposite the opening.

"Aren't you going to tell me what a rotten mother I am?" she goaded him, desperate to keep the conversation going. Like a kid with a crush, she thought in disgust, blushing a little as she remembered a graphic, erotic dream she had had about him only the night before. And sometimes even in the daytime--

"That would be inaccurate," he said expressionlessly, and after an instant of embarassed confusion she realized that he was simply answering her question. Holding the frame opposite the window opening, he aligned them in the air. "And if it were not, what purpose would there be in my criticizing you?"

"To let off steam. To pass the time. To feel superior. Whatever excuses people find to bicker with each other." Or sexual tension, she thought. Damn him. Damn him.

He set the frame down and reached for sand paper. "I will not play war games with you."

"Did you ever 'play war games' with anyone?"

After a moment, he said, "Yes."

Surprised, she blurted, "Why?"

A faint sigh. "He enjoyed it. I accommodated."

"But you didn't enjoy it, of course."

A short silence. Then, wistfully: "Perhaps I did." But before she could recover from the mild shock this admission elicited, he continued, "And perhaps you may wish to tell me what you are angry about. This time."

"Nothing you can help me with, Mister Spock." He could not possibly know, she thought. Vulcans didn't get horny between Times. Or so it was said; T'Loreth had not discussed that subject with her. Could he possibly know that she watched him move gracefully about his work and fantasized him inside her, thrusting? "You can't solve every problem, you know. You'll just have to learn to live with your limitations."

"As will you." Apparently unaware of her open-mouthed stare, he went on sanding down the window frame, his back to her still. "As you once pointed out, it is just your luck to be marooned on this planet with a prim and proper Vulcan."

"Don't you wish."

It was a blind shot, born of surprise and confusion. She knew without question that he would not read her mind even if he could. How, then, had he guessed?

Then she realized that he had gone completely still for an instant after she spoke.

It was only an instant, and then he went on with his work. "I cannot be of service to you." For once, there was no superiority in his tone. It was a simple statement of fact.

The hell with it. What's to lose? Nowhere to go from here but up. "Do you really think," she asked quietly, "that 'service' is all I want from you?"

"Whatever you want, I cannot give it to you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for both of us."

"Not can't. Won't."

"You do not understand."

"You're right. I don't. Are you telling me that you can't perform as a human male?"

He turned then, eyes slitted, fury barely controlled. "In context, how does a service differ from a performance?"

"Oh, you really know how to get to me, don't you."

Her outburst triggered the control mechanism. She could almost see it snap into place. "I regret that I spoke inappropriately."

"Screw inappropriate!"

"In context, your vocabulary is particularly--"

"Shut up!" Even in her agitation, she had been keeping Jill in her peripheral vision. Satisfied that the child was, for once, not in motion but sitting quietly in the sand, she dropped to the ground from the edge of the porch where she had been sitting, pulled her knees up to her chin, buried her face, and sobbed inconsolably, rocking back and forth in her rage and anguish. I want to go home. Oh, please--I want to go home.... After a moment, Spock glanced at Jill and then returned to his work.

A few feet away, the baby began to rock in empathy, her feet stuck straight out before her in the sand, her face pale and drawn, her blue eyes upturned to watch another flock of migrating birds swerve against the darkening sky as though of one mind. "Fline ho," she whispered, sing-song. "Fline ho. Fline ho...."

Sarah slept restlessly that night. Just before dawn, deeply aware of the stillness where birdsong had been only a few days before, she lay listening as Spock moved with virtual silence from his room to the kitchen table. Did he ever sleep all night long, she wondered as she pulled on her clothes. Joining him at the table, where he sat with his hands folded before a cup of tea made from native aromatic leaves, she folded her hands in kind.

"Do you think we can ever be friends?" The question started out calmly enough, but by the time she finished it, her voice was trembling. "I might not be able to survive this if we can't be friends. I can do without sex if I have to, but I can't do without people."

After a moment, he said, "You have your child." It was not a reprimand. He sounded puzzled.

"Yes. Well...." Sometimes I think I'll go crazy.... But you could only say something like that to a friend. "I mean grown-up people. Spock, why won't you let me fix food for you? You do just about everything around here because Jill takes so much of my time. That's about the only thing I can do for you, and you won't let me do it. I feel--like I'm no use to you. Just a burden." Silence. "All right. Forget why. But a friend--needs to be able to do things for a friend. Please?"

"I cannot permit that...." Not finished. Don't interrupt. Let him finish. "...Yet," he finished, and then added with an obvious effort: "I shall consider it."

"Thank you." In the pale, pre-dawn light, she saw this eyebrows rise. "For listening. For not saying no."

Her sense of well-being, of having accomplished a first step, lasted precisely six point five hours. While Jill was supposedly taking her nap, Sarah brought up on the computer screen the Bounders' specimen catalog, to which she and Spock had been intermittently adding records. It wasn't the work she wanted to be doing, but it was close enough. Losing track of the time, she realized that Jill should have been awake by now, went searching for her, and discovered her in the greenhouse with an incredible amount of good black dirt in her hair, on her clothes, on her chin, and smeared all over the floor.

"Bad girl!" was Sarah's first nearly instinctive reaction. I was doing something fun for a change, and you had to go and--

Jill howled, hurt to the core.

"Don't do that to her." Spock remained in the doorway, but his voice, although not particularly loud, filled the room. Jill, sensing an ally, crawled to him and hid her face against his leg, her first outraged howl moderating to an I-really-need-sympathy snuffle. To Sarah's incredulous surprise, Spock picked the child up and held her in the crook of his arm. Jill, equally surprised, forgot to snuffle and gazed up at his face, her thumb in her mouth. "A child this age is not bad unless you make her believe she is," Spock continued in a more moderate tone. Then confusion set in. He even forgot to control it. "Sarah, I regret that I interfered. It is not my place--"

"No. No." Still half stunned, trying to analyze his reaction, Sarah moved over to hold out her arms, and Jill came to her without hesitation. "It's all right. It's fine. Really." What in the world had made him react that way?

That evening, as they cleaned up the greenhouse together, she asked him.

"Who was it who made you feel 'bad'? Your father or your mother?"

It was a test, and she knew he knew it. If he shut her out now, they would have to start all over again. Scrubbing dirt off the floor, she waited.

"Neither," he said finally. "It was...the Father. Do you...perhaps you are unaware--"

"You mean it was the Vulcan father image, not the m-- not the person."

"Indeed." The word itself was a sigh.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay, then I want to talk." Still scrubbing, she forged on. Either he was there, or he wasn't. "She's my baby, and she's so beautiful I could eat her up. But sometimes I think I will go crazy if I don't get some time away from her."

"Away?" he repeated blankly.

"Away. But there is no 'away,' right? If I could even take her away, it would help. Goddamn it, Spock, if she would only get up and walk. Then she and I could go somewhere and do things."

"What things?"

"I don't know! Just things."

"That is not--" But he stopped himself.

"Right. It's not. But it's true just the same."

"Do you regret choosing to have her?"

"No. Everything is always so black-and-white to you."

"How did you anticipate dealing with this problem if--on Vulcan?"

"I expected to be part of an Extended. Everybody takes care of everybody's kids. I didn't expect to be so isolated, so trapped."

"We are both trapped," he said flatly.

"Thanks a heap." But that was not the way she wanted the conversation to go. "You can get away. You can fly in the 'craft. I can't even take her for a walk."

"What would you expect of your child's father if he were here?"

You are here. He is not. But she held back the sarcastic echo of his own words long ago. Some other time. He wasn't nearly ready for that yet. Sitting back on her heels, she wiped her forehead with her wrist. "Give a damn, Spock. Just give a damn."

By the next morning, he had coaxed the recycler into making her a back pack just big enough to hold a delighted little girl who, nevertheless, could not sit still when she was that close to her mother.

High on peace and good will, Sarah determined to change. With Jill on her back, she hunted for smooth, colorful stones and bright-hued leaves to decorate their table. The tablecloth that she had found in a closet but never used was draped over the table, and while Jill was asleep in the afternoon, Sarah created a centerpiece which came crashing to the floor when Jill tried to pull herself up on the cloth.

"Damn you! Can't I have anything I want?" Then there was a mark on Jill's cheek, slowly reddening, and Sarah and her child stared at each other, both trembling, both appalled, neither able to make a sound.

"Perhaps," came Spock's voice as though from a great distance, "I would do well not to leave her alone with you."

"Why do I always have to work around her?"

Dropping to the floor beside them, Spock took her by the shoulders and shook her once, quit hard. "What alternative do you have?" he demanded, and lowered his hands. At the apex of the triangle, Jill began to rock back and forth, back and forth, still making no sound. When Sarah took her in her arms, the child burrowed against her as though she wanted to hide from the world.

"Why didn't you pick her up this time?" Sarah asked, numb.

"That would have been...unwise." He rose, turned, and left the room. Only the memory of his blazing eyes remained as Sarah continued to hold her now weeping child, knowing that if Jill had gone to Spock, it would have been a long time before she would have sought comfort in her mother's arms again.

And if he had not known that, somehow, what would have become of them?

For a day, Jill and her mother concentrated on making peace with one another. Sarah was patient and kind, and Jill consented to being walked around the room, given that this clumsy, inefficient activity appeared to please her mother inordinately. At bath time, when Sarah's back was turned, she dunked a rag doll that Sarah had made for her out of diapers into the bath water, and announced proudly, "Baff!" When Sarah, exhausted beyond impatience, refused to let her take the sodden wretch to bed with her, she howled herself to sleep.

Spock sat at the computer, apparently oblivious.

Holding the oozing doll, Sarah wandered out onto the beach alone, thinking logical thoughts one after the other. She could get rid of the doll and make another. That was easy enough. Jill would never know the difference. Would she? Still wandering aimlessly, she realized that she had come to the edge of the forest, and that there were two full moons tonight, one high and one low.

She could bury the doll. Just as she and Spock had buried their clothing on such a night as this.

Sitting down, she held the wet cloth in her hands, and it seemed that somehow it was her child she was wanting to bury. Utterly exhausted, she bowed her head, cradling the doll as she had cradled the deformed bird.

"I will never hit a child again," she whispered over and over to the two silent moons and the flickering double shadows. "I will never hit a child again." Finally, rising, she laid the doll in the crotch of a tree, slowly retraced her steps to the house, and sat down at the table.

Spock rose and went into the kitchen. Sarah put her head down on her wrists. When he returned, she heard him set something on the table near her elbow. Without speaking, he returned to the computer.

Raising her head, she saw that he had made her a cup of tea.

A friend needs to be able to do things for a friend.

A wave of sexual longing passed through her, so strong that it frightened her. No, no, NO! she thought, staring at the steaming cup. Don't let it get mixed up with anything else. What will I do if sex gets mixed up with something else? Staring now at the back of his sleek head, she contemplated the life she would have if she were to fall in love with this man. No--with this Vulcan. Contemplated it long and thoroughly as she sipped her tea, while he sat with his back to her, typing at the keyboard.

She had control of little about her life. But that was something that was never, never going to happen to her.

"I accept your gift," she said aloud, noting absently that there was no emotion in her voice except gratitude. "Will you accept mine?" He turned, but his face was in shadow. "When the harvest is in, I think we should all have a real meal. Together. A harvest feast. I think we should eat like pigs, with the tablecloth on, and let Jill smear it up if she wants to. And I think you should let me fix the meal. Can you deal with that?"

The shadow seemed to smile faintly. "Ritual has great importance in the lives of all sapient beings."

"Good. And goodnight." Rising, she took herself to bed, deeply convinced that she could change her life, and would.

Nothing like that was ever going to happen to her.

The next time Sarah caught Jill in the greenhouse, she sat down next to her on the floor. It was very evident what Jill expected her to do; would she ever forget being hit? Sarah drew her onto her lap, and when Jill began to rock, Sarah rocked too.

"No, little one. I'm never going to hit you again."

"Muvver hurt," murmured Jill, her movements becoming more agitated.

"No. I won't ever do it again. I promise."

"No!" Jill echoed. Twisting around, filthy, urgently wanting to be understood, she laid her grimy hand on Sarah's chest, "Muvver hurt!" She touched Sarah's cheek, then withdrew her hand, leaving a smear of black dirt. "Muvver...bad?" she asked hesitantly, fingering the cheek again.

"No." Sarah sighed. "Mother got dirty, just like Jill. The earth is good. Look." Picking up a handful, she smoothed it soothingly over the child's arms, and then her own. "The earth is good. See?"

"Erf good," Jill repeated, sing-song. She leaned back, relaxed, against her mother. "Erf good." She had stopped rocking, and was not even wiggling.

When they returned to the living room, another cup of tea was waiting.

After their harvest feast, Spock asked, "Would you like me to clean this up?" He indicated the table, complete with cloth thoroughly smeared with peas and carrots.

"Know what I'd really like?" she asked, smiling. Picking Jill up, she deposited her in Spock's ambivalent arms. "I'd like you to take this lovely little girl for a long walk. I don't want to see either of you for an hour. Can you deal with that?"

"If you wish." But he quickly set Jill on her feet.

"Kake a walk," Jill echoed approvingly, and they were off, Spock with his arms folded, Jill already moving as fast on her feet as she ever had on her knees.

They had had their meal in the late afternoon, directly after Jill's nap, so that she would not be too tired to enjoy it with them. By the time Sarah had cleared the debris, the sun had almost set, and she stood on the porch, savoring the coolness of the air after the long, hot summer, and wondering idly where Spock and Jill might have gone. Then she heard voices from the side of the house. Moving to the corner, she paused, watching and listening.

"Your father is the captain of a starship," Spock was saying. He sat cross-legged on the ground, facing the delighted baby, who had never had this much undivided attention from him before. His manner was intent, but not somber. He was, Sarah realized with a small shock, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Say 'captain.'" Jill's lips moved, but the challenge was too much for her. Spock made several more attempts, to no avail. Then: "Say 'Yes, sir.'" Articulating precisely: "'Yes-sir.'"

"Esser!" The baby threw up her arms, utterly delighted with herself. And Spock laughed. Sarah could barely hear him. There was a brief, unfamiliar rumbling, and then silence. But if he felt regret, he did not show it. Sitting there in the dusk with her child, he smiled a smile that Sarah had never seen before.

Making no sound, she moved back to the porch and sat on the edge of it, hugging herself. It was chilly now, with a light breeze coming over the lake. But she was on fire.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered. Lying there night after night alone, feeling like this? "Can't love him. Can't get it all mixed up. Can't love him. What am I going to do...."

In the kennel beyond Spock and Jill, a wingless bird began to sing.