They told him the woman was his mother, but he knew better. His sisters had been assigned a different fake mother, in another state. He wondered why this was part of the plan, two fake mothers. If he could just understand what their plan was. There was only one person he could trust to ask, but they'd never let him talk to Grandfather – and it was his own fault. He'd let himself be caught.
The fake mother showed him a birth certificate, trying to prove she really was his mother. It said he was illegitimate. He was surprised that they would tell such a clumsy lie; he'd expected them to be craftier. She showed him pictures, too, of herself with a baby she claimed was him. But it could be any baby.
He tried to reach back six years and remember his real mother. All he could capture were vague impressions: her long frizzy brown hair, a fragment of a tune she used to hum. The fake mother had short hair, but she had the scent right. She used a lavender soap, just like his real mother. The fake mother's friends said he looked like her, but he was blonder, more fair–skinned, with broader features.
He ached for the familiar, for Grandfather's cracked hands, for the velvety blue color of the Rocky Mountain skyline. Minnesota was too flat, too humid and buggy. It felt crowded without the endless vistas of the ranch and the mountains.
He wondered what they planned on doing with him. He'd asked the same question of everyone: the police who'd stormed the ranch and dragged him away, the social workers who kept visiting this house, and the fake mother herself. Each time, he got the same answer: Nothing. You're home now. He knew better than to believe them, of course. Finally the fake mother asked, "What could anyone possibly want to do with you? You're only twelve." But Grandfather had warned him how subtle their plots could be. Any seemingly innocent question could be the start of an interrogation. He might have some shred of information that was important to their schemes. If he resisted openly, they might resort to torture, or even hurt his sisters. He had to play along, pretend to believe she was really his mother. He wondered, though, if Grandfather would think he was cowardly.
He'd been a coward at the ranch, and he'd let Grandfather down. He was supposed to get the guns if anything went wrong. He should have blown up the house, rather than let himself and his sisters fall into evil hands. But his sisters had been so scared, the younger one crying hysterically, and the fear had drenched the room until he was soaked with it. He sat listening to the battle outside, paralyzed as if he was already handcuffed, until it was too late.
And then the police had smashed the door and exploded into the house. It seemed like hundreds of them. One officer, a tall man older than the others, knelt down in front of his youngest sister. "It'll be all right now," he said. "We'll take you to a safe place." He reached out slowly.
With the volume only a six–year–old could muster, she screamed, "Get your Jew hands off me!"
Had it really been four months since then? He thought longingly of Grandfather, his kind face and carefully taught lessons. Grandfather hadn't hidden the ugly things from them, the danger, the importance of being soldiers in the coming war. But he also taught them about love, and told them how special they were. He'd wanted so much for Grandfather to be proud of him.
The fake mother said Grandfather had brainwashed them. But he knew the truth, that most white people were brainwashed by the Jewish Communist media. The newspapers were full of lies. To get the truth, you had to read the race-conscious papers. The fake mother wouldn't let him, of course. She didn't know he could access them on the Internet as soon as her back was turned.
He tensed as he slipped into her bedroom and sat down at the computer. She was busy cooking dinner, and she'd hardly noticed when he said he was going upstairs to do his homework. The room felt alien, with its frilly blue bedspread and matching curtains. They hadn't had curtains at the ranch, or even sheets on the beds. Even more mysterious was the vanity table, with its assortment of strange feminine colorings and scents. At least the reflection in the mirror still looked like himself, straw-colored hair with nearly invisible brows and lashes, gold freckles on pale skin. A proper Aryan boy.
The computer hummed to life, and he found a reference to Grandfather in the online Race Papers. "Another soldier has been captured, and is being held prisoner by the Jewdicials in Colorado. The storm troopers' outrageous attack on his private ranch endangered his three grandchildren, ages 12, 8, and 6, whom he had raised since their father became a prisoner of war six years ago." It was such a relief to see the truth in print. At least he knew he wasn't crazy.
Nothing in there about his failure. They probably didn't know the details of what happened. He should have tried harder, acted like a big boy. But he'd panicked, he'd failed. Now they were all prisoners.
"What the hell is that?" The fake mother appeared behind him. "More of your grandfather's racist crap!"
"It's the truth! The truth you won't see in your Communist newspapers!"
To his surprise, she burst out laughing. "Communist? Nobody's a Communist anymore. Not even in Russia."
"The Jews are Communists." He knew this the way he knew ABC's, the way he knew how to tie his shoes or slaughter a chicken for dinner.
"Do you even know what a Jew is? I'll bet you wouldn't know a Jew if you tripped over one."
"You're a Jew."
He knew he'd said too much. She was part of the plot, after all. He was supposed to play along. Her only response was a tightening around her mouth.
And she was right: he didn't know who was a Jew and who was just a dupe. The race-conscious papers had cartoons of Jews with bushy hair and big beaky noses, but Grandfather said some Jews looked just like normal people. That's why they were more dangerous than the mud people, who were cursed with dark skin. Grandfather said the mud people were descended from monkeys, but regular people weren't. Jews, of course, came directly from Satan. Maybe the fake mother was just one of their tools.
He tried a different tactic. "I just wanted to see if they wrote anything about Grandfather. I miss him. Can we go see him?" She gave him a perturbed look, but he pressed on. "I know he's in jail and everything, but people can still visit, right?"
"I don't think so, honey." Her thin mouth tried a smile that didn't get anywhere near her eyes. "I'm sorry, I know it's hard for you, being in a new home and all. But I don't think it's right."
He hadn't really expected any other answer, but it distracted her from being angry.
She sat down next to him. "What was it like with your grandfather? I mean, what did you do all day?"
Suspicion buzzed inside his head. Here it came. The interrogation. She was one of them for sure, so he'd better choose his words carefully. "Oh, you know. He taught us things. Reading and math and history. Especially history."
"His idea of history...." She stopped herself. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to start an argument. Tell me what else you did."
"Well, we had to run laps every day. And we had lots of chores, feeding the animals and keeping the place up and learning to..." he'd been about to say shoot, "...you know, to do different things. And he taught us how to pray. He said you don't pray for the things you want, you just give thanks to God and ask to know His will."
"Didn't it get lonely? Just you and him and the girls?"
The hum of suspicion in his brain switched into a higher key. Anyone else would have missed what she was doing, but Grandfather had taught him well. They'd had lots of visitors on the ranch, but she wouldn't hear it from him.
"Well, you know, I never really thought about it. I was always with my sisters."
"You miss them, huh?"
He nodded glumly.
"We can try to call them again. I'll see if their mom will let you talk to them. But she was pretty upset after the things you said last time."
The last call had been more upsetting for him than for anyone. His sisters had sounded giggly and happy. They were even calling their fake mother "Mama." He tried to remind them about Grandfather, about being patriots in God's war. But their fake mother had been listening on the other extension, and angrily told him to get off her phone.
Now he looked up at his fake mother. "What about my dad? Can I see him?"
"No. I don't want you talking to him either. I don't like the things he says."
He let a little peevishness creep into his voice. "Then why did you have me?"
She gave that a moment's thought. "Your dad and I used to love each other. I always knew he was kind of a racist, but at first I didn't mind that much. I thought he was just more honest than most people. I mean, I'd just lost out on a job because they promoted some black lady instead of me, and I was pretty mad about that. I don't think that's right. And I hate all those people being on welfare. But the more I was with him, the weirder he got. When he started talking about race wars and Hitler, that was it. I decided he was too nuts for me, and I left."
"You just took me away from him?"
"To be honest, honey, I was scared of him by then. I was kind of relieved when he took up with that other lady, what's her name, Daphne? Your sisters' mom."
"And then the Judicials took him to jail." Right after his real mother died, but he didn't say that.
"After he stole some guns. I thought at least you'd be safe out of his reach. But one day some men broke into the house with guns, and ran off with you."
Something tingled in the far reaches of his memory. Something about a man with a hairy face, holding him with one arm, his mouth full of the man's beard. He could see another stranger across the room, a dark object glinting in his hand. A woman – his mother? – was screaming No!
That must have been the day his real mother was killed. Grandfather had told him about it so many times, it started to feel like he'd been there.
The fake mother wiped a tear away. "I didn't know who they were or what they were going to do with you. They just grabbed you and ran. The police searched everywhere, but they couldn't find you." She squeezed her eyes shut tight, then gave herself a little shake. "Then I got a call from your father in jail. I don't know how your grandfather got in touch with him. But he told me that your grandfather was going to raise you and your sisters the way he wanted. Said he was going to make race warriors out of you."
None of that was true, of course. Grandfather had told him how his real mother was killed, fighting the enemy. The Judicials had let the killers go. Jewdicials, Grandfather called them.
She stroked his hair before continuing. The touch felt nice, even if she wasn't really his mother. "I've been trying to find you for six years. I was so scared that you'd never come back."
"How did you know it was me?" he asked suddenly. "Maybe they brought you the wrong boy."
"No. You're different than you were. But I know my boy." She slid an arm around him and rocked him slowly, humming to herself.
The nervous buzz in his head suddenly went completely quiet. "What's that song?"
"Oh, it's just an old folk song. I used to sing it to you when you were little.
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er,
Neither have I wings to fly.
Give me a boat that will carry two,
And we will sail, my love and I."
He shivered. "My mother used to sing me that song."
"Of course I did, dear." She got up and opened a dresser drawer, returning with a brightly colored page in her hand.
"No, I mean my real mother."
She cupped his chin and looked into his face. He expected her to get angry, or at least argue. But all she said was, "I know this is really confusing for you. Just give it time."
She held out a photograph of her with long hair, holding a six–year–old boy. The boy looked like him, wide blue eyes and straw–colored hair. He was smiling.
Somehow that frightened him more than all the talk he'd heard about conspiracies and torture. He caught himself thinking: what if she really was his mother? But that couldn't be. If his mother wasn't dead, if he really had been kidnapped, then Grandfather had lied to him. Impossible. But how could she know so much about his real mother, down to the lavender soap? Their conspiracy was brilliant; they didn't miss a thing.
He tried to think it through. Was there any way they could both be telling the truth, that she really was his mother and yet Grandfather wasn't a liar? Grandfather said his mother was killed fighting the Jews. Could he have been wrong, misinformed somehow? But then how did he wind up with Grandfather? She said he'd been stolen at gunpoint. Either that was true or it wasn't. Someone was lying. Grandfather wouldn't do that; he was too kind. But she seemed kind too.
The water is wide, I cannot get o'er,
Neither have I wings to fly.
It wasn't just the words, it was the exact phrasing of the melody, which syllables stretched out, which ones didn't, the sliver of a pause letting light in between. Exactly the way his real mother used to sing it. Exactly. How could she have known?
The song pulled him in, until he was standing on one side of the river, peering over at the opposite shore. Across the drowning waters lay a world where everyone else was right and he was wrong, where there was no Jewish conspiracy running the world, where he didn't have to be a warrior against the mud people, where this strange lady stroking his hair and humming really was his mother. Where his grandfather, his beloved grandfather who had taught him everything, was a criminal in jail.
Give me a boat that will carry two,
And we will sail, my love and I.
Childish hands reached out, trembling, and took the picture. He ripped it right down the middle, separating mother from child. He fled from the room, from the memory, from the song that pulled him away from everything he knew, toward that sinful shore.
Laura Loomis is a social worker who lives in the San Francisco area with her partner. Her fiction has most recently appeared in The First Line, New Delta Review, and On the Premises. "The Water Is Wide" was first published in Out Of Line in its 2004 edition.
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