Free Earthquake I.D. by John Domini Page A

turned out to be a mirror.
    What was a mother supposed to do in here? “Your Pop’s going to be fine,” she said. “On the way over the cops told me it’s not really a kidnapping. They told me it was more like a standoff”
    John Junior didn’t need the explanation. “They might take all of us out to the Center next.”
    â€œThat’s the way it works,” Chris said. “They bring the family if they think it’ll help negotiations.”
    â€œThat’s what they tell you,” JJ said. “That’s what they tell you, Crisco. But actually the plan is to give you to the bad guys instead.”
    â€œUh-huh. Well you notice nobody’s even talking about giving them you.”
    The boys were looking forward to the trip. Why had dumb old Mom and Pop dragged them off to a disaster area like this if it weren’t going to be an adventure?
    â€œE un ostaggio, signore Jay.” This came from a trooper who’d moved into the holding cell with them. The scent of his gun oil cut through the closeness.
    â€œChe brutti, ipoveri.”
    Barb looked up at their new protector, his uniform piping and chest strap. She concentrated on the translation: apparently the brutes, the poor out at Jay’s Center, had made a move on the big American. As soon as the news had come from the camp, the law had rounded up the wife and children. They didn’t want another ostaggio , a hostage; the quake had left desperate animali everywhere, even in this neighborhood.
    â€œAnimali, i poveri.”
    The next to speak up was Dora, always the more adult of the girls. “Mister, hey. Nobody could possibly hurt our Papa.”
    The trooper in the room was the one with the great lips. But the smile he offered appeared so smudged and vacant, it could’ve have been one of the downtown prayer offerings, ten years after it was hung on the chapel wall.
    â€œYou don’t know about this family,” Dora said. “You don’t know anything about Mama and Papa and us.”
    Barbara worked on her own smile.
    â€œMama is a very, very good person. You don’t know, she works in a church.”
    Barbara stepped over beside the girls and put her fingers in that petal-soft hair. Now Sylvia had taken up the argument. “Mama works with children,” she said. “Some children have been badly abused.”
    â€œSome children have been badly abused. Mama brought home a DVD.”
    The two eight-year-olds were possessed by such a dreamlike seriousness that they must have worked these ideas out at bedtime, after the adults had left them alone.
    â€œThat’s why we moved to Italy.”
    â€œThat’s why we moved. Back in America, sometimes she even yelled at Papa about it. ‘Don’t you care about suffering children?’ she yelled.”
    â€œAll right,” Barbara started, “all right now you two…”
    â€œThat’s why,” Sylvia said, “Paul was able to bring Papa back from the dead.”
    â€œThat’s why no one can ever hurt Papa now,” Dora insisted, raising a finger. “Mama turned Papa into someone like her. Like, a saint.”
    Barbara seemed to choke on her objections, like Jay had choked a week ago—the last time he’d come up against the poveri . Once more she looked over her children, first the two big teenagers in primary-color soccer gear, then the two stocky fourth-graders-to-be in crayon-bright jumpers and tees (easy to spot in case they got separated), and last the odd, fragile, not quite adolescent boy in black and white. Paul was staring at the girls, thinking it over. The mother had by no means ignored the boy, these last few days; both she and the Jaybird had sat down with him, their riddle-some middle child. What’s more, both had come away with the same understanding, on one point at least. They agreed that Paul didn’t know what he’d accomplished over his father’s