Margaret Millar
Mermaid
to Eleanor McKay Van Cott
Child
1
The girl was conspicuous even before she entered the office. It was a windy day and everything was in motion except her face. Her coat beat against her legs like captive wings and her long fair hair seemed to be trying to tie itself into knots. The sign above the door, SMEDLER, DOWNS, CASTLEBERG, MACFEE, POWELL, ATTORNEYS at LAW, twisted and turned as if the partners were struggling among themselves.
Charity Nelson, Mr. Smedler’s private secretary, was taking the receptionist’s place during the lunch hour because she herself was on a diet and didn’t want to see or think of food.
The front door opened and the wind pushed the girl into the office. She looked surprised at what had happened. She was very thin, which made Charity think about food and sent nasty little pains up and down and around her stomach.
She said irritably, “What can I do for you?”
“I like the little cage.”
“Little cage?”
“The one outside... the one at the back.”
“That’s Mr. Smedler’s own elevator. It leads to his private office.”
“Do you think he’d give me a ride in it?”
“No.”
“Not even one?”
“Only if you were a client.”
The girl didn’t look like a client, at least not the kind who paid. She was quite pretty, with high cheekbones and large brown eyes as bright and expressionless as glass.
“Do you wish to see Mr. Smedler?” Charity said.
“I don’t know.”
She took a seat at the corner window and picked up a magazine. It lay on her lap unopened and, Charity noticed, upside down.
“Are you sure you came to the right office?” Charity said.
“Yes, I took a taxi. The driver knew just where to go.”
“I didn’t mean how did you get here. I meant did you have a specific reason for coming. You realize this is a law firm.”
“I’m bothering you, aren’t I? My brother Hilton is always telling me I mustn’t bother people, but how can I help it if I don’t know what bothers them?”
“Would you care to make an appointment with one of our attorneys?”
“I think I’ll just sit here for a while and look around.”
“Everyone’s out to lunch.”
“I don’t mind,” the girl said. “I’m not in a hurry.”
At 1:25 they began returning to the office: two typists, a file clerk, Mr. MacFee with a client, Mr. Powell and his secretary, a junior member of the firm and the receptionist, who looked, Charity noted bitterly, well-fed and contented.
The girl showed her first sign of excitement. She rose suddenly, dropping the magazine on the floor.
“That’s him,” she said. “He’s who I want to see, the one wearing the glasses. He has a nice face. What’s his name?”
“Tom Aragon. What’s yours?”
“Cleo.”
“Cleo what?”
“The same as my brother Hilton’s. Jasper, Cleo Jasper. It’s awfully ugly, don’t you think?”
“I’ll check and see if Mr. Aragon will have time to talk to you.” She told Aragon on the intercom: “Some chick is waiting to see you because you have a nice face. Can you buy that?”
“Sure. Send her in.”
“Better come out and get her, junior. She looks like she couldn’t find her way out of a wet paper bag.”
Aragon shared an office with another junior member of the firm. It was furnished as if no clients were expected, and in fact few came. Aragon’s duties were mostly confined to legwork for the senior lawyers, especially Smedler, whose cases often involved rich women. Cleo Jasper wasn’t yet a woman and she didn’t look rich. The straight-backed chair she sat down on seemed to suit her better than the overstuffed leather surrounding Smedler. Her clothes were oddly childish, a navy-blue jumper over a white blouse, white knee socks and shoes that looked like the Mary Janes of another era. She wasn’t carrying a handbag, but one of the pockets of her jumper bulged as though it contained a coin purse.
“What can I do for you, Miss Jasper?”
“I’ve never been to a lawyer before. You have a nice face — that’s why I picked you.”
“I suppose it’s as good a reason as any other,” Aragon said. “Why do you need a lawyer?”
“I want to find out my rights. I have a new friend. He says I have some rights.”
“Who claims you don’t?”
“Nobody exactly. Except that I never get to do what I want to do, what other people do.”
“Like what?”
“Vote. Not that I specially want to vote, not knowing anything about Presidents and things, but I didn’t even know I could.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. My new friend says I could have voted four years ago and nobody even told me.”
“Wasn’t the subject brought up in school?”
“I can’t remember. I have foggy times. Hilton says voting is just for responsible people, who don’t have foggy times.”
“Are you an American citizen?”
“I was born right here in Santa Felicia.” The girl frowned. “It was a terrible occasion. Hilton and his wife, Frieda, often talk about how it was such a terrible occasion.”
“Why?”
“My mother died. She was too old to have a baby but she had one anyway and I’m it. Hilton says she almost got into the record book because she was forty-eight. Hilton was already grown up and married when I was born. But I didn’t go to stay with him and Frieda until I was eight. I lived with my grandmother before that. She was very nice, only she died. Hilton says she wore herself out worrying over me. She left me a lot of money. I never get to use it, though.”
“Why not?”
“I’m exceptional.”
“I see.”
“Well, are you surprised or aren’t you?”
“Not particularly. All people are exceptional in one way or another.”
“You don’t understand. I’m... My new friend has lots of fun ways of saying it, like I have a few marbles missing or I’ve only got one oar in the water or I’m not playing with a full deck. It sounds better like that than spelling it right out that I’m... you know, retarded.”
He was, in fact, surprised. She had none of the Down’s syndrome physical features and she spoke well, expressing herself quite clearly. She even wanted to vote. Whether or not she was simply echoing the ideas of her new friend, it seemed an unusual desire on the part of a retarded girl.
Not girl, he thought. She was a woman of twenty-two. That’s where the retardation was more obvious. If she’d claimed to be fourteen or fifteen he would have believed her.
“Can you read and write?”
“Some. Not very much.”
“What about your new friend? Does he read and write very well?”
“Oh, gosh yes. He’s one of the...” She slapped her left hand over her mouth so quickly and decisively it must have hurt her. “I’m not supposed to talk about him to anyone.”
“Why not?”
“It would spoil things. He’s my only friend except for the gardener and his dog, Zia. Zia is a basset hound. Do you like basset hounds?”
“Yes.”
“I just love them.”
“Getting back to your new friend...”
“No. No, I really mustn’t.”
“All right. We’ll talk about the voting. I believe the only requirements are that you be an American citizen, at least eighteen years old, not on parole or confined to a mental institution and that you sign an affidavit to that effect. You are, of course, expected to be able to read the affidavit before signing.”
“I could practice ahead of time, couldn’t I?”