Counting the Cries
by Bruce Boston and Marge Simon
art by Marge Simon
He hears it in his study. A cry of pain, the pressure of a loss
too deep to bear. It is like the first cry at birth and the last
real cry before death. An echo that swells and fades to silence.
And the time between is measurable.He goes in search of that cry without leaving the room. He slips
a disc into the player.A dark man in a metal collar recites from Orpheus. His eyes are
deep and clear. The weight of his voice fills the room. Eyebrows
lift under powdered wigs. Some smile and more than a few applaud."He doesn't understand a word," laughs his owner. The guests nod in polite accord.
The dark man lowers his eyes. His fingers twitch beneath the
lace sleeves of his quilted coat. His hands are invisible
fists before he is excused to leave the room.That was one. He looks to his bookshelves.
He pulls down an anti-coffee-table volume. Right format but
wrong content. In a full page spread a child torched by
napalm runs naked toward the camera. Her screeching terror is
frozen in a black-and-white instant.That was two. In a bottom drawer he finds an old tape that
has never left his mind. An account by a survivor of Mengele's
experiments, her voice reduced to a hoarse whisper backed by
the static of her breath."We never knew when we would be called. It was usually at night and sometimes late as dawn. Perhaps one in four would return. There were those who envied me for the number of times I had come back. Despite my scars."
That was three and even more. He reshelves the book and returns the disc and tape to their clear plastic cases.
He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The cries
reverberate in his chest, mingling and multiplying. It is late and
tomorrow is Tuesday. He must deliver an early morning lecture to his graduate students.He is never sure exactly what to tell them.
