"What doesn't kill me makes me stronger" ~ Nietzsche
Mrs. Robinson was sitting at her desk, contemplating the cream sheet of stationary paper before her. She wanted to write to him, but she knew she couldn't. It would be weak. He was a college boy now, and he needed time to get used to it. Yes, time.that was it. In a few weeks he'd get around to writing his mother.
Gregory. She never could bear to call him just Greg, although everyone else seemed to. Gregory had more force, more power. It was a name you could trust. That's why she'd chosen it. But her Gregory wasn't trustworthy at all. He'd said he'd write her within his first week at Oxford. She'd known he wouldn't, that this promise would prove to be as empty as his pledge to come home to visit her at Christmases from secondary school. Still, he'd said it such a look in his eyes that Mrs. Robinson couldn't help but believe him. She wasn't sure quite how she'd spawned such a charming, intelligent, handsome creature. She wondered whether Gregory ever felt ashamed of how drab she was, compared to the rich, glamorous mothers of his friends.
How was it that she could have empty nest syndrome? She was, after all, surrounded by children. Through her office window, Mrs. Robinson looked over the playground, where the orphans played, the poor things. Caring for these kids was social work. It was rewarding in its own way, of course, but it couldn't be compared with the joy and difficulty of raising her son.
She looked at her watch. 2:59, time to check for mail. She made her way to the orphanage's front door, walking briskly. The hallways of the former monastery were still quite dark, despite her and Mr. Barkley's efforts to spruce up the place by adding a few lamps and painting the walls lilac.
Awaiting Mrs. Robinson at the front door were two bills and another kid. The kid, thankfully, was fast asleep in his basket, safely wrapped up in a cotton blanket to protect him from autumn's chill. At least a quarter of the children at Forselund Seminary for Orphaned Boys and Girls arrived there in baskets, along with hurriedly scribbled notes which usually contained the child's name, his or her date of birth, and the parents' poor excuses for giving the kid up.
She searched the basket for such a note, careful not to wake the child up. There was none. Mrs. Robinson noticed that both the basket and the boy's clothes were made of fine material. Whoever had disposed of the kid must have had the means to do it in style.
In any case, as far as she knew, he didn't have a name. To be fair to Barkley, she figured she'd discuss the matter with him before giving the child any old moniker. She tossed the two bills into the basket, and carefully carried it with her to Barkley's quarters.
Mrs. Robinson barged in without knocking, using her body to shove the unlocked door open.
"Barkley, you'll never guess what I--"
"A baby," he interrupted, "surprise, surprise. Put that thing down and have a look at this. I tell you, Hannah, you simply must read this book I've got here. Animal Farm, it's called. It's by this simply brilliant fellow called Orwell, and it shows just how those Soviet beasts are going to-"
"But-"
"I know they were our allies in the war but we just can't-"
"We have business to-"
"They say you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps, and that's true for nations too. In fact-"
"Barkley!"
Mr. Barkley narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"Here." Mrs. Robinson handed him the bills. "And we have to name this one before we allow him to join the others."
"You might as well call him Joseph Stalin, after that puppet master up in the Kremlin. Honestly, how can you be so oblivious to what's happening all around you!"
She was sick of all his political nonsense. All men in power were criminals, what did it matter whom was allied with whom? As long as they'd ended the bloody war, she, and most other sane individuals, didn't care what they did. Barkley's fiercely stubborn nature, combined with his seeming inability to sympathize with others, made him, in Mrs. Robinson's opinion, profoundly unsuited to working with orphans. Besides, at twenty- five, he was barely older than the children. He made her so tired sometimes. Like now. She wanted to shower, then take a long, long nap. Aloud, she said, without missing a beat:"You know what? I think I will."
Mrs. Robinson turned to look at the child in the basket. He appeared to be around two, a little old to be named, but she didn't care. What was the most Russian, most communistic name she could think of? Joseph Vladimir Marx had a nice ring to it.
"Did you hear that, honey? Your name is Joseph Vladimir Marx."
The boy began to stir. "No it's not," he said, his voice still heavy with sleep, "It's Tom."
Barkley, now tying his tie at the opposite end of the room, nodded approvingly. "Is it now? Good. Tell me, boy, have you a last name?"
"Of course," Tom said, "doesn't everybody?"
"Not around here, they don't," Barkley replied, "the ones that do consider themselves lucky."
Tom sat up and attempted to look for the person who was addressing him. He knew it couldn't be the spare woman standing in front of his basket mouthing something like "letmetakecareofthisyoucallousbastard" to somebody he couldn't see, perhaps the phantom male voice. Wait, what was he doing in a basket, anyway? Where was Sandy? Where was his father?
"What is this place?" He waited for an answer from the man he couldn't see, but none came.
Mrs. Robinson picked the boy up, and set him down again on Mr. Barkley's bed. Yes, he was far too old for naming. He appeared to be at least two, maybe two and a half. "It's an orphanage. An orphanage is a place where children who don't have anybody in their families who can take care of them go. Here, mostly there are three people who will look out for you. We each have a job. Mr. Barkley teaches, Mrs. Fish cooks, and I make sure everything goes right, and help you to find a new home with a nice new family."
"That sounds nice, miss, but I do have people who'll take care of me. Sandy said that she and my dad would keep me forever, no matter what!"
Mrs. Robinson knew it would be difficult to explain Tom's reality to him. The boy was old enough to understand that being abandoned was at least ten times worse than being orphaned. She made eye contact-and immediately forgot what she was going to say.
"Good heavens. . .you've got eyes just like my little boy. . ." She touched his cheek softly, and burst into tears.
"I'm not a little boy. I'm going to be four in three months!"
Mrs. Robinson didn't reply. She took a dainty, lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Tom, quite disturbed by this turn of events, quietly excused himself from the company of the weeping woman, and went to search for the man who'd addressed him earlier.
He poked his head into the hallway. "Mr. Barkley?" Tom guessed that must be the man's name, being that that was the only 'mister' Mrs. Robinson had mentioned.
A rather disinterested "yes" came from around the corner.
Tom ran to the young teacher. "Could I ask you a favor?"
"It depends," Barkley said, "but I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you. I've got class in ten minutes."
"You could do it after class."
"I'm not agreeing to anything until you tell me what you're playing at."
"Could you. . .take me to my father's house?"
Barkley scoffed. "Of course not."
"But. . .but. . .there must have been some kind of mistake. . .I don't need any new parents!"
"You do," said Barkley matter-of-factly. "Why else would you be here? Now, why don't you run along and see Mrs. Robinson?"
Barkley patted the boy on the head, and gave what he hoped was a fatherly smile. With that, he was off.
Tom hadn't had the opportunity to take a proper step before Mrs. Robinson appeared, as if by magic. She seemed to have regained her composure.
"Come, Tom, come to my office. I'm going to ask you a few questions. I'll use your answers to come up with something called paperwork. It'll make you an official part of our family here at Forselund."
Tom followed her into her office, sat in the big grown up chair she told him to sit in, and answered her questions mechanically. Some of his answers were true, some guesses, others outright lies. Mrs. Robinson didn't seem to be able to tell the difference. Sometimes she'd stop asking questions altogether, and look at him funny, saying that if only his hair were lighter, and if he wasn't so small for his age, he'd be the 'spitting image' of some chump called Gregory.
He wanted to go home, and felt like crying, but he knew boys didn't cry. Things might still turn out right, after all. This lady liked him. Maybe she'd take him back home, if he stayed on her good side, and out of trouble.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Since you've scrolled down this far, you might as well click that convenient little button next to "Submit Review" to tell me what you think. I plan to continue whether I receive a lot of reviews or not, but I really love comments and stuff, so it would be good if you did anyway.
Random Commentary: I haven't been on FF.net in a while, and while I've been gone there's been a lot of changes, some that I haven't taken too kindly to, such as the removal of bandfics, and the banning of NC-17 stories. These developments smack of censorship, and make me long for the good old days (read: a year ago) when not so many people knew about this place, and we could write whatever we bloody well pleased here and get away with it. The expansion of the original fiction section makes me uneasy. I worry about somebody's work getting stolen. With fanfiction, plagiarism isn't as much of an issue, because no paying publications, to my knowledge, focus on it. Original fiction is a whole new ball game, and somebody could get hurt. If a lawsuit ever comes up involving stolen work here, fanfiction.net might just get shut down. Worries aside, one of the changes I do like is in the layout. It's beautiful. Here in the Harry Potter section, I also like the character selection option. It makes it a lot easier to find the type of story you're in the mood for. Of course, I think Tom Riddle should be a character on that list in his own right. But then again, maybe I'm biased. *
Mrs. Robinson was sitting at her desk, contemplating the cream sheet of stationary paper before her. She wanted to write to him, but she knew she couldn't. It would be weak. He was a college boy now, and he needed time to get used to it. Yes, time.that was it. In a few weeks he'd get around to writing his mother.
Gregory. She never could bear to call him just Greg, although everyone else seemed to. Gregory had more force, more power. It was a name you could trust. That's why she'd chosen it. But her Gregory wasn't trustworthy at all. He'd said he'd write her within his first week at Oxford. She'd known he wouldn't, that this promise would prove to be as empty as his pledge to come home to visit her at Christmases from secondary school. Still, he'd said it such a look in his eyes that Mrs. Robinson couldn't help but believe him. She wasn't sure quite how she'd spawned such a charming, intelligent, handsome creature. She wondered whether Gregory ever felt ashamed of how drab she was, compared to the rich, glamorous mothers of his friends.
How was it that she could have empty nest syndrome? She was, after all, surrounded by children. Through her office window, Mrs. Robinson looked over the playground, where the orphans played, the poor things. Caring for these kids was social work. It was rewarding in its own way, of course, but it couldn't be compared with the joy and difficulty of raising her son.
She looked at her watch. 2:59, time to check for mail. She made her way to the orphanage's front door, walking briskly. The hallways of the former monastery were still quite dark, despite her and Mr. Barkley's efforts to spruce up the place by adding a few lamps and painting the walls lilac.
Awaiting Mrs. Robinson at the front door were two bills and another kid. The kid, thankfully, was fast asleep in his basket, safely wrapped up in a cotton blanket to protect him from autumn's chill. At least a quarter of the children at Forselund Seminary for Orphaned Boys and Girls arrived there in baskets, along with hurriedly scribbled notes which usually contained the child's name, his or her date of birth, and the parents' poor excuses for giving the kid up.
She searched the basket for such a note, careful not to wake the child up. There was none. Mrs. Robinson noticed that both the basket and the boy's clothes were made of fine material. Whoever had disposed of the kid must have had the means to do it in style.
In any case, as far as she knew, he didn't have a name. To be fair to Barkley, she figured she'd discuss the matter with him before giving the child any old moniker. She tossed the two bills into the basket, and carefully carried it with her to Barkley's quarters.
Mrs. Robinson barged in without knocking, using her body to shove the unlocked door open.
"Barkley, you'll never guess what I--"
"A baby," he interrupted, "surprise, surprise. Put that thing down and have a look at this. I tell you, Hannah, you simply must read this book I've got here. Animal Farm, it's called. It's by this simply brilliant fellow called Orwell, and it shows just how those Soviet beasts are going to-"
"But-"
"I know they were our allies in the war but we just can't-"
"We have business to-"
"They say you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps, and that's true for nations too. In fact-"
"Barkley!"
Mr. Barkley narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"Here." Mrs. Robinson handed him the bills. "And we have to name this one before we allow him to join the others."
"You might as well call him Joseph Stalin, after that puppet master up in the Kremlin. Honestly, how can you be so oblivious to what's happening all around you!"
She was sick of all his political nonsense. All men in power were criminals, what did it matter whom was allied with whom? As long as they'd ended the bloody war, she, and most other sane individuals, didn't care what they did. Barkley's fiercely stubborn nature, combined with his seeming inability to sympathize with others, made him, in Mrs. Robinson's opinion, profoundly unsuited to working with orphans. Besides, at twenty- five, he was barely older than the children. He made her so tired sometimes. Like now. She wanted to shower, then take a long, long nap. Aloud, she said, without missing a beat:"You know what? I think I will."
Mrs. Robinson turned to look at the child in the basket. He appeared to be around two, a little old to be named, but she didn't care. What was the most Russian, most communistic name she could think of? Joseph Vladimir Marx had a nice ring to it.
"Did you hear that, honey? Your name is Joseph Vladimir Marx."
The boy began to stir. "No it's not," he said, his voice still heavy with sleep, "It's Tom."
Barkley, now tying his tie at the opposite end of the room, nodded approvingly. "Is it now? Good. Tell me, boy, have you a last name?"
"Of course," Tom said, "doesn't everybody?"
"Not around here, they don't," Barkley replied, "the ones that do consider themselves lucky."
Tom sat up and attempted to look for the person who was addressing him. He knew it couldn't be the spare woman standing in front of his basket mouthing something like "letmetakecareofthisyoucallousbastard" to somebody he couldn't see, perhaps the phantom male voice. Wait, what was he doing in a basket, anyway? Where was Sandy? Where was his father?
"What is this place?" He waited for an answer from the man he couldn't see, but none came.
Mrs. Robinson picked the boy up, and set him down again on Mr. Barkley's bed. Yes, he was far too old for naming. He appeared to be at least two, maybe two and a half. "It's an orphanage. An orphanage is a place where children who don't have anybody in their families who can take care of them go. Here, mostly there are three people who will look out for you. We each have a job. Mr. Barkley teaches, Mrs. Fish cooks, and I make sure everything goes right, and help you to find a new home with a nice new family."
"That sounds nice, miss, but I do have people who'll take care of me. Sandy said that she and my dad would keep me forever, no matter what!"
Mrs. Robinson knew it would be difficult to explain Tom's reality to him. The boy was old enough to understand that being abandoned was at least ten times worse than being orphaned. She made eye contact-and immediately forgot what she was going to say.
"Good heavens. . .you've got eyes just like my little boy. . ." She touched his cheek softly, and burst into tears.
"I'm not a little boy. I'm going to be four in three months!"
Mrs. Robinson didn't reply. She took a dainty, lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Tom, quite disturbed by this turn of events, quietly excused himself from the company of the weeping woman, and went to search for the man who'd addressed him earlier.
He poked his head into the hallway. "Mr. Barkley?" Tom guessed that must be the man's name, being that that was the only 'mister' Mrs. Robinson had mentioned.
A rather disinterested "yes" came from around the corner.
Tom ran to the young teacher. "Could I ask you a favor?"
"It depends," Barkley said, "but I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you. I've got class in ten minutes."
"You could do it after class."
"I'm not agreeing to anything until you tell me what you're playing at."
"Could you. . .take me to my father's house?"
Barkley scoffed. "Of course not."
"But. . .but. . .there must have been some kind of mistake. . .I don't need any new parents!"
"You do," said Barkley matter-of-factly. "Why else would you be here? Now, why don't you run along and see Mrs. Robinson?"
Barkley patted the boy on the head, and gave what he hoped was a fatherly smile. With that, he was off.
Tom hadn't had the opportunity to take a proper step before Mrs. Robinson appeared, as if by magic. She seemed to have regained her composure.
"Come, Tom, come to my office. I'm going to ask you a few questions. I'll use your answers to come up with something called paperwork. It'll make you an official part of our family here at Forselund."
Tom followed her into her office, sat in the big grown up chair she told him to sit in, and answered her questions mechanically. Some of his answers were true, some guesses, others outright lies. Mrs. Robinson didn't seem to be able to tell the difference. Sometimes she'd stop asking questions altogether, and look at him funny, saying that if only his hair were lighter, and if he wasn't so small for his age, he'd be the 'spitting image' of some chump called Gregory.
He wanted to go home, and felt like crying, but he knew boys didn't cry. Things might still turn out right, after all. This lady liked him. Maybe she'd take him back home, if he stayed on her good side, and out of trouble.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Since you've scrolled down this far, you might as well click that convenient little button next to "Submit Review" to tell me what you think. I plan to continue whether I receive a lot of reviews or not, but I really love comments and stuff, so it would be good if you did anyway.
Random Commentary: I haven't been on FF.net in a while, and while I've been gone there's been a lot of changes, some that I haven't taken too kindly to, such as the removal of bandfics, and the banning of NC-17 stories. These developments smack of censorship, and make me long for the good old days (read: a year ago) when not so many people knew about this place, and we could write whatever we bloody well pleased here and get away with it. The expansion of the original fiction section makes me uneasy. I worry about somebody's work getting stolen. With fanfiction, plagiarism isn't as much of an issue, because no paying publications, to my knowledge, focus on it. Original fiction is a whole new ball game, and somebody could get hurt. If a lawsuit ever comes up involving stolen work here, fanfiction.net might just get shut down. Worries aside, one of the changes I do like is in the layout. It's beautiful. Here in the Harry Potter section, I also like the character selection option. It makes it a lot easier to find the type of story you're in the mood for. Of course, I think Tom Riddle should be a character on that list in his own right. But then again, maybe I'm biased. *