Chapter 28

I’ve never rehearsed anybody to act like a moron before, and it’s a little weird.

But I’ve seen a few who are actual morons. The dictionary defines it as somebody with an IQ of about 60 or so, and I’ve seen some of those poor people who can’t really get through life without help, lots of it.

Of course, I’ve seen a boatload more who don’t fit the dictionary definition but might as well, for all the use they are to the world or anybody around them. And if I go back to criminal law I guess I’ll see plenty more; in fact, even if I don’t there are times when I think an awful lot of the people I meet have some of that in them.

Maybe there’s something to be said for natural selection. In Hugo’s time you had to be on top of your game to survive; maybe we’ve weakened the breed too much.

On the other hand, something’s started nagging at the back of my mind along those lines. Maybe we’ve weakened the breed in some respects, but maybe we’ve strengthened it in others.

As soon as we get this ID business dealt with, I need to get Hugo to a doctor.

I read somewhere that one of the biggest “gifts” we presented to the native Americans, way back when we European settlers/conquerors/whatever first got here, was disease. Some tribes are said to have died like flies of the illnesses we brought to which they, isolated an ocean away, had never developed immunity. Unlike a lot of the other cruddy things we did this wasn’t intentional, but they died all the same.

Isn’t Hugo in about the same boat? I’m sure they had germs and viruses thirty thousand years ago, too, but they didn’t have today’s germs and viruses. He’d have no immunity to just about anything now.

Maybe I’m worrying unnecessarily, Hugo hasn’t had a sick day since he’s been here. And I’ve never heard that the disease thing with the native Americans was a two-way street; I mean, Amerinds had to have had their own bugs, but they didn’t seem to bother the Europeans. So maybe it was just a luck-of-the-draw thing and everybody’s immune systems covered most of even unfamiliar diseases.

Still, aside from the one trip to town, Hugo hasn’t been exposed to anybody but me, and I’m rarely sick. Better safe than sorry; get him to a doctor and get him innoculated against everything. I don’t even want to think about him coming down with something horrible, I want a lifetime with him.

There, I’ve said it—a lifetime. I’m completely sure. I know it’s the kind of thing a lot of people say, but I can’t imagine loving anyone else. Hugo’s who I want, and all I want. So let’s get that ID and do the doctor thing and move along.

It takes several days before I’m satisfied that Hugo’s retarded act will pass muster. We can’t practice too long at any one session, he starts to get antsy and impatient; but he has to be good enough that he doesn’t raise suspicions.

Once I’m sure he’s got it down we’re ready to go. I’m going to do a clean sweep in one trip, photo ID and social security card—we’ll say he lost his and needs a dupe. I gather up the paperwork, birth certificate and proof of residency, and we’re off to see the wizard—or in this case the wizard’s minions.

It actually goes pretty smoothly. It helps that I’m a lawyer; I’ve warned him about showing any personal affection, and I tell everyone he’s my client with a kind of knowing look. Hugo does his act well, and although it’s taken most of the day—my God do government offices move slow!—we’re on our way home with the whole package in hand and I’ve got a big smile on my face.

Hugo wipes it right off. “Will we go now to place where I may find work that will bring me money?” he asks.

Once I get over my initial surprise I realize that of course he’d say that. I’ve been making a big deal out of how he can’t work without ID, and now that he has it he thinks he needs to get to work right away.

But he isn’t equipped yet to do anything, not really. I mean, I suppose he could lug bags at a grocery store, or shove bales of hay around on a farm, something like that, God knows he’s strong enough. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to have a bagboy or a farmhand for a lover; I’m not going to let him get into some dead-end kind of job that won’t leave him time to learn all the stuff he has to learn.

“No, Hugo,” I say gently. “You must still learn a great deal more about this world before you’re ready for that.”

He mulls on that for a minute, but he’s like a dog with a bone, he won’t let it go.

“I think you tell me money is all in this place, in this time,” he says. “Do I understand wrong?”

“Well, it’s just that money is the way to get things, things like food and a place to live and clothes and—”