The Divided Child by Ekaterine Nikas Page A

no
matter where born, seem to gravitate back to Greece like homing pigeons."
                "I'm
only half Greek," I said.
                "I
doubt that matters.   What's the
other half?"
                "Scots."
                "Your
father?"
                I
nodded reluctantly, disliking the direction of the conversation.   "I suppose you're through and
through English?"
                He
smiled crookedly.   "Not
actually, no.   My grandmother was
an American.   She was wildly
mischievous and great fun to be with and helped me through some difficult times
when I was a boy."   He stared
off into space for a few moments, lost in thought.   Then his attention returned to me.   "And what do you do when you’re not playing tourist or
saving young boys from large falling objects?"
                "I
put together custom computer systems for artists."
                His
eyebrows flew up in surprise.   "Do you mean the type that allow one to paint on a computer?"
                "Paint,
draw, sculpt, design, touch up photographs, create animation, do special
effects.   Especially do special
effects.   That’s our hottest area
right now. We’ve been putting together systems for lots of small production
companies who are trying to get into movie work.”
                He
nodded.   "It’s an amazing
tool.   A colleague of mine
purchased a system like that.   I've
watched him use it to compose paintings.   It's an interesting process, and the results are impressive.   I’ve been toying with the idea of
purchasing a similar set-up myself."
                I
stared at him in dismay.   "You're a painter?"
                “The
galleries that sell my work say so,” he replied dryly, “though there are one or
two critics who might dispute the point.   I also do some illustration work -- books for children, mostly.   Is something wrong?"
                "No,"
I said.
                "Then
why are you looking at me like that?"
                "My
. . . uh, father illustrates children's books."
                "Why
do I suspect that's not a point in my favor?   What's his name?   Perhaps I've heard of him?"
                "Angus
Stewart," I murmured unwillingly.
                His
eyes widened.   " The Angus Stewart?   The one who's won
three Caldecott awards and had twelve books on the Times' best-seller
list?"
                I
stabbed my fork into a stuffed tomato on my plate.   "Yes."
                He
whistled softly.   "I've never
met him, but he has quite a reputation."
                Rice
began spilling everywhere as I sliced the tomato into pieces.   "Does that reputation include the
fact that when his first book became a success, he abandoned his wife and two
daughters and moved to New York?"
                Geoffrey
frowned.   "No."
                "Unfortunately,
his next few books were flops, so of course there wasn't any money for alimony
or child support.   My mother had to
work two jobs to make ends meet, and my grandparents used their savings to send
me and my sister to college.   Eventually, his books started doing well again, but by then he'd
remarried and didn't have much use for old family ties."
                Geoffrey
reached across the table and caught my hand.   "Christine, I'm sorry."
                I
shook my head, embarrassed by my outburst.   "No, I’m the one who should be apologizing.   I didn’t mean to let loose with all
that.   It’s just . . . well, he’s a
bit of a sore subject at the moment.”   I paused, and then added, “A couple of weeks ago I was on a sales trip.   My father was on the prospect list, and
I got the brilliant idea to use that as an excuse to go see him.”
                “It
didn’t go well?”