inched along in the pitch black. A shapeless mass, about three feet high, it shambled slowly toward my side of the bed. I could barely make it out. But I could feel it coming closer, ever so slowly and inexorably. So I gathered my courage and whispered at it, “What do you want, and why are you here?” The moundlike thing shifted, and a tiny, indignant voice issued forth from its depths, “Mama, Alison peed in the bed!”
Then another indignant little whisper replied, “Did not , you did it!”
“I never did that, it was you , baby, baby, baby!”
“I never did it either.”
“Then why’s it all wet in there, so we can’t sleep?”
“The Devil did it.”
I was relieved and annoyed all at once. “Both of you stop that this minute,” I whispered fiercely to the mound of blankets they had put over their heads and wrapped about them, to keep out the cold. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
“Then let us in with you, Mama, it’s warm and dry in your bed.”
There was a shifting in the bed, and a low, growling voice said, “Don’t you dare.” I could hear an indignant voice from beneath the pillow. “There are things no man should ever put up with, and wet children head the list,” came the threatening whisper.
So I got up and herded the mound back to its own bed. Fleas bit my ankles as I crossed the floor, and I nearly stepped on one of the dogs in the dark. Then I turned their mattress over and tucked them up in a dry blanket. And as I kissed them Alison said, “It wasn’t my fault, Mama; Papa didn’t come to tuck us in and kiss us good night.”
“He’s forgotten us and gone away,” added Cecily forlornly. My heart felt so heavy for them. I’d been selfish, thinking of my own grief.
“Dear hearts,” I answered. “Papa’s been in heaven for more than two months now. He didn’t forget you. He’s thinking about you both in heaven.”
“No, Mama, he never went to heaven at all. He stayed with us. He sits on the bed at night, and sometimes tells a good story. But now he’s forgotten us. Alison’s just a big baby, and thinks he won’t come back at all. But I know he will. He promised.”
I can’t deal with children’s fantasies at night. I have enough trouble with my own. I told them not to wake anyone, and we’d talk about it in the morning. Besides, I was freezing. But before I fell asleep, I marveled at how children change things in their minds. Their father had been a busy man. He’d have never once considered putting them to bed, even though he was a veritable wellspring of good stories.
T HE MORNING AFTER, OF course, I forgot all about what Cecily and Alison had said. Children can’t be held responsible for their nighttime doings. Besides, things are always different in the morning. The sun comes up and makes the earth new, and it’s just possible that something good might happen. This morning the squires were exercising by cleaning chain mail in the hall, for Sir Hubert wanted all the armor glittering white for his trip to petition the Duke. Cecily and Alison had trailed behind the two young men to admire the process, for with them it was a kind of sport. They stitched the mail with a coarse needle into a sack full of sand, making a kind of heavy ball, which they pitched about, shouting and leaping, until the sand had quite worn away the rust on the links.
I had plans for the morning. Special plans, all for me. I’d said I was going to do mending, and that’s what they thought they’d seen me go alone upstairs to do. Now I tiptoed quietly to the stair door, and shut it ever so silently. Then I piled the girls’ spare clothes beside me on the long window seat, in case anyone came through. But beneath the clothes was my new ink, reed pens, and two big sheets of paper, one half written. I’d been so careful to be quiet for the last two days, I was just bursting at the seams, and had to tell the paper what I thought of them all. So first I wrote what I thought of lords, and
Then another indignant little whisper replied, “Did not , you did it!”
“I never did that, it was you , baby, baby, baby!”
“I never did it either.”
“Then why’s it all wet in there, so we can’t sleep?”
“The Devil did it.”
I was relieved and annoyed all at once. “Both of you stop that this minute,” I whispered fiercely to the mound of blankets they had put over their heads and wrapped about them, to keep out the cold. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
“Then let us in with you, Mama, it’s warm and dry in your bed.”
There was a shifting in the bed, and a low, growling voice said, “Don’t you dare.” I could hear an indignant voice from beneath the pillow. “There are things no man should ever put up with, and wet children head the list,” came the threatening whisper.
So I got up and herded the mound back to its own bed. Fleas bit my ankles as I crossed the floor, and I nearly stepped on one of the dogs in the dark. Then I turned their mattress over and tucked them up in a dry blanket. And as I kissed them Alison said, “It wasn’t my fault, Mama; Papa didn’t come to tuck us in and kiss us good night.”
“He’s forgotten us and gone away,” added Cecily forlornly. My heart felt so heavy for them. I’d been selfish, thinking of my own grief.
“Dear hearts,” I answered. “Papa’s been in heaven for more than two months now. He didn’t forget you. He’s thinking about you both in heaven.”
“No, Mama, he never went to heaven at all. He stayed with us. He sits on the bed at night, and sometimes tells a good story. But now he’s forgotten us. Alison’s just a big baby, and thinks he won’t come back at all. But I know he will. He promised.”
I can’t deal with children’s fantasies at night. I have enough trouble with my own. I told them not to wake anyone, and we’d talk about it in the morning. Besides, I was freezing. But before I fell asleep, I marveled at how children change things in their minds. Their father had been a busy man. He’d have never once considered putting them to bed, even though he was a veritable wellspring of good stories.
T HE MORNING AFTER, OF course, I forgot all about what Cecily and Alison had said. Children can’t be held responsible for their nighttime doings. Besides, things are always different in the morning. The sun comes up and makes the earth new, and it’s just possible that something good might happen. This morning the squires were exercising by cleaning chain mail in the hall, for Sir Hubert wanted all the armor glittering white for his trip to petition the Duke. Cecily and Alison had trailed behind the two young men to admire the process, for with them it was a kind of sport. They stitched the mail with a coarse needle into a sack full of sand, making a kind of heavy ball, which they pitched about, shouting and leaping, until the sand had quite worn away the rust on the links.
I had plans for the morning. Special plans, all for me. I’d said I was going to do mending, and that’s what they thought they’d seen me go alone upstairs to do. Now I tiptoed quietly to the stair door, and shut it ever so silently. Then I piled the girls’ spare clothes beside me on the long window seat, in case anyone came through. But beneath the clothes was my new ink, reed pens, and two big sheets of paper, one half written. I’d been so careful to be quiet for the last two days, I was just bursting at the seams, and had to tell the paper what I thought of them all. So first I wrote what I thought of lords, and
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