hand on the doorknob—and Curt stood between her and the kitchen, Bailey between her and the stairs. She was trapped in their uncomfortable moment, unable to get out.
Curt raised his hand just a few inches, as if he thought he might put it on Bailey’s shoulder, or maybe the top of her head, but then he changed his mind. But feeling the change in movement, Bailey immediately stopped rocking and stood still and tense, dipping her chin down into the pillow and blanket she held. And after a few moments that seemed to stretch into eternity, he finally just stepped forward and through the front door.
“I’ll call,” he said once again, and then jogged off the front porch steps and to his car.
After Jean shut the door, it was as if the uncomfortable moment had been transferred from Curt to her as he whisked past. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do—whether she should talk or reach out or just leave well enough alone. Whether she should just go about her business and risk Bailey standing in the same spot in the entryway for hours, or maybe even weeks, until Curt eventually came back to collect her. Or whether she should grab the child by the elbow and lead her to the cookies, which now seemed like the dumbest idea ever. Who bakes cookies for an event such as this?
“Do you need me to show you where the guest bedroom is?” she asked.
Bailey shook her head no.
“It has its own bathroom,” Jean offered, “so you’ll have all the privacy you need.”
Bailey continued pressing her chin into the pillow.
“Are you hungry at all?”
Another head shake.
“Your room also has a TV. There’s no satellite on that one. But you can watch satellite on the big TV anytime you want. I hardly ever use it. That’s downstairs. Through the kitchen and dining room.”
Nothing. Maybe no matter what she did, Bailey would just stand here. Maybe that was how it was going to end up regardless. The blanket that was looped over Bailey’s arm shifted, and Jean saw what looked like the corner of a child’s book peek out from underneath it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought it was a Little Golden Book, the kind she used to read to Laura and Kenny when they were small. Bailey followed Jean’s eyes and tucked the book back into the blanket sheepishly.
“Okay, well . . .” Jean paused, wracked her brain for something interesting or fantastic or profound or . . . anything that would make this child move, and found nothing. “Just let me know if you need something,” she said.
She began walking back toward the kitchen, though admittedly she had no idea what she was going to do with herself once she got there. But just as she reached the doorway, she heard that low, melodic voice again.
“It wasn’t a fire.”
Jean turned. “I’m sorry?”
Bailey lowered the blanket, but still didn’t raise her eyes. “I didn’t set his bed on fire.”
“Oh. I . . .”
“I put a cigarette out on his pillow. There’s a difference.”
“Okay,” Jean said. “I see.” Though she really didn’t. “I don’t smoke,” she finally offered, and then felt stupid for not saying something more . . . soothing . . . more comforting. She wanted to say,
I believe you
, or,
What’s between you and your father won’t follow you here
, or,
I’m not worried
, or any number of things that might have expressed to Bailey that she’d come to a safe place, a place where she would be cared for and loved. But Jean couldn’t decide which of those things to say, and the longer the silence stretched between them, the more absurd any of them would have felt coming out of her mouth. In the end, she didn’t say anything. Just left it with
I don’t smoke.
Time seemed interminable as the two stood opposite each other. Jean’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, and it wasn’t until finally the phone rang—it was Kenneth, wondering if Bailey had arrived, wanting to know how things were going, wanting to know if
Curt raised his hand just a few inches, as if he thought he might put it on Bailey’s shoulder, or maybe the top of her head, but then he changed his mind. But feeling the change in movement, Bailey immediately stopped rocking and stood still and tense, dipping her chin down into the pillow and blanket she held. And after a few moments that seemed to stretch into eternity, he finally just stepped forward and through the front door.
“I’ll call,” he said once again, and then jogged off the front porch steps and to his car.
After Jean shut the door, it was as if the uncomfortable moment had been transferred from Curt to her as he whisked past. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do—whether she should talk or reach out or just leave well enough alone. Whether she should just go about her business and risk Bailey standing in the same spot in the entryway for hours, or maybe even weeks, until Curt eventually came back to collect her. Or whether she should grab the child by the elbow and lead her to the cookies, which now seemed like the dumbest idea ever. Who bakes cookies for an event such as this?
“Do you need me to show you where the guest bedroom is?” she asked.
Bailey shook her head no.
“It has its own bathroom,” Jean offered, “so you’ll have all the privacy you need.”
Bailey continued pressing her chin into the pillow.
“Are you hungry at all?”
Another head shake.
“Your room also has a TV. There’s no satellite on that one. But you can watch satellite on the big TV anytime you want. I hardly ever use it. That’s downstairs. Through the kitchen and dining room.”
Nothing. Maybe no matter what she did, Bailey would just stand here. Maybe that was how it was going to end up regardless. The blanket that was looped over Bailey’s arm shifted, and Jean saw what looked like the corner of a child’s book peek out from underneath it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought it was a Little Golden Book, the kind she used to read to Laura and Kenny when they were small. Bailey followed Jean’s eyes and tucked the book back into the blanket sheepishly.
“Okay, well . . .” Jean paused, wracked her brain for something interesting or fantastic or profound or . . . anything that would make this child move, and found nothing. “Just let me know if you need something,” she said.
She began walking back toward the kitchen, though admittedly she had no idea what she was going to do with herself once she got there. But just as she reached the doorway, she heard that low, melodic voice again.
“It wasn’t a fire.”
Jean turned. “I’m sorry?”
Bailey lowered the blanket, but still didn’t raise her eyes. “I didn’t set his bed on fire.”
“Oh. I . . .”
“I put a cigarette out on his pillow. There’s a difference.”
“Okay,” Jean said. “I see.” Though she really didn’t. “I don’t smoke,” she finally offered, and then felt stupid for not saying something more . . . soothing . . . more comforting. She wanted to say,
I believe you
, or,
What’s between you and your father won’t follow you here
, or,
I’m not worried
, or any number of things that might have expressed to Bailey that she’d come to a safe place, a place where she would be cared for and loved. But Jean couldn’t decide which of those things to say, and the longer the silence stretched between them, the more absurd any of them would have felt coming out of her mouth. In the end, she didn’t say anything. Just left it with
I don’t smoke.
Time seemed interminable as the two stood opposite each other. Jean’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, and it wasn’t until finally the phone rang—it was Kenneth, wondering if Bailey had arrived, wanting to know how things were going, wanting to know if
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