Sayo, Crispin conceals an entire chili hot dog and a torn-off piece of the other one, plus a handful of fries, in a drawer of the sideboard, between folded tablecloths. He returns to his seat and wipes his messy hand on his napkin.
Soon Nanny appears. She is already dressed for bed in black silk pajamas and a red silk robe.
He is holding the prop book in his right hand, pretending to have paused in his eating, riveted by the tale.
“Sweetie, you’ll get sick eating so fast.”
“I’m starved, and it’s really good,” he says, hoping that she isn’t suspicious.
She pulls out the chair next to his, turns it sideways, and sits facing him. “What’s the book about?”
Eyes riveted to the page, he says, “Pirates.”
“Exciting, huh?”
“Yeah. Sword fights and stuff.”
She lays her right hand on his right arm. “I love a good story. And you read so well for a boy your age. Maybe we could snuggle in bed together, under the covers, just the two of us, and you could read to me. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She has never been under the covers with him. He does not know if she means this, why she suggests it, what he should say.
He meets her eyes, which are large and black and pretty. Her stare is so sharp that he half believes she can cut through any lie he tells and see the truth he’s hiding.
Nevertheless, he says, “That would be cool. But maybe you could read to me. I’m kind of sleepy.”
“Are you, sweetie?” she asks. “So early?”
He stifles a phony yawn. “Yeah. I’m really bushed.”
“I’m sure you are,” Nanny Sayo says as she glances at his plate. She meets his eyes again, her right hand now tenderly massaging his arm. “Maybe you can read to me tomorrow night. Nanny’s tired, too.”
She’s lying. Crispin’s surprised at how obvious her lie is to him. He is not sleepwalking anymore. He’s alert. She isn’t tired at all. She’s excited and barely able to contain her excitement.
Over two months have passed since July 26, the night they took Mirabell down to the basement. They’re eager to have Harley. And they think they will have Crispin, too, in just five days, on the feast of Saint Francis.
Nanny Sayo scootches in her seat a little, perhaps not aware of what she’s doing, like a small girl eager to leave the table.
“Tomorrow night, I’ll read to you,” Crispin says. “I’ll read you to sleep.”
“That will be nice,” Nanny says. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Sure. Really nice.” And then, without knowing what he means by it yet aware that it is the right suggestion to make, he says, “Just the two of us, and we don’t have to tell anybody.”
Her stare seems to drill right through him and out the back of his head. At last she whispers, “That’s right, sweetie. We don’t have to tell anyone.”
“All right,” he says.
She leans forward, her face inches from his. “Give Nanny a good-night kiss.”
Although he has always before kissed her on the cheek, he knows intuitively what he must do to ensure her trust. He leans forward and clumsily kisses her full on the mouth.
“Sleep tight, little man,” she whispers.
“You too.”
After Nanny Sayo has been gone for a few minutes, Crispin dumps the rest of his dinner into the sideboard, between the folded linens.
In his room, one of the maids has turned down his bed earlier than usual.
With spare blankets, he tries to shape the body of a sleeping boy. He stuffs one of his pajama tops with a rolled towel to fill out an arm of it, and he arranges things so only the arm lies outside the covers, the hand apparently under his pillow. The head of this fake boy is beneath the covers, as well, but Crispin often burrows when he sleeps, and she will have seen him like this before.
He places the pirate novel on his nightstand and dials down the lamp to its dimmest setting.
In the dark closet, leaving the door ajar an inch, Crispin waits impatiently for forty minutes before Nanny Sayo returns. She goes to
Soon Nanny appears. She is already dressed for bed in black silk pajamas and a red silk robe.
He is holding the prop book in his right hand, pretending to have paused in his eating, riveted by the tale.
“Sweetie, you’ll get sick eating so fast.”
“I’m starved, and it’s really good,” he says, hoping that she isn’t suspicious.
She pulls out the chair next to his, turns it sideways, and sits facing him. “What’s the book about?”
Eyes riveted to the page, he says, “Pirates.”
“Exciting, huh?”
“Yeah. Sword fights and stuff.”
She lays her right hand on his right arm. “I love a good story. And you read so well for a boy your age. Maybe we could snuggle in bed together, under the covers, just the two of us, and you could read to me. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She has never been under the covers with him. He does not know if she means this, why she suggests it, what he should say.
He meets her eyes, which are large and black and pretty. Her stare is so sharp that he half believes she can cut through any lie he tells and see the truth he’s hiding.
Nevertheless, he says, “That would be cool. But maybe you could read to me. I’m kind of sleepy.”
“Are you, sweetie?” she asks. “So early?”
He stifles a phony yawn. “Yeah. I’m really bushed.”
“I’m sure you are,” Nanny Sayo says as she glances at his plate. She meets his eyes again, her right hand now tenderly massaging his arm. “Maybe you can read to me tomorrow night. Nanny’s tired, too.”
She’s lying. Crispin’s surprised at how obvious her lie is to him. He is not sleepwalking anymore. He’s alert. She isn’t tired at all. She’s excited and barely able to contain her excitement.
Over two months have passed since July 26, the night they took Mirabell down to the basement. They’re eager to have Harley. And they think they will have Crispin, too, in just five days, on the feast of Saint Francis.
Nanny Sayo scootches in her seat a little, perhaps not aware of what she’s doing, like a small girl eager to leave the table.
“Tomorrow night, I’ll read to you,” Crispin says. “I’ll read you to sleep.”
“That will be nice,” Nanny says. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Sure. Really nice.” And then, without knowing what he means by it yet aware that it is the right suggestion to make, he says, “Just the two of us, and we don’t have to tell anybody.”
Her stare seems to drill right through him and out the back of his head. At last she whispers, “That’s right, sweetie. We don’t have to tell anyone.”
“All right,” he says.
She leans forward, her face inches from his. “Give Nanny a good-night kiss.”
Although he has always before kissed her on the cheek, he knows intuitively what he must do to ensure her trust. He leans forward and clumsily kisses her full on the mouth.
“Sleep tight, little man,” she whispers.
“You too.”
After Nanny Sayo has been gone for a few minutes, Crispin dumps the rest of his dinner into the sideboard, between the folded linens.
In his room, one of the maids has turned down his bed earlier than usual.
With spare blankets, he tries to shape the body of a sleeping boy. He stuffs one of his pajama tops with a rolled towel to fill out an arm of it, and he arranges things so only the arm lies outside the covers, the hand apparently under his pillow. The head of this fake boy is beneath the covers, as well, but Crispin often burrows when he sleeps, and she will have seen him like this before.
He places the pirate novel on his nightstand and dials down the lamp to its dimmest setting.
In the dark closet, leaving the door ajar an inch, Crispin waits impatiently for forty minutes before Nanny Sayo returns. She goes to
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