needed.
Strapping was an orderly sort of fellow, the kind who kept track of things, liked labels and lists and appreciated cleanliness. In his own Heap he was sometimes referred to as a nitpicker because he insisted on designated sleeping places, whereas some other dream-givers preferred to doze simply wherever they flopped down at the end of a busy night.
At first, because of his basic nature, he had been extraordinarily exasperated by the slovenly apartment to which he'd been assigned, and by the sleeping woman who, when he encountered her for the first time, was curled on the couch wearing pajamas with top and bottom unmatched—how irritating that was, to Strapping! He had sighed with despair that first night, looking around, realizing that he was faced with gathering his dream fragments from chipped china, coffee-ringed tables, dirty carpets studded with crumbs, and clothing that had lain unwashed on the floor for days.
But he was a caring fellow. It hadn't taken long before he had realized, through the collected fragments, how sad and needy this young woman's life was, and—because he was keenly intelligent, as well—how great the possibility was that he could help her.
(This was what Dowager had hoped when she assigned the punishment, because she knew her Heap well, and perceived what talents Strapping had to offer, if she could give him the opportunity. It was part of the Old Ones' tasks, to find the right dream-giver for each job. It was why Most Ancient had assigned Fastidious to instruct Littlest One at first, and why, after the transfer of instructors, he was keeping a sharp eye on Fastidious to see if it was time to retire her altogether.)
Now Strapping was doing what Dowager had hoped he would do, becoming what she had wanted him to become. He looked around the shabby dwelling place attentively each night, assessing the changes in the young woman's life. He saw her attempts to create a little order. He saw how she had arranged the toys in the second, unoccupied bedroom, lining up the Matchbox cars on a shelf, placing the baseball cap on the bedpost after she had picked it up from the floor, where it had lain untouched for days.
He noticed that she had bought, though not opened, a package of nicotine patches, and that she had begun to smoke on the back porch and had opened the windows to air the place, and he could smell the difference.
The mail was no longer stacked unopened on the kitchen table beside the dirty coffee cups. The cups were washed and put away, and now the envelopes were in the wastebasket, and the opened bills lay on the table beside her small calculator and her checkbook.
He found himself beginning to hope for her future and to care for her in a way he had not before cared. As she slept restlessly on the couch with the TV a late-night blur across the room, he chose carefully what to touch and gather: the broken seashell once again, the little baseball cap, the bronzed baby shoes that she used for bookends. He wanted to give her dreams of a future with her son.
23
"It's almost Labor Day, John. Do you know what that means?" The woman was washing the few breakfast dishes while the little boy measured dog food from a bag into Toby's bowl.
"World Series?" he asked. "Eat it," he added, speaking firmly to the dog, who was sniffing the blue ceramic bowl, "because you're not getting any more of my bacon ever again."
The woman, standing at the sink, laughed. "You should never leave your plate where he can reach it," she reminded him. "He's shameful."
John scowled. "I was going to sit on the floor and read the funnies while I finished eating. How was I supposed to know he was going to be so grabby?"
"That's why they say 'Live and learn,'" she told him.
They both watched while Toby finally leaned toward his bowl and began to eat the dry dog food.
"You know that dog food that comes in cans?" John asked suddenly. "It smells horrible. And it looks like throw-up."
"Well, it probably smells
Strapping was an orderly sort of fellow, the kind who kept track of things, liked labels and lists and appreciated cleanliness. In his own Heap he was sometimes referred to as a nitpicker because he insisted on designated sleeping places, whereas some other dream-givers preferred to doze simply wherever they flopped down at the end of a busy night.
At first, because of his basic nature, he had been extraordinarily exasperated by the slovenly apartment to which he'd been assigned, and by the sleeping woman who, when he encountered her for the first time, was curled on the couch wearing pajamas with top and bottom unmatched—how irritating that was, to Strapping! He had sighed with despair that first night, looking around, realizing that he was faced with gathering his dream fragments from chipped china, coffee-ringed tables, dirty carpets studded with crumbs, and clothing that had lain unwashed on the floor for days.
But he was a caring fellow. It hadn't taken long before he had realized, through the collected fragments, how sad and needy this young woman's life was, and—because he was keenly intelligent, as well—how great the possibility was that he could help her.
(This was what Dowager had hoped when she assigned the punishment, because she knew her Heap well, and perceived what talents Strapping had to offer, if she could give him the opportunity. It was part of the Old Ones' tasks, to find the right dream-giver for each job. It was why Most Ancient had assigned Fastidious to instruct Littlest One at first, and why, after the transfer of instructors, he was keeping a sharp eye on Fastidious to see if it was time to retire her altogether.)
Now Strapping was doing what Dowager had hoped he would do, becoming what she had wanted him to become. He looked around the shabby dwelling place attentively each night, assessing the changes in the young woman's life. He saw her attempts to create a little order. He saw how she had arranged the toys in the second, unoccupied bedroom, lining up the Matchbox cars on a shelf, placing the baseball cap on the bedpost after she had picked it up from the floor, where it had lain untouched for days.
He noticed that she had bought, though not opened, a package of nicotine patches, and that she had begun to smoke on the back porch and had opened the windows to air the place, and he could smell the difference.
The mail was no longer stacked unopened on the kitchen table beside the dirty coffee cups. The cups were washed and put away, and now the envelopes were in the wastebasket, and the opened bills lay on the table beside her small calculator and her checkbook.
He found himself beginning to hope for her future and to care for her in a way he had not before cared. As she slept restlessly on the couch with the TV a late-night blur across the room, he chose carefully what to touch and gather: the broken seashell once again, the little baseball cap, the bronzed baby shoes that she used for bookends. He wanted to give her dreams of a future with her son.
23
"It's almost Labor Day, John. Do you know what that means?" The woman was washing the few breakfast dishes while the little boy measured dog food from a bag into Toby's bowl.
"World Series?" he asked. "Eat it," he added, speaking firmly to the dog, who was sniffing the blue ceramic bowl, "because you're not getting any more of my bacon ever again."
The woman, standing at the sink, laughed. "You should never leave your plate where he can reach it," she reminded him. "He's shameful."
John scowled. "I was going to sit on the floor and read the funnies while I finished eating. How was I supposed to know he was going to be so grabby?"
"That's why they say 'Live and learn,'" she told him.
They both watched while Toby finally leaned toward his bowl and began to eat the dry dog food.
"You know that dog food that comes in cans?" John asked suddenly. "It smells horrible. And it looks like throw-up."
"Well, it probably smells
Similar Books
