Read Online The Children's Crusade by Ann Packer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Packer
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are,” he said. “Now we’re all together.”
“Except Mom,” Ryan said.
“Well, that’s true, but you know how she feels about the party. I think she’s where she wants to be right now.”
James’s face was smeared with tears and dirt, but there were Band-Aids on his knees and he was quiet, his thumb in his mouth and the side of his face pressed to his father’s chest. Robert and Rebecca sat down.
“Quite a day,” their father said.
Ryan lifted his badger. “Badger is feeling better.”
“That is one good thing.”
“And Dog is,” Ryan said. “Wait, James, where is he? You just had him.”
“Dad,” Rebecca said, “Robert had a good idea.” She explained about the old patio table in the shed and how it would have been good to have it at the house for the party. “We should remember for next year.”
“That is a good idea,” Bill said. “But I wonder what became of the key.”
“The keys,” she said. “We couldn’t find either of them.”
“There’s only one that I know of. In the junk drawer in the kitchen. If it’s gone we may have to cut the padlock.”
Robert had been silent until now. “No, Dad,” he said, “there’s supposed to be a key down there, remember?” He described his search, the careful way he, and then he and Rebecca, had crawled around the shed, feeling every inch of the way for the gap between the foundation and the wall.
“I’m confounded,” Bill said. “I just don’t have any recollection of that.”
“It’s there, Dad. It’s supposed to be. On the foundation.”
“On the foundation,” Bill said, something tickling at his memory, a June day in 1961 that began with the infant Robert standing on his father’s thighs, pushing downward with his soft wedge feet as Bill held him under the arms, his small body rigid with excitement. Or so it had struck Bill, who departed reluctantly, leaving the baby and his mother to wait for him while he drove to the Portola Valley property and poured the foundation for the shed. In the hardening concrete he scratched a capital R, and then, for no good reason, a second R and a third.
“Maybe so,” he said, “but I think that’s something to solve some other day. I have some hosting to do and I suspect I’d better change my clothes.”
“ There he is,” Ryan said, reaching behind Bill and retrieving James’s dog. “Here, James, don’t forget to hold him.”
James held out his arms for Dog. “He got a new collar,” he said proudly.
“He certainly did,” Bill said, lifting James from his lap and setting him on the grass. “I guess you loaned it to him, did you, Rob?”
“I borrowed it,” Ryan said.
Around Dog’s neck was Robert’s watch, and Robert put his face in his hands and began to cry again. This time he didn’t feel so bad. It was a free, easy kind of cry, gentle as a stream. Bill watched his oldest, puzzled by the tears but aware that he needed to get into the house. He stood still for another moment and then told the children he’d see them inside. Halfway to the door, he turned and looked at them. Rebecca wondered if he was going to ask what had happened to her dress, but instead he came back and lifted James in his arms. “James James Morrison Morrison,” he murmured, and he pressed his lips to James’s silky hair.
3
ROBERT
W hen I was in medical school, much was made of the need for compassion, and we talked about it as if it could be learned, like the names of the cranial nerves or the ability to detect pneumonia on exam. This made sense to me at first. My father—the doctor I knew best—was full of compassion, not just for the children he treated but for everyone: their parents, his own children, a stranger at the side of a highway waiting for a tow truck. At last I had to recognize that he hadn’t picked it up in class, and I was afraid I’d never measure up.
But I needn’t have worried. As it turned out, I pity the sick; I feel for them. In my group internal
“Except Mom,” Ryan said.
“Well, that’s true, but you know how she feels about the party. I think she’s where she wants to be right now.”
James’s face was smeared with tears and dirt, but there were Band-Aids on his knees and he was quiet, his thumb in his mouth and the side of his face pressed to his father’s chest. Robert and Rebecca sat down.
“Quite a day,” their father said.
Ryan lifted his badger. “Badger is feeling better.”
“That is one good thing.”
“And Dog is,” Ryan said. “Wait, James, where is he? You just had him.”
“Dad,” Rebecca said, “Robert had a good idea.” She explained about the old patio table in the shed and how it would have been good to have it at the house for the party. “We should remember for next year.”
“That is a good idea,” Bill said. “But I wonder what became of the key.”
“The keys,” she said. “We couldn’t find either of them.”
“There’s only one that I know of. In the junk drawer in the kitchen. If it’s gone we may have to cut the padlock.”
Robert had been silent until now. “No, Dad,” he said, “there’s supposed to be a key down there, remember?” He described his search, the careful way he, and then he and Rebecca, had crawled around the shed, feeling every inch of the way for the gap between the foundation and the wall.
“I’m confounded,” Bill said. “I just don’t have any recollection of that.”
“It’s there, Dad. It’s supposed to be. On the foundation.”
“On the foundation,” Bill said, something tickling at his memory, a June day in 1961 that began with the infant Robert standing on his father’s thighs, pushing downward with his soft wedge feet as Bill held him under the arms, his small body rigid with excitement. Or so it had struck Bill, who departed reluctantly, leaving the baby and his mother to wait for him while he drove to the Portola Valley property and poured the foundation for the shed. In the hardening concrete he scratched a capital R, and then, for no good reason, a second R and a third.
“Maybe so,” he said, “but I think that’s something to solve some other day. I have some hosting to do and I suspect I’d better change my clothes.”
“ There he is,” Ryan said, reaching behind Bill and retrieving James’s dog. “Here, James, don’t forget to hold him.”
James held out his arms for Dog. “He got a new collar,” he said proudly.
“He certainly did,” Bill said, lifting James from his lap and setting him on the grass. “I guess you loaned it to him, did you, Rob?”
“I borrowed it,” Ryan said.
Around Dog’s neck was Robert’s watch, and Robert put his face in his hands and began to cry again. This time he didn’t feel so bad. It was a free, easy kind of cry, gentle as a stream. Bill watched his oldest, puzzled by the tears but aware that he needed to get into the house. He stood still for another moment and then told the children he’d see them inside. Halfway to the door, he turned and looked at them. Rebecca wondered if he was going to ask what had happened to her dress, but instead he came back and lifted James in his arms. “James James Morrison Morrison,” he murmured, and he pressed his lips to James’s silky hair.
3
ROBERT
W hen I was in medical school, much was made of the need for compassion, and we talked about it as if it could be learned, like the names of the cranial nerves or the ability to detect pneumonia on exam. This made sense to me at first. My father—the doctor I knew best—was full of compassion, not just for the children he treated but for everyone: their parents, his own children, a stranger at the side of a highway waiting for a tow truck. At last I had to recognize that he hadn’t picked it up in class, and I was afraid I’d never measure up.
But I needn’t have worried. As it turned out, I pity the sick; I feel for them. In my group internal
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