“Well, you certainly can’t be very young.”
“I bet people with big families have station wagons so they have room for all the children.”
“The lucky ones do.”
Cathy stared down at the thin flow of water carrying fat little minnows down to the sea. Finally she said, “They’re too young, and their car is too small.”
In spite of her aversion to having new neighbors, Marion felt a quickening of interest. “Have you seen them?”
But the little girl seemed deaf, lost in a water world of minnows and dragonflies and tadpoles.
“I asked you a question, Cathy. Did you see the people who just moved in?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before you came. Their name is Smith.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went up to the house to look at things and they said, Hello, little girl, what’s your name? And I said, Cathy, what’s yours? And they said Smith. Then they drove off in the little car.”
“You’re not supposed to go poking around other people’s houses,” Marion said brusquely. “And while we’re at it, you’re not supposed to go anywhere after school without first telling me where you’re going and when you’ll be back. You know that perfectly well. Now why didn’t you come in and report to me after you got off the school bus?”
“I didn’t want to.”
“That’s not a satisfactory answer.”
Satisfactory or not, it was the only answer Cathy had. She looked at her mother in silence, then she turned and darted back up the hill to her own house.
After a time Marion followed her, exasperated and a little confused. She hated to punish the child, but she knew she couldn’t ignore the matter entirely—it was much too serious. While she gave Cathy her graham crackers and orange juice, she told her, reasonably and kindly, that she would have to stay in her room the following day after school by way of learning a lesson.
That night, after Cathy had been tucked in bed, Marion related the incident to Paul. He seemed to take a less serious view of it than Marion, a fact of which the listening child became well aware.
“I’m glad she’s getting acquainted with the new people,” Paul said. “It shows a certain degree of poise I didn’t think she had. She’s always been so shy.”
“You’re surely not condoning her running off without telling me?”
“She didn’t run far. All kids do things like that once in a while.”
“We don’t want to spoil her.”
“Cathy’s always been so obedient I think she has us spoiled. Who knows, she might even teach us a thing or two about going out and making new friends.” He realized, from past experience, that this was a very touchy subject. Marion had her house, her garden, her television sets; she didn’t seem to want any more of the world than these, and she resented any implication that they were not enough. To ward off an argument he added, “You’ve done a good job with Cathy. Stop worrying … Smith, their name is?”
“Yes.”
“Actually, I think it’s an excellent sign that Cathy’s getting acquainted.”
At three the next afternoon the yellow circus cage arrived, released one captive, and rumbled on its way.
“I’m home, Mommy.”
“Good girl.”
Marion felt guilty at the sight of her: the child had been cooped up in school all day, the weather was so warm and lovely, and besides, Paul hadn’t thought the incident of the previous afternoon too important.
“I know what,” Marion suggested, “let’s you and I go down to the creek and count waterbugs.”
The offer was a sacrifice for Marion because her favorite quiz program was on and she liked to answer the questions along with the contestants. “How about that?”
Cathy knew all about the quiz program; she’d seen it a hundred times, had watched the moving mouths claim her mother’s eyes and ears and mind. “I counted the waterbugs yesterday.”
“Well, minnows, then.”
“You’ll scare them away.”
“Oh, will I?” Marion laughed self-consciously, rather relieved that Cathy had refused her offer and was clearly and definitely a little guilty about the relief. “Don’t you scare them?”
“No. They think I’m another minnow because they’re used to me.”
“Maybe they could get used to me, too.”
“I don’t think so.”
When Cathy went off down the canyon by herself, Marion realized, in a vaguely disturbing way, that the child had politely but firmly rejected her mother’s company. It wasn’t until dinnertime that she found out the reason why.
“The Smiths,” Cathy said, “have an Austin-Healey.”
Cathy, like most girls, had never shown any interest in cars, and her glib use of the name moved her parents to laughter.
The laughter encouraged Cathy to elaborate. “An Austin-Healey makes a lot of noise—like Daddy’s lawn mower.”
“I don’t think the company would appreciate a commercial from you, young lady,” Paul said. “Are the Smiths all moved in?”
“Oh, yes. I helped them.”
“Is that a fact? And how did you help them?”
“I sang two songs. And then we danced and danced.”
Paul looked half pleased, half puzzled. It wasn’t like Cathy to perform willingly in front of people. During the last Christmas concert at the school she’d left the stage in tears and hidden in the cloak room … Well, maybe her shyness was only a phase and she was finally getting over it.
“They must be very nice people,” he said, “to take time out from getting settled in a new house to play games with a little girl.”
Cathy shook her head. “It wasn’t games. It was real dancing—like on Ed Sullivan.”
“As good as that, eh?” Paul said, smiling. “Tell me about it.”
“Mrs. Smith is a nightclub dancer.”
Paul’s smile faded, and a pulse began to beat in his left temple like a small misplaced heart. “Oh? You’re sure about that, Cathy?”
“Yes.”
“And what does Mr. Smith do?”
“He’s a baseball player.”
“You mean that’s what he does for a living?” Marion asked. “He doesn’t work in an office like Daddy?”
“No, he just plays baseball. He always wears a baseball cap.”
“I see. What position does he play on the team?” Paul’s voice was low.
Cathy looked blank.
“Everybody on a ball team has a special thing to do. What does Mr. Smith do?”
“He’s a batter.”
“A batter, eh? Well, that’s nice. Did he tell you this?”
“Yes.”
“Cathy,” Paul said, “I know you wouldn’t deliberately lie to me, but sometimes you get your facts a little mixed up.”
He went on in this vein for some time but Cathy’s story remained unshaken: Mrs. Smith was a nightclub dancer, Mr. Smith a professional baseball player, they loved children, and they never watched television.
“That, at least, must be a lie,” Marion said to Paul later when she saw the rectangular light of the television set shining in the Smiths’ picture window. “As for the rest of it, there isn’t a nightclub within fifty miles, or a professional ball club within two hundred.”
“She probably misunderstood. It’s quite possible that at one time Mrs. Smith was a dancer of sorts and that he played a little baseball.”
Cathy, in bed and teetering dizzily on the brink of sleep, wondered if she should tell her parents about the Smiths’ child—the one who didn’t go to school.
She didn’t tell them; Marion found out for herself the next morning after Paul and Cathy had gone. When she pulled back the drapes in the living room and opened the windows, she heard the sharp slam of a screen door from across the canyon and saw a small child come out on the patio of the new house. At that distance she couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl. Whichever it was, the child was quiet and well behaved; only the occasional slam of the door shook the warm, windless day.