Nobody saw us but the grandmother, and we could
have worn rags, which, indeed, might have put a smile
of pleasure on her face.
We didn't go up to the attic when it rained, or
when it snowed. Even on clear days, there was that
wind to snarl fiercely as it blew, screaming and
tearing through the cracks of the old house.
One night Cory woke up and called to me, "Make
the wind go away, Cathy."
I left my bed and Carrie, who was fast asleep on
her side, crawled under the covers beside Cory, and
tightly I held him in my arms. Poor little thin body,
wanting to be loved so much by his real mother . . .
and he had only me. He felt too small, so fragile, as if
that rampaging wind could blow him away. I lowered
my face into his clean, sweet-smelling curly blond
hair and kissed him there, as I had when he was a
baby, and I had replaced my dolls with living babies.
"I can't make the wind go away, Cory. Only God can
do that."
"Then tell God I don't like the wind," he said
sleepily. "Tell God the wind wants to come in and get
me."
I gathered him closer, held him tighter . . . never
going to let the wind take Cory away, never! But I
knew what he meant "Tell me a story, Cathy, so I can
forget the wind."
There was a favorite story I had concocted to
please Cory, all about a fantasy world where little
children lived in a small cozy home, with a mother