"Please, Momma, please, it's been so long since
we saw other people, and we've never been to a
Christmas Day party."
We pleaded and pleaded until at last she could
resist no longer. She drew Chris and me aside, to a far corner where the twins couldn't overhear, and she whispered, "There is one place where the two of you can hide and still be able to watch, but I cannot risk the twins. They're too young to be trusted and you know they can't s
it still for longer than two seconds, and Carrie would probably scream out in delight, and rivet everyone's attention. So, swear on your word of
honor you will not tell them."
We promised. No, of course we wouldn't tell
them, even without a vow to keep our silence. We
loved our little twins, and we wouldn't hurt their
feelings by letting them know they were missing out. We sang Christmas carols after Momma had gone,
and the day passed cheerfully enough, though there
was nothing special in the picnic basket for us to eat
ham sandwiches, which the twins didn't like, and cold
slices of turkey that were still icy, as if they had been
taken from the freezer. Leftovers from Thanksgiving
Day.
As evening came on so early, I sat for the longest
time gazing over at the dollhouse, where Carrie and
Cory played happily with the tiny porcelain people
and the priceless miniatures.
Funny how much you can learn from inanimate
objects that a little girl had once owned, and been allowed to look at, but never touch. And then another little girl came along, and the dollhouse was given to her, and the glass box smashed just so she could touch the objects inside so she could be punished--when
she broke something.
A shivering thought came: I wondered just what
Carrie or Cory would break, and what their
punishment would be.
I shoved a bit of chocolate into my mouth, and
sweetened the sourness of my roving, wicked
thoughts.