sin. He says a man named Bartholomew Winslow was
my real daddy and he died in a fire. Our mother
seduced him."
Seduced? I gave him a long searching look.
"Do you know what that word means?"
"Nope--but I know it's bad, real bad!" "Do you love our mother?"
Worry tormented his dark eyes. He sat heavily
on the ground and contemplated his sneakers. He
should have answered quickly, spontaneously. "Bart,
do me a big favor and yourself too--go into the house
and tell Mom and Dad what's bothering you. They'll
understand anything. I know you think Mom loves me
best, but it's not so. She has room in her heart for ten
children."
"Ten?" he screamed. "You mean Momma is gonna adopt more?" He jumped up and ran then, haltingly, as if pretending to be old had made him lose what little agility he had. That hospital stay had
robbed him of a great many things, in my opinion. It was sneaky of me and not quite honorable,
but I had to hear what Bart told our mother when they
were alone. She was on the back veranda. Cindy was
on her lap, dozing as Mom read a book. When Bart
ran up she quickly put the book down, then shifted
Cindy onto a nearby chair as Bart stood staring at her,
mutely pleading with his eyes.
Then, of all things, he asked, "What's your
name?"
"You know my name," she said.
"Does it begin with a C?"
"Yes, of course it does." Now she looked
disturbed.
"But--but----" he stumbled, "I know someone
who cries after you go away. Someone little like me