18. Damage Control

DAMAGE CONTROL

MADDY

With one probable culprit out of the way, Andrew and I go into Paul's room, keeping low. I look closely at the dart. It is stained on the tip with something dark. Poison or sedative, I can't be sure without testing it. For now, I leave it where it landed. Paul lingers at the door, not coming in.

I examine the window. My blood chills at what I see. Someone has cut a neat, round hole in the glass, just the right size to fit a blow gun or the barrel of a firearm.

Andrew frowns at it. "That took a specialized tool, especially to do it quietly. This was carefully planned." We back out, and I close the door. Andrew brings a chair from the kitchen and braces it under the doorknob.

We all stand in the hallway, looking at each other. "Now what?" Andrew says.

I study an exit diagram posted in the hall. "Pantry," I say. "It's set up as a tornado shelter, and is rated as earthquake safe."

"Unusual for California," Andrew says.

I shrug. "It's a Spindizzy design. James Bailey, Kate's brother, is the primary architect. He grew up in Kansas, where tornadoes are an ordinary part of summer weather. I'm surprised the outer walls and windows aren't better. This must be a retrofit."

"I'm hungry," Paul says. "Dinner was a while ago. Do you think there's anything good in there?"

I laugh, relieved to address something more or less normal. "Let's go see. We could probably pull a mattress in there and get comfortable."

The mattress wasn't necessary. The pantry had four pullout padded shelves, and had emergency blankets and pillows stored in tubs along the bottom shelf.

Paul discovered a pullout drawer stocked with individual packets of chips, fish shaped crackers, dried fruit, and similar nibbles. One shelf was stocked with all the major brands of soft drinks in individual servings.

"Can I have one?" Paul begged. "Please, Mom, just one."

I sigh. "Your poor teeth," I say. "Just one, then you need to brush after."

"My toothbrush is in my bathroom, and we've got the door barricaded," Paul says slyly.

Andrew turns away and puts his hand over the lower part of his face. If he laughs, I'm going to strangle him. Paul is enough of a handful without encouraging him.

I say "The spare toothbrushes are stored here. I'm sure we can find at least one that will fit in your mouth."

Paul sighs.

"Pick out your soda and a couple of snacks to go with it," I add gently.

"There's no TV," Paul says. "How am I going to fall asleep?"

There are times when Paul is amazingly mature. Clearly, this was not going to be one of those times. I try to think of something sensible to say, when Andrew comes up with a reasonable idea.

"How about if I tell you a story?" he says.

"What kind of story?" Paul asks suspiciously. "I'm too old for ‘The Three Little Pigs' or ‘Goldilocks.'"

I hold my breath. I truly hope Andrew won't tell one of the more gruesome legends or myths. The Mabnogian's stories held themes far too mature for my son.

But Andrew surprised me.

"How about the ‘Brave Little Tailor'?" he asks.

"Not if it's about sewing," Paul says scornfully.

"Only at the beginning," he says. "Think you can make it through a slow start?"

I quietly lower a padded shelf, to get out a package of nuts and bottled water for myself.

"I guess," Paul says, looking a little less scared but still uncertain.

Andrew gets a bottle of water and lowers another shelf. With the beds down, it is cozy, but not too close in the small store room.

He takes a drink, and begins, "Once upon a time. . . "

"Hey," Paul interrupts. "You said this wasn't a baby story."

"It's not," Andrew says. "But like all traditional stories, it has a traditional beginning. Stick with me here, it gets exciting."

"All right," Paul says, settling back with his soda and fish crackers.

Andrew begins again, "Once upon a time a frail little tailor sat sewing upon a large coat. As he sewed, he grew hungry . . ."

Andrew embroidered on the simple story of how the tailor smacked flies that landed on the tailor's bread and jelly, killing seven of them with one blow. And how he had sewn himself a banner, proclaiming the deed, then tricked giants, a band of knights, and a king, then eventually marrying the princess. He drew out the part about the giants, and cleaned it up a bit as well.

By the time the tailor tricked the giants, Paul had finished his drink, and used the half bath off the kitchen and brushed his teeth. When he comes back, he snuggles into his nest of pillows in the corner of the bed. Carousel cuddles with him, and Angel lies down across the door. Then he says,"So then what happened?"

Andrew widens his eyes. "He just tricked giants! What else should happen?"

"Mimi says that fairy tale adventures always come in threes," Paul says. "So there's got to be more."

"So there is," Andrew admits, and continues with how the tailor tricks the knights who come to see what is going on.

Before he reaches the part about the king and the princess, Paul's eyes slowly drift shut, he curls up on the pillows, still listening, then his breathing slows, and he is asleep.

Just to be on the safe side, or perhaps for my benefit, Andrew finishes telling the story, doing his best not to mangle the punchline at the end. "Patch that coat, and make those trousers, or I'll box your ears. I've killed seven at one blow, slain two giants, captured a unicorn, tamed a wild boar, so why should I be afraid of the two men standing outside my door?' The men were so frightened they ran away, and the brave little tailor remained married to the princess and was king until the end of his days."

We sit, holding hands, watching our son sleep. Carousel purrs, his soft rumble taking up where Andrew's story left off.

He brings my hand to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles before cradling it against his face. "He's quite a kid," he says softly.

"Yes," I say. "I think so. I've not had him tested, but it seems to me that he's smarter than your average nine-year-old."

"I don't have much experience with nine-year-olds, other than to give them vaccines," Andrew says. I don't want to tell her about the small amount of experience I do have with children, the ones who had come to me were usually ill or injured. Some of them were starving and more like little old men and women than children.

"Is this what we are going to be doing?" I ask, "Tricking giants?"

"To some extent," he says. "Maybe it wasn't a good story selection, but I wanted something reassuring with a happy ending."

"I suppose you could have told the ‘Bremen Town Musicians'," I comment. "It's similar in content."

"True," he says. Then he sits silent, holding my hand as if it is a talisman that can save him from having to face tomorrow.

"Are you worried?" I ask.

"Yes," he admits "And a little afraid. I don't want to be part of Grandfather's world. I want to be what Richard called me – a success story that doesn't owe anything to Grandfather or his ill-gotten money."

"Is that why you helped Leland?" I ask.

He holds my hand against his cheek, cherishing it. "Leland is a good man," he says. "I'm glad I got to know him as a friend before I learned that he is my father's oldest son. It made what came later so much easier."

"Would you tell me a story?" I ask, after we sit silently for a while.

"If I can think of a good one," he says.

"It doesn't matter," I say. "I feel like we should talk about things, but I don't know how to start."

"I have a good idea," he says. "But you might have to help me with parts of it."

"Oh?" she asks.

He begins, "Once upon a time in New York City, there lived a brave and beautiful girl named Madeline . . ."

It took a while, but we told each other the story of the years that we had been apart. At least some of the story.

I tell the story of how social workers seem to look down on single mothers, or at least it had seemed to me that they did. "When Paul was a baby," I told him, "I signed up for WIC. Only certain foods qualify for the vouchers. Most of the time that's fine, because it is milk, cheese, fruit juice, and similar things. But I attended a class on nutrition, and the instructor tried to tell me that Very Berry Cereal was better nutritionally than my homemade breakfast bars."

"Is it?" he asks

I shake my head."There is so much sugar in that cereal, it's unbelievable. I sweeten my bars with applesauce."

"You'll have to make some for us," he says. "They sound good."

"Maybe on a weekend," I say, thinking of the amount of time it takes to make them. "Your turn. Tell me something about Africa."

"Well," he says,"There was the time that Leland took me with him on safari. He was guiding this bunch of tourists who wanted to take pictures of the wildlife."

"That sounds fun," she says.

"It was," I say. "Leland knew where all the animals with young babies were located in the preserve. I think the best part of the trip was sitting very still in a blind, watching lion cubs romp together. Or maybe it was the young wildebeests playing. We had a good time, and the tourist group gave Leland a big tip. He used most of it to buy supplies, but we went into town and bought more books for Old Emily so she wouldn't have to tell the same stories all the time."

"I would like to see the babies, sometime," I say with a yawn. Sleep is finally catching up with me.

I stretch out on my bed shelf, and Andrew stretches out on his. We hold hands and soon we are both asleep.