The Baby Gift

The little girl lived hundreds of miles from any ocean, she had never seen the ocean or an octopus, but still, she wondered about situations like this.

“The thing to do is not to panic,” her daddy said. “If an octopus grabs you and wants to eat you, just stay calm.”

“Calm?” she said dubiously.

“Between his eyes the octopus has a bump like a wart. Surprise him—bite his wart!”

“Yuck!” said the little girl.

“No,” her father said, tapping her temple. “It’s using your smarts. All the octopus’s nerves are centered in that bump. When it hurts, he drops you and swims off fast as he can. He’ll never want to see you again.”

“Well,” she said with a thoughtful frown, “what if a giant clam grabs my foot and won’t let go?”

“Ah,” said Daddy, “that’s why you always carry a knife when you dive. If a giant clam snaps shut on you, cut his hinge. Snip-snip, you’re free. And he’s learned his lesson.”

“Will it kill him?” she asked. She wanted only to escape the clam, not murder it.

Her father shook his head. “No. He’ll have to lie low and grow his hinge back. Of course, some sand may drift in his shell, so maybe he’ll make a giant pearl while he’s waiting.”

“Hmm,” said the little girl. “Well, what about crocodiles?”

“Easiest of all,” said her daddy. “The crocodile has all sorts of muscles to snap his mouth shut. But he’s got very weak muscles to open it up. Grab him by the snoot when his mouth is closed. Then he can’t open it.”

“Then what?”

“Then move him someplace where he won’t bite people and where the hunters won’t get him.”

“Why would hunters want him?”

“To make wallets and suitcases and watch straps out of him. It’s a sad fate, becoming a watch strap.”

“Mm,” said the little girl. Then, as dreams do, hers drifted off. She was on an imaginary seashore, warm with caressing breezes. There, she and her faithful partner, Zorro the cat, stalked crocodiles. She was not afraid, because her daddy had taught her how to escape all dangers.

She strode across the sand, as fearless and strong as her father was. The sky was blue, the sun shone down with tropic brightness, and she moved, safe and invincible, through a world of eternal summer.

WHILE THE CHILD SLEPT, snow fell. It had fallen all morning.

It glistened, silver and white, on the greenhouse roofs. Like ragged lace, it covered the cold frames still empty of seedlings. It eddied around the corners of the barn, dancing with the wind as if alive and bewitched.

But the inside of the little farmhouse was warm. Briana had been up and working for almost an hour. The scents of coffee and bacon and biscuits hung in the kitchen air like country ambrosia.

It was a scene of almost perfect peace.

Then Briana smashed her finger with the hammer. A swear word flew to her mouth, but she sucked it back in pain. This almost made her swallow the spare tack she held between her teeth.

Through sheer willpower, she recovered and bit on the tack more firmly. She had a job to do, and with all her Missouri stubbornness, she meant to get it done.

She settled herself more steadily on the top rung of the ladder and gripped the hammer. She tapped the last crepe-paper streamer into place on the ceiling beam. Now kitchen, living room and dining room were festooned with spirals of red and white.

Briana cocked her head and examined the effect. It looked fine, it looked festive, it looked—happy.

Happy, she thought numbly. Good. I want things to look happy.

She climbed down the ladder and plucked the unused tack from her mouth, then thrust it into the pocket of her carpenter’s apron. She stowed her hammer in its proper drawer and hung the apron on its peg inside the pantry.

She checked the food warming in the oven, then called her daughter to breakfast. She made sure her voice was firm, steady and, above all, cheerful.

“Nealie! Up and at ’em. Breakfast time.”

From the bedroom came a groan that was impressively loud for such a small girl. “Agh!”

“No dramatics,” Briana ordered. “They scare the cat.”

With even greater drama, Nealie shouted, “I hate mornings!” This time her groan ended with a horrible gurgle. “Aargh-gack-gack.”

The black cat, Zorro, streaked out of Nealie’s room, down the stairs and to his sanctuary behind the washing machine. Zorro was of a nervous disposition.

Briana looked at all that remained visible of the cat, the twitching tip of his black tail. She crooked an eyebrow. “Good morning, Zorro. I’d hide, too, if I were you. Some mice were around earlier asking for you. Big mice. One of them had a baseball bat.”

“Mom!” Nealie stood in the doorway looking sleepy and indignant. “You know Zorro’s scared of mice.”

“And he knows I’m kidding.”

Nealie gave her mother a rueful smile. She was a small child with big glasses that made her look like an impish owl. Her new plaid bathrobe was too large, and the sleeves hung to her fingertips. From under its hem peeped large brown fuzzy slippers made to look like bear paws. The slippers were ridiculous, but Nealie loved them.

The girl dropped to her knees beside the washer. “Poor Zorro,” she cooed, pulling him from his hiding place. Pieces of lint clung to his black whiskers and fur. She began to pick them off.

“Come on, Zorro,” Nealie said comfortingly. “You can sit on my lap. I’ll pet you.”

She plunked down cross-legged on the floor and laid the cat on his back. She stroked his fat stomach, scratched his ears and babbled affectionate nonsense to him. He purred his almost noiseless Zorro purr.

Briana bit her lip and put the oatmeal into the microwave. All business, she opened a container of yogurt, then poured orange juice into a glass.

“I didn’t want to wake up.” Nealie yawned, stroking the cat. “I was wrestling a crocodile. I was winning, too.”

“Of course, you were,” Briana said loyally.

“I’m going to hunt crocodiles when I get big,” said Nealie. “To help them, not to hurt them. Zorro and I’ll build them a safe place so people can’t make them into watch straps. Won’t we, Zorro?”

Zorro’s green eyes rolled unhappily, as if the thought of crocodiles made him queasy.

Briana stood by the counter, one hand on her hip, watching the timid cat and her fearless child.

Nealie was such a little girl. She was smart and imaginative, but much too small for her age, and delicate, as well. It was as if nature had not given her a body sturdy enough to contain so much spirit.

Nealie yawned again, then looked up, noticing the red and white streamers for the first time. Behind her big glasses, her eyes squinted.

“Hey! What’s this? When’d you do all this?”