“That’s wonderful!” cried Cousin Coralinda.
“Glanx?” asked Baby Binnie, lovingly winding her fingers with Gran’s.
It was not until the next day that Cassie found a time to be under the tablecloth, for dinner was too long and Cassie too weary to explore. As it turned out, Cassie would always remember her first time in her new space, the early morning light making it a cave of color. For it was on August 12, at 8:22, that Cassie Binegar (whose name rhymes with vinegar) fell in love.
8
Feet
ACTUALLY, IT WAS NOT the writer himself but his feet that Cassie loved first. During the next month, she was to become quite familiar with many pairs of feet from her space under the tablecloth. She recognized all the voices, but it was the feet she came to know, almost as if each person was turned upside down for her. And what the voice said was not always what the feet said to Cassie. Uncle Hat’s, planted firmly with a once-in-a-while covering of one with the other; Gran’s, long and blue veined and restless; her mother’s, brown and relaxed; Coralinda’s, prim and parked neatly; her brothers’, up and down and never there for long; her father’s, happily stretching, small tufts of black hair on each toe. Baby Binnie’s didn’t reach, of course, the only evidence of her the soggy bits of food dropped from her high chair. Feet told Cassie more than mouths or minds or words, and from time to time, Cassie would take off her socks and shoes and try to read her own feet.
It was the morning of August 12, early, that Cassie came to know the writer’s feet. Sitting silently beneath the tablecloth, listening to the comings and goings and murmurings of her mother and Gran, daydreaming happily, she was not even aware of the knock at the door. Suddenly the writer’s feet were there, booted, one foot thrust back under his chair as he sat, the other thrown out, just missing Cassie.
“I’d appreciate it if you could rent me a cottage,” his soft voice said, and in accompaniment, his feet moved. “I write for the newspaper, but I’m taking off a month or two to write for myself. I need a space.”
A space. Her word, thought Cassie as she sat up straighter.
He sighed and his feet curled a bit, sighing with him. “I’m tired of writing about births, deaths, trips to nowhere, and hardware sales,” he said.
“You may find,” said Gran crisply, “that those are the things you will write about anyway.”
Cassie frowned, but the writer laughed.
“I wonder,” said Cassie’s mother thoughtfully. “We could rent you the smallest cottage. Only for a month or two, though, or through October. There isn’t heat, you know.”
“That would be splendid,” he said happily, his feet agreeing.
Splendid. Margaret Mary’s word.
“I cook for myself,” he went on, “and I could do some work for you in my spare time.”
Beneath the tablecloth, Cassie longed to see his face. A writer, think of it! Right here. Her face felt warm. She remembered feeling this way only once, in the fourth grade, and then it had only lasted for a day and a half. She had loved Mr. Bagg, her teacher, on sight. Loved him until his sharp-faced wife came to school, dragging along two horrible children, one who stuck his tongue out behind poor Mr. Bagg’s back, the other with a suspicious smell about his pants.
All of a sudden the feet disappeared; Gran’s, her mother’s, and the writer’s.
“I’ll bring my things in a day or two,” he said, standing close to the table. Cassie could see the outline of his leg leaning into the cloth.
“I’ll have the cottage ready,” Cassie’s mother said. “You’ll have to bring sheets and towels.”
That’s wonderful, thought Cassie. A writer actually bringing his sheets and towels to our cottage.
“Say,” Cousin Coralinda’s voice called in the front door. “I’ve lost Bitsy. Is she in here?”
“Bitsy?” asked the writer.
“A cat,” said Gran. There was a flurry of activity as they called and searched for Bitsy.
“I’ll keep looking outside,” called Cousin Coralinda, and the door banged shut.
“Does she come when she’s called?” asked the writer. “Perhaps under the tablecloth,” he added.
Underneath, Cassie sat very still. She could feel the pounding of her heart. And then the tablecloth was pulled up and Cassie was staring into the writer’s face. He has no beard, thought Cassie wildly. I thought all writers have beards. For a moment there was a silence as Cassie stared at the writer and he stared back, his dark eyes steady, a slight smile on his face. And then the tablecloth dropped again.
“No cat,” said the writer, matter-of-factly. And then more softly he repeated, “No cat.”
Sudden tears came to Cassie’s eyes. Shame at being discovered, at being caught. But then, as they all walked out the door to look for Bitsy and Cassie was left alone, another thought overwhelmed her. She had loved his feet first. But now, thought Cassie happily, I love his face as well. And she sat, her arms around her knees, for a long time in her new space.
Fast as the wind, Cassie ran down the dunes and over the hard-packed edges of the inlet to Margaret Mary’s house. Margaret Mary and her mother were outside, weeding around the neat privet hedge. Margaret Mary’s mother had a headful of shocking-pink rollers, and she looked like a huge bloom. Cassie stared at her for a moment before she remembered the news.
“Margaret Mary, there’s a writer going to live in the small cottage!”
Breathless, Cassie fell to the grass.
“What sort of rider?” asked Margaret Mary, shading her eyes. “Horse? Or motorcycle?”
“Writer!” exclaimed Cassie. “Not rider. He’s written for the newspaper but he’s tired of writing about births, deaths, trips to nowhere, and hardware sales. Now he’s going to write something for himself.”
“A pity, actually,” said Margaret Mary’s mother, looking up. “I am most fond of reading about hardware sales.”
“Does he have a beard?” asked Margaret Mary, warming to the subject.
“No beard,” said Cassie. “But he’ll be bringing his sheets and towels to the cottage. In a day or two.”
“That’s jolly,” proclaimed Margaret Mary. “His own sheets and towels.”
Cassie began to laugh.
“It is that,” she said, imitating Margaret Mary. “It is jolly.”
“Well, dirt and weeds are not jolly,” complained Margaret Mary’s mother, holding up some wild honeysuckle by her thumb and first finger as if she held a rotten fish. “This weed is not jolly.”
This made Margaret Mary and Cassie tumble around and peal with laughter. They ran down to the inlet and pranced in the water, sending up the shore birds and getting the bottoms of their pants wet.
“Jolly!” shouted Cassie to the wind, thinking she’d never felt so happy.
And like an echo, Margaret Mary’s voice repeated, “Jolly, jolly, jolly.”
9
Conversations
IN THE COOL AND DARK and private place beneath the tablecloth Cassie became ears, hearing information and thoughts that she would not have if she hadn’t hidden there. Only once did the idea of hiding make her uncomfortable, and that was when she told Margaret Mary about being there when the writer had come.
“Hidden!” Margaret Mary was shocked. “That’s not good, Cassie. Not good. There are some things not meant to be heard by hidden ears. How would you feel if someone spied on you?”
Cassie had dropped the subject. It was, of course, absurd to think that anyone else would ever hide under the table. Or that any grown-up would hide at all, and listen. And it wasn’t really spying, thought Cassie. It was only listening. And learning. In order to be a better writer. Yes, that was it, Cassie reasoned. It made good sense. But she had never talked about it again with Margaret Mary. She cared what Margaret Mary thought of her. And what Gran thought. Strangely alike, the two of them. And now the writer, thought Cassie with some fear. He was to come in two days. What would he think of her, hiding beneath the tablecloth? He knew. He ha
d seen. But neither Margaret Mary’s warnings or her own fears stopped Cassie. She sat and hid. And listened.
“Poor Cousin Cor,” her Gran’s voice came to her from above. “Her husband flew the coop.”
Flew the coop? Cassie knew that meant he left. But the way Gran said it brought to mind a picture of Cor’s husband, whoever he was, spreading his wings and flying off, winging over hills and dunes and rivers to a faraway place. Migrating, perhaps.
“Coralinda worries too much,” said Cassie’s mother, shifting a bit in her chair, her toes fanning out beneath the table.
“Or tries too hard,” answered Gran. “Binnie will talk when she wants. She needs to get her mind off Baby Binnie, and off herself.”
There was a pause, then the sound of the two of them laughing.
“What were they? Coralinda’s first words?” asked Cassie’s mother.
“I believe, at age two,” said Gran, “her words were ‘The picture is slightly tilted on the wall!’”
“No,” said Cassie’s mother, her voice filled with laughter. “I believe she looked out the window, turned to Uncle Hat, and said ‘The road crew has just passed the house.’”
Her voice ended on a high whoop of a note, and she and Gran leaned toward each other, laughing helplessly. They got up, their feet disappearing from under the table, and Cassie lifted the tablecloth and watched them, their arms around each other like small children.
I wish they would stay like this forever, thought Cassie as she dropped the tablecloth and sat and waited, feeling for the first time a bit of a captive beneath the table.
“Who’s the man?” asked Cousin Coralinda. “Moving things into the small cottage?” Her feet, in brocade slippers with feathered trim, slipped silently under the table. “Baby Binnie likes him.”
Cassie’s ears prickled. Of course she liked him. Baby Binnie liked everyone.
“That is Jason,” said Cassie’s mother, peeling potatoes over the kitchen sink. “He’s going to write.”
Jason. Cassie tried the name, silently, only her lips moving. It was a nice name. But to Cassie he was the writer. Would always be THE WRITER.
“Write what?” asked Coralinda. “Say write, Baby Binnie, write.”
“Schramp,” said Baby Binnie, dropping a piece of toast to the floor. The toast lay close to Cassie, and she moved back waiting for Cousin Cor to reach down and pick it up. Instead, to Cassie’s horror, Baby Binnie’s fat feet appeared, then Baby Binnie’s diapered bottom, then Baby Binnie herself, holding up the tablecloth, peering under.
“Write a novel, I guess,” answered Cassie’s mother. “Or short stories. He didn’t say much about it. Only that he wanted some time and a place. He is nice, isn’t he?”
Cassie, slowly inching backward, watched as Baby Binnie lifted the tablecloth up, then down, then up, then down, in a private game of hide-and-seek.
“Cass,” Baby Binnie said very clearly.
“What?” asked Cousin Coralinda. “What did you say? Toast? Say toast, Binnie.”
“Cass,” said Baby Binnie, peering right into Cassie’s face as Cassie smiled weakly.
“Good girl,” said Coralinda. And suddenly Baby Binnie disappeared to Coralinda’s lap as if whisked up and away on an invisible elevator. Cassie breathed a sigh of relief.
“Cor?” Her mother’s voice sounded hesitant.
“Yes?”
“It’s not really my business,” she began, “but are you happy alone?”
“Alone?” Cousin Cor said too brightly. “I’m not alone. I’ve got Hat and Baby Binnie.”
“You know what I mean,” Cassie’s mother said softly, sliding into a chair, her feet whispering under the table.
Cousin Cor sighed.
“No, I’m not happy. But who would want me, with a baby who won’t speak words. And my feathers. Oh yes,” she went on, “I know how I look. And I know that Baby Binnie doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, Coralinda,” said Cassie’s mother. “Binnie will talk in time. Give her time.”
She said ‘Cass,’ cried Cassie silently under the table. Baby Binnie said ‘Cass’ as clear as could be.
“And Cor, you wear feathers for the same reason Hat wears hats, don’t you know? And talks in rhymes.”
There was a silence, then Coralinda’s voice so low that Cassie had to turn her head to hear.
“I know,” said Coralinda. “I know.”
But I don’t know, thought Cassie under the table. Why? She looked down and saw a feather lying by Cousin Cor’s foot, fallen from a shoe. Cassie picked it up and smoothed it.
Then there were only the soft burbling sounds of Baby Binnie. Cassie knew that Cousin Cor was crying. Cassie put the feather next to her cheek for comfort. For hers or Cousin Coralinda’s, she wondered. And suddenly, for the first time in her life, Cassie wished that she were somewhere else, far away from her safe space. There were still no answers. And what Margaret Mary had said was true. There were some things not meant for hidden ears.
10
Questions and Answers
THE FIRST THING the writer did when he arrived was to put up a small bird feeder. He hung it from the porch hook and filled it with sunflower seeds. Cassie saw this from her perch up a small pine tree nearby. She had not meant to be up the tree when he arrived. It had just happened. And now there was no coming down until he left.
Cassie’s mother walked up the path and into the hidden yard where the small cottage stood.
“Is everything all right?” she called to him.
“Fine.” He turned and smiled at her. “First things first. I’m feeding the birds.”
“Come for dinner tonight,” said Cassie’s mother. “You can meet everyone. Then we’ll leave you on your own.”
Cassie’s mother went off again, humming to herself. When she had disappeared, the writer walked over to the tree and looked up.
“You can come down now, little bird.”
Cassie sighed and climbed down the tree.
“I didn’t mean it. This time,” she added, red-faced.
The writer smiled at her and held out his hand.
“I’m Jason.”
“I know. The writer. I’m Cassie.” Cassie took his hand. It was long fingered and cool. Now she loved his fingers, too.
“Ah, of course you know. I’d almost forgotten.”
“It was nice of you not to say anything,” said Cassie.
“You’re welcome,” said the writer. “You know, hiding is not always a good thing.”
“You sound like Margaret Mary,” said Cassie.
“And who’s Margaret Mary?”
“My friend,” explained Cassie. “She’s from England and she has plastic plants that her mother sprays with disinfectant and her favorite word is hair ball.”
The writer laughed for a long time. I suppose, Cassie thought, resigned, I will now love his teeth. And she did.
“Anyway,” said Cassie, “she thinks my hiding is not good. But I’m doing it because I want to be a writer, like you. And hiding is the best way to find out what you want to know.”
“Not so,” said the writer, sitting on the porch steps. “Being a part of it all is the best way.”
“But aren’t you hiding?” asked Cassie. She waved her arm. “Here?”
“I don’t think so,” said the writer. “No,” he said more positively, “I don’t think so at all.”
“Margaret Mary says asking questions is the best way to find out,” said Cassie.
“True,” said the writer.
“Well, sometimes I can’t ask questions. Not the right ones.”
The writer thought a moment.
“Well, then, since you are going to be a writer, do the next best thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Write the questions,” said the writer.
Write them.
“But who will write back?”
“I’ll bet the most important person will,” said the writer.
“Who’s that?
”
“The person who knows the answers,” said the writer. He looked closely at Cassie. Finally, he got up and stretched.
“I’m going,” said Cassie, knowing that her time was up. “But before I go, could I ask you one very important and personal question?”
The writer paused, midstretch. “Starting right off? All right.” He finished the stretch. “What?”
Cassie wanted to ask if he was married, with a sharp-chinned wife and horrid children; if he loved the color blue; if he liked sunrises or sunsets.
She took a deep breath.
“Do you write with an outline?” she asked in a hurry.
“An outline, an outline!” mimicked the writer, laughing. “Get off with you while I think about it.” He picked up some sand and tossed it after her legs as she ran down the path.
I first loved his feet, thought Cassie happily as she went home to begin asking questions. Then I loved his face, then his fingers, then his teeth. Now, thought Cassie, as she ran up the front steps to set the table for dinner, I love his mind. Cassie stopped midway up the stairs with a terrible thought. Oh dear God, thought Cassie, using one of Margaret Mary’s expressions, I do hope I love his writing as well.
Very quietly, without fuss, Cassie taped up a large sheet of paper on the bathroom wall. It was the place most likely, she thought, for the person who had the answers to take the time to think about them. And write them down.
QUESTIONS ANSWERS
Cassie stood back and looked at the neat lettering, the tip of her pencil in her mouth. Finally, she leaned over and wrote under “Questions”:
Why don’t I have a space of my own?
Then the sounds of the dinner guests below intruded. Cassie stood for a moment on the stairway, watching hidden from above before she went downstairs to become a character in the scene below.
Everyone had brought something for dinner. Gran had baked all day and the kitchen still smelled of homemade bread and cookies. Cassie was overjoyed to see that her mother had roasted a turkey instead of fish. The writer had brought cheese. Uncle Hat brought a kicker.