Let's Go Play at the Adams'

nearly in tears, "Get out of here! Leave me alone!" And even this wasn't the end of it. ·

He was dreaming (oddly enough, he knew this but could not break the hold 'of the

dream). One of the grown-ups said that he had seen big fish, and Paul went to the river

by the Adams' to look, except that the river was huge-at least a mile wide-and its color

was crystal and clear and green as morning air. Watching from the beach, which fell like

a cliff into the well-lit depths, Paul saw unimaginable shapes moving in the deep shad-

ows at the bottom. Then, gradually, these rose to the middle depths, and he recognized

whales and sharks and barracuda among the undulating currents. Terrified, dis-

believing, yet drawn helplessly to look, he knelt down on his knees in wet sand to see

better. Then-again it was instant-he was out in the water itself, yards from shore, and

beneath him were the horrible fish coming up from the black at the bottom of the clear.

Now there was no shore anymore, and he looked around and

46

floundered helplessly as he sank toward the dark fish. He screamed, even underwater.

"It's all right, Mother." Dianne was the first down the hall. "Paul's just having another

nightmare. rn take care of it. Don't get up." Entering his room and switching on the

light, she saw his thin, bone-rigid face.

"The fish," he said confusedly, "the fish-"

Dianne actually smiled, but from relief, amusement, or contempt it would have been

impossible to say. She looked down on her younger brother like a thin, white Mona Lisa.

Throwing back the sheet, she saw that Paul's pajamas were soaked, his hair limp with

sweat and his eyes abnormally wide. "The fish again," she said. "Well, you look like

you've been swimming." She shook him. "Wake up now. Sit up a minute." Going down

the hall to the bathroom, she busied herself and then returned with a little white, plastic

like capsule, some water, and a towel to dry him with. "Here-"

Sometime afterward, when he had quieted down a little, she turned out the light and

stroked him. She began to tell him all about the scary book that she was reading and he

lay listening, rapt.

At the Adams house the sun took an uncommonly Jong time to set and the evening

forever to pass. After the older kids left, Cindy tried out her newfound freedom by

walking back down to the river. There, alone, she kicked up pebbles with her big toe

and tried skipping them on the water the way she had seen John and Bobby do, but

even her rare successes were uninteresting. Shadows were stretching out; the river was

quite still; and there wasn't anyone around. At length she stood by herself, absolutely

free and solitary, a small person beside the water, and it all bored her to death. In fact,

freedom-the way the older kids described it-was not all that great. She missed the

presence of adults.

In grown-ups' comforting company, there was noise and purposefulness and direction

all the time.

47

Meals must be gotten, potatoes dug, trips to Bryce made, shopping completed.

Telephones rang; meetings were arranged; plans were made for taking the tractor to

the shop. Moreover someone was always asking what she wanted, what she was going to

do, and someone was always watching, correcting, encouraging, and applauding all her

deeds. Freedom was no one there: freedom was no one caring (and Cindy didn't like to

perform without her audience).

Just now, for example, she could drift up from the beach, skirt along the lines of pines

to the north of the house, fall in with the private road into the Adams property, play in

the abandoned tenant house-Freedom Five's meeting place-and return when and as she

pleased, even after dark if she pleased, and yet none of this was tempting. The woods,

the road, the scary old tenant house, the yard, all were empty. Nowhere was there

anyone waiting expressly for Cindy.

Oddly, she didn't miss Mommy and Daddy. She had prepared a little hollow place in her

mind to allow for their trip, and-given surety that they would be back on the dot-she

endured their absence cheerfully enough. Who she really missed, however, was

Barbara, not of course the person of Barbara which she could see at any time she

chose, but the fun and excitement of Barbara.

Cindy remembered the flurry of Barbara's arrival with special pleasure. They all drove

up to Bryce and had ice cream while they waited for the bus. Then it was there, hot and

clattering with the door opening, and then there was Barbara on the steps an neat and

clean and trim and pretty in a pale-blue summer dress just like a big sister delivered in

answer to a prayer. She was nicer and quicker, more dashing than Mommy, and yet she

was younger and closer and more understandable to Cindy.

Once home, Barbara swept into the guest room and opened her bags. There were

dresses and brushes, underthings and bathing suits, books and perfume, all the