Let's Go Play at the Adams'

The girl on the bed was not stupid: the visible and physical fact was fact. In some way,

for some reason, she was the prisoner of children.

Beyond the reach of such logic, however, beyond reason's control, her habits of inner

being continued. Spirit, will, vitality, told the mind that it was wrong, and at their

command, the body continued its motion. She raised and turned her head and carefully

explored her ropes. She tested them again and again, finding first hope and then

disappointment in a constant, steady rotation. Straining, her fingers reached for

unreachable knots and curled back again. At length, unconvinced but impotent, her

inner self desisted. From discovery, shock, indignity, and astonishment, her mood by

induction grew angry. -

Lying there, she rethought the classic thoughts of the vengeful, disobeyed adult: Wait'll

I get my hands on them," and "Wait'll l tell the Adams."

However satisfying this might be, however, the now coming thought of how distant a

day that would be, made her pause. The Adams were leaving England today if she had

the itinerary right: later they would be in Paris. They were still in the "going-away"

phase of the trip: the bleakness of time and distance this thought summoned up, made

her consider further.

During the four days she had been here--one with Dr. and Mrs. Adams and three alone

with Bobby and Cindy-she had met few other adults. The Tillmans, who ran the general

store, one or two of the Adams' church friends, the mother of one of the kids the young

Adams played with, and that was the lot. Sooner or later perhaps, one or another of

them might stop by, but in three days, it hadn't happened yet. The web of reliance on

others, wisely or falsely taken for

- granted, was abruptly torn. She had momentarily slipped through the mesh entirely.

Finally there were no neighbors closer than half a mile across a field, some woods, and

then a stream that joined the river. This was gentleman farmer country the houses were

placed like islands so that the privilege

9

of privacy and view was maintained-and privacy was severely respected. Even if she were

to work her gag off, she could scream from this quiet, air-conditioned room for a month,

and no one would hear her, except, of course, the children. Everything came back to the

children.

As she lay there, she could hear them in the kitchen two rooms and a hallway distant. After

their dance of glee, they had fled as if in need to talk secrets and all sorts of delicious

mischief. Now they were heating frozen Pop-Ups in the toaster-she knew the sound-and

slamming the refrigerator door and giggling. The mood was exuberant, naughty and a lot

of fun, and it didn't promise to subside.

"Umnn!" It was Barbara's first sound of complaint, discomfort, exasperation. This all might

go on for some time.

Shifting her body to find relief that barely existed, she sighed. Then she closed her eyes.

All right, don't think about the time. Think about the children. Think about making them let

you go.

Think, Barbara Miller, age twenty, baby-sitter, money-needer, college junior, education

major, history minor, B-averager, free-style swimmer, prom chairman, sorority sister, dutiful

daughter, runner of errands, dreamer of lovely futures, think,

She tried.

Even given that thought was difficult in this all new, never-before-experienced situation,

however, the fact of the matter was that Barbara was just not the true thinking type. She

was intelligent and sensitive enough-perhaps a little too sensitive-but her instinctive

manner was to intuit life, to sense it, to feel where it was flowing and then run there. It

gave her a grace and liveliness, but it did not well fit her for the role of analyst and planner.

When faced by such a need, she always automatically said, "Mother, what do you think?

Daddy, what do you think?" or "Ted, what do you think about it?" "Terry, what's the best

thing to do?" The situation was

10

so recurrent with Terry-even unavoidable-that the resultant joke never lost its flavor. When

she was so interrupted, Terry had taken up the habit of turning back and mimicking, "Ter-

ree ... P" Barbara was never insulted; actually, she could barely stifle a giggle when she

saw Terry's irritation. "Well, what is it?"

Barbara and Terry had been KKGs and roommates at college for two years, and in that

time, Terry had advised, adjudicated, and planned things in almost every part of Barbara's

life. It was that way; Barbara kept things light and busy, and Terry kept them tracking.