Now she was curious. “You need something, Father?” She had her hands clasped demurely behind her back, and she rocked slightly from the heels to the toes of her red leather button-top shoes.
He looked down at her as if he were surprised to see her standing there.
Could he really forget her that quickly? Her heart felt a little tighter deep inside of her chest and she realized she had stopped rocking and was standing still and stiff. She lifted her chin a notch to hide her feelings.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing either of you have to worry about.”
She just stood there. Scared.
He gave her an odd look. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“You look pale. You’re not sick, are you?”
“No.” She paused, then realized he must care if he looked so uneasy. “It’s just the stuffy old air in here.”
Her father looked around, puzzled.
“Why sometimes it’s so stuffy that we can hardly breathe.” She poked her brother again. “Isn’t it, Graham?”
He nodded, then gave her a questioning look she was afraid her father would see, so she pinched him.
“See. Even Graham looks poorly.”
Now she had her father’s complete attention; she could tell because he was staring at her so sharply. “The classrooms have no fresh air a’tall and there are no windows and...” She crooked her finger at him so he would bend down to her. When he did, she whispered, “The children faint sometimes. They do.” She nodded. “They truly do. Why Alice Whiting passed out right in the middle of history class. Bam!” She clapped her hands. “Right on her pig fa—” She clamped her lips together, then swallowed. “Right on her face.”
She searched her father’s expression for some reaction, and when she got none, she added, “And it wasn’t just Alice, either. There were lots more. I can tell you all the stories, Father.”
“Yes.” He nodded his head and his face had a pensive but odd expression, as if he knew a secret. “I expect you have plenty of stories in that head of yours.” He continued to look down at her.
She realized at that moment that perhaps there were times when having her father’s complete attention was not such a wonderful thing.
“What I want to hear is the story of what happened to the arithmetic master.”
Neither she nor Graham said anything.
Her father crossed his big arms and looked down at her. “I’m waiting.”
“Well...” She gave a nice big weary kind of sigh and stared at the toes of her shoes. She thought it might make her look less guilty, just in case the fib showed more than she thought. “It’s kind of alongstory.”
Her father opened the door and gestured for them to leave. “Come along. I have plenty of time to hear it.”
Both she and Graham walked the few steps to the door, shoulder to shoulder, but once there she let Graham through first, then stopped in the doorway.
She looked up, searching for something in her father’s expression. But she wasn’t sure what, just something she needed to see there.
Nothing happened, so very slowly she held out her hand to him. Her heart was beating so fast, like those stubborn spring birds that pecked at tree trunks, and suddenly she wanted to snatch back her hand. What if he didn’t take it?
But he was staring at it. Like he was afraid, which didn’t make sense. Her father wasn’t afraid of anything. Huge horses. Or the thunder. Or the rain. He wasn’t afraid of dying or being lonely. He wouldn’t have nightmares or wake up crying. She’d bet he wouldn’t even be afraid of those mid-evil knights.
She waited for what seemed like forever with the grandfather clock in the hall ticking and tocking and her hand feeling number and number the longer she stood there.
Finally he reached out and took her hand in his rough and callused one. She let loose the breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding. She felt funny deep inside, like she’d just eaten a big and really good dessert.
His hand was warm around hers; it felt special, holding his hand, almost as fine a feeling as she’d have had if he’d actually done something wonderful like pick her up in his arms and hug her.
They walked out the door together, and down the broad hallway with its long line of sour-faced portraits, the best of Harrington’s students over the years.
