Part 7 (1/2)

All morning long, Henry slept and woke, hearing the sounds of the mothers downstairs as they fussed over the baby and opened their presents for her, then giggled and said their goodbyes. Finally, he heard whispering on the stairs and wanted to go and look, but he knew that Martha would be angry with him for getting out of bed. He dozed again. When he woke, Martha was standing at the foot of his bed, s.h.i.+elding a large object with her body.

”What is it?” he asked her groggily. ”Is it my Christmas present?”

”Ta-da!” she said, and stepped aside to reveal a brand-new TV set.

IT WAS THEIR BEST TIME TOGETHER, and years later-even after he couldn't forgive her for so much else-Henry would be grateful to Martha for this. All afternoon, they sat side by side on her bed, and every few minutes, she would pop up to change the channels, as magically as if she were changing the view outside the window. They saw a cooking show called Stop, Look and Cook, Stop, Look and Cook, and part of an opera called and part of an opera called Hansel and Gretel, Hansel and Gretel, and at three they saw something called and at three they saw something called Uncle Miltie's Christmas Party, Uncle Miltie's Christmas Party, with a strange, exuberant man named Milton Berle, who at one point wore a dress. Then, at four o'clock, they stopped changing channels, because they found a show called with a strange, exuberant man named Milton Berle, who at one point wore a dress. Then, at four o'clock, they stopped changing channels, because they found a show called One Hour in Wonderland. One Hour in Wonderland.

Henry didn't understand the significance of it then, but the Wonderland show was actually Walt Disney's first television program, a prototype of the series that would captivate American audiences throughout the decade-and that Henry would watch, almost without fail, every week for his whole early life.

This afternoon-Christmas afternoon, 1950-was the afternoon he met Walt Disney, a man with the twinkliest eyes Henry had ever seen, a kind voice, a trim mustache, and hair that formed a peak above his eyes, making his forehead look just like Mickey Mouse's. During this show, Mr. Disney was hosting a party for the stars of his movies, and one of the guests was the puppet Charlie McCarthy, who was even funnier on TV than he was on the radio. At one point, Mr. Disney said the words ”Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo,” and magic happened inside a special mirror, and a man with a slightly scary face appeared and granted Mr. Disney's wish to see special things.

Henry had heard about cartoons from Leo, and of course he had seen drawings and pictures of some of the characters. At the nursery school, Mrs. Donovan even served Donald Duck orange juice. But to see these characters do what they could do was amazing: how when they ran, their legs sometimes spun around like wheels; how when they reached for things, their arms sometimes grew longer. For an hour, Henry giggled and Martha fingered the gold pin at her neck and said, ”Oh, my, that's funny, isn't it?” But as much as he loved the creations-Mickey and Pluto and Donald and Alice and the Seven Dwarfs with their silly song-it was Mr. Disney, the creator, with his sparkly eyes and the kind way he seemed to listen to everyone, who stayed with Henry longest. Forever, in fact.

THREE DAYS LATER, when Henry had not had a fever for a whole day and was barely coughing anymore, he woke from a nap in the early afternoon and called for Martha but got no response. Henry hesitated, then pulled back the covers and climbed from the cozy confines of her bed.

”Emem?” he called, first from the top of the stairs, then from midway down, then again at the base of the stairs. There was no answer. ”Vera?” he called next, because Martha had told him to call for Vera if he needed anything.

There was silence from downstairs, except for what sounded like the baby, babbling.

The wood floor on the stairs was cold under Henry's bare feet, and he knew Martha would want him to wear his slippers, but he didn't like the silence.

When he walked into the nursery, he saw Vera leaning over the crib, wrapping a blanket around Hazy, who kept kicking it off.

”Come, now, Hazel,” Henry heard Vera saying. ”Why won't you take your nap?”

”Why isn't Hazy sleeping?” Henry asked from the doorway.

Startled, Vera turned and looked scared. ”What are you doing here?” she asked.

”Want to play Go Fish with me?” Henry said.

”You can't be here,” she said.

”Why not?”

”Because you might get the baby sick. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

”I woke up,” Henry said. ”Will you take me back upstairs?”

”I have to put the baby to bed.”

”She's in bed,” Henry said, then watched Vera smile at his logic. He looked at the floor, then back at her. ”Vera,” he said sweetly. ”I'm scared to go upstairs by myself.”

She turned completely around from the crib then, letting the blanket drop onto the baby's hands.

”You know, sometimes,” Henry said, ”a kid needs a little help.”

HENRY WAS SETTLING BACK INTO BED, and Vera had just dealt them each seven cards for Go Fish, when she noticed the flush on his cheeks. First there was just a little pinkness, across the tops, where his freckles were. Then, after what seemed like only seconds, the color moved down his face, like the deepening of a sunset, and he s.h.i.+vered, noticeably.

The cards they were playing with were shaped like fish and had colors, instead of numbers, on them.

”Any reds?” Henry asked, and Vera realized that it was the second time he had said it.

”Do you feel all right?” she asked him.

He said: ”I feel okay. Do you have any reds?”

Vera shook her head. ”Go fish,” she said.

Henry reached down to the pile of fish fanned out on his bedspread, but when he did so, Vera could see that his hand was shaking.

She put her hand on his forehead, which was smooth and hot as a rock in the sun.

Vera put her cards down and stood up, and at the exact same moment, Hazel started to cry downstairs.

”d.a.m.n,” Vera said.

”d.a.m.n,” Henry said.

”You didn't hear me say that,” she told Henry.

”Say 'd.a.m.n'?”

”Right.”

”d.a.m.n.”

”I don't suppose you know where your thermometer is?”

Henry shrugged. ”Do you have any reds?” he asked.

He coughed then-one deep, long, alarming bronchial bray. When he was finished, his eyes had filled with tears. Meanwhile, Hazel's protests from downstairs had turned into a full-throated yell.

”I have to go see to her,” Vera said. ”Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

He nodded and was about to speak, but then he started to cough again.

”No. You'd better come back downstairs with me,” Vera said.

”I can make Hazy laugh,” Henry said, on the stairs, when he'd stopped coughing.

”No, you can't be with Hazy,” Vera said, and she was startled to find Henry's warm, dry hand reaching out for hers. ”But I bet you can make most people laugh,” she said.

”Yes,” Henry said. ”It's not so hard.”

THE AFTERNOON LENGTHENED, along with its shadows. Winter blew in under the doors and windows, cold as the bare trees that bowed outside.

Just beyond the door of the nursery, Henry sat in the rocking chair, uncomfortable with the spindles of the chair back behind his head. In one hand, he still held the Go Fish cards he had been dealt upstairs, and his fingers closed tightly around the narrow parts of the fish tails while he watched Vera bouncing Hazel around the room.