to be ill.
Connie saw his condition even as I did, and we hurried over to him. She put a hand on his forehead and evidently decided there was no temperature. "What's the matter, Toby?"
He looked at me and then at her and then back at me again.
Fat tears swelled at the corners of his eyes, but he made a valiant effort to keep from spilling them.
"Toby?" I said, kneeling beside him, caging him between
Connie and me, caging him in love.
He said, "I can't " He spoke in a whisper, and his voice trailed away into confusion.
She said, "What? Can't what, darling?"
He bit his lip. He was trembling.
To Connie I said, "He's scared to death."
"Toby?"
"I can't tell," he said.
"Why not?" Connie asked, smoothing his dark hair back from his forehead.
"I don't want to-to upset Dad," he said.
("There will be times," Dr. Cohen had said, that last day in his office before I was turned loose from the sanitarium, "when people-even those you love and who love you-will say things both intentionally and unintentionally, but most often the latter, that will remind you of your illness. They will hurt you, hurt you very badly. You'll be guilt-stricken for having abandoned your family.
You'll want to crawl away somewhere and be by yourself, as if you're a wounded animal. However, being by yourself is unquestionably the worst medicine, Donald.
Stay there. Face it. Push ahead with it. Do your best to conceal your wounds and try to salvage the situation." The doctor had known his business, all right.)
"You won't upset me, Toby," I said. The words were difficult to form and even more difficult to speak. "I'm perfectly all right now. I don't get upset very easily any more."
He stared at me, unblinkingly, trying to assess the degree of truth in what I said. He had stopped trembling; he was utterly still.
"Go on," Connie said, holding him against her. He could no longer restrain the tears. They slid down his round cheeks, glistening brightly, dripping from the soft line of his chin. He began to shudder- just as he shuddered when he tried to eat something that he didn't like in order to impress us with his manly fortitude.
"Toby?"
"Come on, Toby. Tell us."
"At the window," he said. It came out of him in a rush now, the words running together, expelled in gasping breaths. "At the window, right at the window, in the other room, I saw it at the living room window and it had yellow eyes."
Frowning, Connie said,
"What had yellow eyes?"
"Big yellow eyes," he said, frightening himself even more as he recalled them. "It had big yellow eyes as big around as my whole hand, really big, looking straight at me." He held up his hand to show how big the eyes had been.
Connie looked at me, raised her eyebrows.
"I'm not lying,"
Toby said.
I said, "You both wait here."
"Don-" Connie began, reaching for me with her free hand.
I wasn't going to be restrained, for I remembered the pair of amber lights at the stable window. A child might have called them "yellow".
At the time I had wondered what sort of an animal carried lamps or lanterns around with it, had decided that the only thing that did was a man, and had not considered any other explanation for those dual circles of light. And now Toby had given it to me: eyes.
But eyes? Well, the eyes of many animals seemed to glow in the dark. Cats' eyes were green. And some of them, like the mountain lions and wildcats, had yellow eyes, amber eyes-didn't they?
Sure they did.
Yellow eyes.
But yellow eyes as big as saucers ?
In the living room I looked quickly around at the three large windows but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I went to each window then and stared through it at the brief view of
Connie saw his condition even as I did, and we hurried over to him. She put a hand on his forehead and evidently decided there was no temperature. "What's the matter, Toby?"
He looked at me and then at her and then back at me again.
Fat tears swelled at the corners of his eyes, but he made a valiant effort to keep from spilling them.
"Toby?" I said, kneeling beside him, caging him between
Connie and me, caging him in love.
He said, "I can't " He spoke in a whisper, and his voice trailed away into confusion.
She said, "What? Can't what, darling?"
He bit his lip. He was trembling.
To Connie I said, "He's scared to death."
"Toby?"
"I can't tell," he said.
"Why not?" Connie asked, smoothing his dark hair back from his forehead.
"I don't want to-to upset Dad," he said.
("There will be times," Dr. Cohen had said, that last day in his office before I was turned loose from the sanitarium, "when people-even those you love and who love you-will say things both intentionally and unintentionally, but most often the latter, that will remind you of your illness. They will hurt you, hurt you very badly. You'll be guilt-stricken for having abandoned your family.
You'll want to crawl away somewhere and be by yourself, as if you're a wounded animal. However, being by yourself is unquestionably the worst medicine, Donald.
Stay there. Face it. Push ahead with it. Do your best to conceal your wounds and try to salvage the situation." The doctor had known his business, all right.)
"You won't upset me, Toby," I said. The words were difficult to form and even more difficult to speak. "I'm perfectly all right now. I don't get upset very easily any more."
He stared at me, unblinkingly, trying to assess the degree of truth in what I said. He had stopped trembling; he was utterly still.
"Go on," Connie said, holding him against her. He could no longer restrain the tears. They slid down his round cheeks, glistening brightly, dripping from the soft line of his chin. He began to shudder- just as he shuddered when he tried to eat something that he didn't like in order to impress us with his manly fortitude.
"Toby?"
"Come on, Toby. Tell us."
"At the window," he said. It came out of him in a rush now, the words running together, expelled in gasping breaths. "At the window, right at the window, in the other room, I saw it at the living room window and it had yellow eyes."
Frowning, Connie said,
"What had yellow eyes?"
"Big yellow eyes," he said, frightening himself even more as he recalled them. "It had big yellow eyes as big around as my whole hand, really big, looking straight at me." He held up his hand to show how big the eyes had been.
Connie looked at me, raised her eyebrows.
"I'm not lying,"
Toby said.
I said, "You both wait here."
"Don-" Connie began, reaching for me with her free hand.
I wasn't going to be restrained, for I remembered the pair of amber lights at the stable window. A child might have called them "yellow".
At the time I had wondered what sort of an animal carried lamps or lanterns around with it, had decided that the only thing that did was a man, and had not considered any other explanation for those dual circles of light. And now Toby had given it to me: eyes.
But eyes? Well, the eyes of many animals seemed to glow in the dark. Cats' eyes were green. And some of them, like the mountain lions and wildcats, had yellow eyes, amber eyes-didn't they?
Sure they did.
Yellow eyes.
But yellow eyes as big as saucers ?
In the living room I looked quickly around at the three large windows but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I went to each window then and stared through it at the brief view of
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