“What?” I said. “I wanted you to draw. You want me to draw something?”
She nodded.
“What?”
“A peng-win.”
Never known my for my artistic ability, I attempted to draw a peng-win.
“Ta daaa.”
“That’s not a peng-win.” she said.
“You try then.”
She did. Hers looked similar, only with a happy face and wavy sticks for arms. Great, we’re drawing at the same level. I told her I liked it. After she drew some more, she grew tired and crawled onto my lap. I held her close to me.
All parents started as amateurs, right? At least I had a decent lap.
“We’ll figure it out, Spring. I promise,” I said. It was at least the second time I’d said it to her and the eightieth time I’d said it to myself. But she didn’t hear me. It wasn’t even 6:00, but she had already fallen asleep on me.
I’d been avoiding giving Spring a bath for the sake of both of us, but the next night I knew I had to face that particular demon. I hadn’t participated in the bathing process since my encounter with the cabinet door. After dinner, I told Spring that it was time for a bath.
She simply said, “Bath? Okay,” and walked down the hall.
I finished cleaning up the dishes and then walked slowly to join her. I could hear the water running in the bathroom and pushed open the door. Spring sat inside the tub with her clothes on, shoes and all.
“What are you doing?” I said, tamping down both laughter and consternation.
“My hair,” she said. Her teeth chattered.
It was true. Just like her mother had done, Spring had created something approximating a shampoo fin.
“Did you decide to do your laundry, too?”
She shrugged and my control slipped away. “Let’s take those off,” I said, laughing. I’m not sure that she did this to be funny, but Spring seemed pleased with my response. I added an inch or so of warm water to the freezing shallow bath. I removed her shoes and hesitated again. If I was going to bathe her, she was going to have to be naked. As odd as this sounds, I tried looking away while pulling her shirt over her head, but the shampoo from the fin covered her eyes and we both started to panic. Trying to remove the clothes without paying attention to a naked, little girl wasn’t working, and Spring had decided not to cooperate. I kept expecting the FBI to break down my door:
(The explosive sound of my front door being
battered.)
“Mr. Hunter?”
“Yes, I’m Mr… ”
“You’re under arrest for giving a bath to a half-
naked little girl sitting in your guest tub.
“But–”
“No buts, Mr. Hunter… ”
Diane would have definitely been laughing by now. I pulled the soggy shirt over Spring’s head and blotted her face with a towel. I could blot without panicking. Blotting was easy. I could even over-blot before moving on to the toughie: removal of her pants and underwear.
Again, my first inclination was to look away. Then instead of glancing at Spring’s nakedness, I’d probably pull her underwater and have to explain to the FBI why a half-naked girl with a limp shampoo fin was floating in my tub. No thanks. I took a deep breath, grabbed the waistband of her pants and pulled. She slipped like I hoped she wouldn’t and there was nowhere to grab. Her skin, still slick with shampoo and soap, disappeared in my grasp, and she momentarily slid into the shallow tub and blew bubbles out her nose. I scooped her up without a tear from her or me.
“Okay, let’s try this again…”
Before I could remove the pants, Spring slipped both them and her underwear off, proving that she had been perfectly capable of doing this herself all along. Now there was a fully naked little girl in my guest tub.
(The explosive sound of my front door being battered.)
“Mr. Hunter?”
“Yes, I’m Mr… ”
“You’re under arrest for violating the Baths for Minors Act and having a fully-naked girl standing in your guest tub.”
“But… ”
“No buts, Mr. Hunter.”
But no one broke the door down to end my unpleasant experience. No, I wasn’t that lucky.
“How do you do this?” I said, looking at Spring‘s face and torso. “What’s dirty?”
Spring shrugged.
Knowing that many little kids get nightly baths, I knew something had to get dirty, or why all the fuss? And I was afraid that that something was what I thought it was going to be. Spring pointed to her back.
“Okay. Your back? Turn around. Where’s your loofa?”
“My what?”
“Loofa? Don’t you use a loofa?”
She shook her head.
“What do you use?”
She pointed to a washcloth.
“This?”
She nodded.
Easy enough. I washed her back. She turned around and I washed her chest. Of course, I attempted idle chitchat during both. “When’s your birthday?”
She shrugged.
“You don’t know when your birthday is?”
She shook her head.
I stuck the washcloth into an ear, also located safely above the waist, and twisted until Spring suggested it was clean by saying,“Ow.” Hearing another “Ow,” I switched to the other ear.
“Spring, do you know what a sheepdog is?”
She shook her head.
“I used to have a sheepdog. His name was Hemingway and he had really long hair not as long as yours, but long and he loved getting a bath. I’d say ‘Bath time,’ and he’d run from wherever he was and climb onto my lap. He was about 80 pounds, a lot bigger than you, and sometimes he got a little heavy. He was dirty all the time. I remember when I gave him his first bath. I told him to get in the tub and he immediately grabbed for the loofa with his teeth.”
She stared.
“Which is pretty funny because you can’t use a loofa on a sheepdog.”
She failed to see the irony.
“Never mind.”
“Did you wash…” I pointed below her waist. If Spring had decided she didn’t need to wash there, I was just going to rinse her off with water from the big Yankees cup. She took the washcloth and made some passes there.
One step at a time.
Not so bad. I had made it through the tough part and drying was all downhill. A towel, a few pats, and you had a dry kid. Spring stood and even helped dry herself, but then grabbed a container of baby powder. After I had tried so hard to provide impersonal and conservative hygiene accommodations conforming to the Baths for Minors Act Spring turned around, bent over and mooned me.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
She patted a cheek.
Not wanting any more information, I grabbed the container and shot a stream of baby powder at the little target. A pleasant talcum cloud filled the bathroom and I no longer saw any skin on her bottom just white residue.
“Bedtime.”
“Watch your head,” she shouted, as she ran naked into the bedroom.
“Ha, ha. Funny girl.”
I’m not sure if all children needed a routine, but it sounded like a pretty safe bet if I was ever to get Spring on a healing course. If I stayed with her routine, perhaps I could make her feel better and help her relax.
Spring pulled the sheet to her chin when I entered the bedroom, her eyes bunched tight and she began to fakesnore with a smile. This was the most animated I’d seen her since Diane had died. I didn’t kid myself into thinking that she was recovering, but it was still encouraging.
“Spring,” I said, poking her in the ribs. Looking like Diane, she pursed her lips then continued her fake-snoring. “I have special skills and I know you’re awake.”
She shook her head.
“Yes, you are.”
She shook her head again.
“All right, then I guess I’ll have to go without reading a book tonight.”
“Wait!”
She nodded and removed a book from under the covers.
“Harold and the Purple Crayon, my favorite,” I said. Spring enjoyed it, too. And after two false starts with me refusing to “do the voices,” I stood and performed for her. I did the best I could to hold the book while acting out the scenes, but it wasn’t the same. Usually, Diane read, while I did the bad pantomime. I enjoyed playing Harold. He was my hero. With that crayon, he could draw his way into and out of any problem.
About halfway into the book, Spring became more interested in where Harold’s purple crayon would lead him, although she must have heard the story 20 times in the last month. When we got to the part where Harold made the pies and the animals to eat the leftovers, she slid her arms out from beneath the sheet. I could tell that she wasn’t wearing a pajama top, which meant that there was a better than even chance that she wasn’t wearing bottoms, either.
(The explosive sound of my front door being battered.)
“Mr. Hunter?”
“Yes, I’m Mr… ”
“You’re under arrest for failing to provide pajamas to a little girl at bedtime.”
“But… ”
“No buts, Mr. Hunter.”
When Spring woke me with her screaming, I didn’t know the time or where I was. I heard a high voice crying and found myself running toward her new yellow room.
“Mommy!”
“Spring! It’s me, Dylan. You’re all right.” I sat next to her and leaned against the headboard.
“Mommy?”
“It’s me, D.”
“… D…?” she settled into her pillow. I could tell she was shaking and that she was accustomed to awaking from nightmares in the comfortable arms of her mother.
“… D?” She rolled over and grabbed onto my waist. I touched her shoulder and could feel her small body trembling.
“Is she here? Mommy?”
“Remember, she’s in the picture,” I clicked on the table lamp, “and inside you?”
Spring touched her chest.
“Yes.”
“Do you feel her?”
“Yes.”
Then I ran out of things to do or say. I had used my complete arsenal of hackneyed attempts at consolation with that “your mommy is in the picture,” and “your mommy is inside” business. Hopefully, it felt less empty and trivial to Spring than it did to me. She squeezed me. She wasn’t looking at Diane’s picture or touching her heart anymore. She was just squeezing me. As she held me, I looked at Diane’s picture, feeling as though I was the one who was trembling and needed to be held. I put my arm around her and pressed her head of long, black hair into my chest.
As I did, I realized for the first time how much I needed Spring there. From practically the moment I had picked her up at the daycare center after Diane died, I had been transferring my sorrow into concern about her. But the sorrow hadn’t gone anywhere and I hadn’t let anyone help me address it. And now I was finding consolation in the arms of a little girl. And it was more than I ever could have hoped for.
“Spring, do you want to get something to eat?” I said after a while, feeling stronger and even a little hungry.
She shook her head and said something into my chest. I presumed it was “no.”
She was falling asleep. It didn’t look very comfortable, but it had to be better than her nightmares. It was still dark outside, but I didn’t know what time it was. There was no clock in Spring’s room. Even with my arm going numb, I stayed right where I was.
Knock, knock.
Spring looked at the door, which I had unlocked and left cracked, and then to me, as if I hadn’t heard the clamor.
I winked at Spring. “Who’s there?”
“Itsy Bitsy.”
“Come on in.”
It was Billie. “I can’t get that song out of my head, thank you very much.”
“It grows on you. Or if you really want to get rid of it, think of any Rhianna song. That should get rid of it.” I put my hand on Spring’t shoulder. “Spring, do you remember Itsy?”
“Call me Bitsy.”
Spring frowned and grabbed onto my leg.
“Guess she remembers the grape juice incident,” I said.
Billie gestured, nonchalantly. “I’m over that.” She set a bag on the countertop. “What’s a little grape juice amongst friends? Hi, Spring.”
Billie kissed me on the cheek. Spring looked at me and giggled. “Open it up,” Billie said.
As soon as I read the words Madras Café on the box, I began to drool. “I’ve been eating the same thing for days and none of it was Indian.”
“Just like Gilligan and his coconuts.” Billie said, then nodded to Spring. “There’s something in there for you, too.”
Spring stuck her face in the bag and then pulled back with a smile. She removed a Styrofoam container of mashed potatoes from the deli.
“I hope you like them. I haven’t had them in years, not since I was an undergrad, but I have fond memories.”
Spring nodded, stuck a finger in the container and put a taste in her mouth. “It’s cold.”
“Fortunately, we can warm it up.” She looked around. “I like the way you’ve redecorated.”
“Thanks. The art lessons are costing me a bundle.” I dug into an uthappam, a type of vegetarian pancake with green peppers, onions and tomatoes baked into it. “This is like manna.”
Billie walked around the place, looking at the drawings and I imagine, wondering where all the good stuff had gone.
“This one is different,” she said, pointing to my penguin.
Spring laughed and snorted cold mashed potatoes.
“It’s mine,” I said. “It’s a penguin.”
“A penguin?”
“Yeah.”
“Why is it blue?”
“It’s a blue penguin.”
“Oh.” She rolled her eyes, causing Spring to snort again. I think Spring wanted an excuse to snort. “It looks like a blue bat.”
There was another snort.
“I thought you wanted that heated,” I said to Spring.
She shrugged, then took another bite.
“I’d suggest leaving the artwork to Spring.”
Spring agreed.
One benefit of having a three-year-old around was that there was always extra food. I tried her mashed potatoes. “Not bad,” I said. “A little cold. I’ll throw it in the microwave.”
“It’s better on the stove,” Billie said.
“On the stove,” Spring repeated.
“I have better luck with microwaves.” I thought back to the few times I had tried to cook for Diane and Spring, and how the stove would probably have greater value with some rare African art on it.
“Really, they’ll reheat better on the stove,” Billie said.
“You wanna cook? Go ahead.”
“Next time, I will.”
“Next time? What about now? When was the last time you cooked anything?”
“I was still an undergrad. I don’t think I’ve even turned the oven on at my place.”
I unwrapped a portion of fish curry and it smelled wonderful. I had almost forgotten why I went to work everyday. Like Mason had said, we lived for “the other things in life.”
“Spring, would you like to try some?”
She looked at my plate, made a disgusted face and shook her head.
“Mason had me pick up the Magenta Martini account ,while you’re out.”
“Yeah, he told me he was going to have you do the fire dance.”
“I met with them this morning. They understand. Don’t worry.”
“Worry about what?”
“Your situation.”
“My situation?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry.” She grabbed a bite of the uthappam. “I’m a lot prettier than you and they’ll like me better, but you’ll get it back.”
“Prettier?”
“Yeah. Spring, Am I prettier than D-Man?”
“Spring!”
Spring’s eyes widened. “She is.”
“See?”
“Okay, so you’re much prettier than me. I’m uh, hairier.”
Billie smirked at me. “Yes, you have more hair… on your back.”
This made Spring chuckle, which made Billie’s expression surprisingly bright.
“Hey Spring, maybe you can talk Billie into reading you a bedtime story tonight.”
“I don’t think so, D-Man. I don’t do stories.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve heard you do a hundred of them down at the Martini.”
“Those stories,” she said, tipping her head, “are different.”
“Please?” Spring said.
“Oh, D-Man, help me out here.”
“Spring, I think Billie has a sore throat. Maybe another time?”
“Is she okay?” she whispered to me, as if Billie only three feet away wasn’t listening.
“She’ll be okay,” I whispered back. “It’s just a cold.”
“Get better, okay?” she said to Billie.
Billie’s eyes softened. “All right, if I were to read to you and I’m not going to overcommit here…”
“… you never do.”
“What would you want me to read?”
“Harold.”
“What’s Harold?”
“Harold and the Purple Crayon”, I said. “Only sometimes, we call it the eggplant crayon.”
Spring nodded.
“Will she remember this conversation if I take a long time reheating the potatoes?”
“She’ll remember if you reheat those potatoes until she starts middle school.”
“Okay, I’m up for a challenge.” Spring smiled, which made Billie smile, but then she turned to me and said, “The book is short, right?”
I assured her that it was. She heated Spring’s potatoes and we ate quietly for a few minutes.
“Hey, D-Man, I finally linked up with Dano from the Martini,” Billie said, while chewing a bit of naan.
“Careful,” I said, nodding to Spring.
“Oh. Well, you know that penguin I’ve been watching down at the Martini? He finally skated over to my pond.”
“I like peng-wins,” Spring said.
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