A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories

No answer.

“Tom?”

After a long while, Tom’s voice came up from below.

“Yes, Dad?”

“It’s after midnight,” said Fortnum, fighting to keep his voice from going high. “What are you doing down there?”

No answer.

“I said—”

“Tending to my crop,” said the boy at last, his voice cold and faint.

“Well, get up out of there! You hear me?!”

Silence.

“Tom? Listen! Did you put some mushrooms in the refrigerator tonight? If so, why?”

Ten seconds must have ticked by before the boy replied from below. “For you and Mom to eat, of course.”

Fortnum heard his heart moving swiftly, and had to take three deep breaths before he could go on.

“Tom? You didn’t … that is … you haven’t by any chance eaten some of the mushrooms yourself, have you?”

“Funny you ask that,” said Tom. “Yes. Tonight. On a sandwich after supper. Why?”

Fortnum held to the

doorknob. Now it was his turn not to answer. He felt his knees beginning to melt and he fought the whole silly senseless fool thing. No reason, he tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t move.

“Dad?” called Tom softly from the cellar. “Come on down.” Another pause. “I want you to see the harvest.”

Fortnum felt the knob slip in his sweaty hand. The knob rattled. He gasped.

“Dad?” called Tom softly.

Fortnum opened the door.

The cellar was completely black below.

He stretched his hand in toward the light switch. As if sensing this intrusion, from somewhere Tom said:

“Don’t. Light’s bad for the mushrooms.”

Fortnum took his hand off the switch.

He swallowed. He looked back at the stair leading up to his wife. I suppose, he thought, I should go say good-by to Cynthia. But why should I think that! Why should I think that at all? No reason, is there?

None.

“Tom?” he said, affecting a jaunty air. “Ready or not, here I come!”

And stepping down in darkness, he shut the door.

The Million-Year Picnic