The Cat's Pajamas

“Why doesn’t he want us to see the ghosts?” whispered Henrietta. “After all, Papa’s the one who said they were ghosts.”

“I like ghosts,” said Ann. “They’re different.”

That was true. For three small girls, ghosts were rare and wonderful. Our tutors drove to see us every day and kept us strictly laced. There were birthday parties, now and then, but mostly our lives were plain as pound cake. We longed for adventure. The ghosts saved us, supplying us with enough goose pimples to last the season through and over until next year.

“What brings the ghosts here?” wondered Ann.

We did not know.

Father seemed to know. We heard his voice floating up the stairwell again one night. “The quality of the moss,” he said to Mama.

“You make too much of it,” she said.

“I think they’ve come back.”

“The girls haven’t said.”

“The girls are a bit too sly. I think we’d better change their room tonight.”

“Oh dear.” Mama sighed. “Let’s wait until we’re sure. You know how the girls are when they change rooms. They don’t sleep well for a week and are grumpy all day. Think of me, Edward.”

“All right,” said Father, but his voice was clever and planning.

The next morning we three girls raced down to breakfast, playing tag. “You’re it!” we cried, and stopped and stared at Papa. “Papa, what’s wrong?”

For there was Papa, his hands thick with yellow ointments and white bandages. His neck and face looked red and irritated.

“Nothing,” he said, gazing deep into his cereal, stirring it darkly.

“But what happened?” We gathered about him.

“Come away, children,” said Mother, trying not to smile. “Father has poison ivy.”

“Poison ivy?”

“How did that happen, Papa?”

“Sit down, children,” warned Mother, for Father was quietly grinding his teeth.

“How did he get poisoned?” I asked.

Papa stamped from the room. We said nothing else.

THE NEXT NIGHT, the ghosts were gone.

“Oh, heck,” said Ann.

In our beds, like mice, we waited for midnight.

“Hear anything?” I whispered. I saw Henrietta’s doll eyes at the window, looking down.

“No,” she said.

“What time is it?” I hissed, later.

“Two o’clock.”

“I guess they’re not coming,” I said, sadly.