Suddenly I was scared. I couldn't believe Cory had overcome his fear of the immense, shadowy attic, and was at last taking the game seriously--but just suppose he was trying to imitate Chris or me? Oh, God! "Chris!" I cried. "We've got to find Cory, and fast!"
He caught my panic, and whirled about to run, crying out Cory's name, ordering him to come out, stop hiding! Both of us ran and hunted, calling Cory repeatedly. Hide-and-seek-time was over--lunchtime now! No answer, and I was nearly freezing, despite all my clothes. Even my hands looked blue.
"Oh, my God," murmured Chris, pulling up short, "just suppose he hid in one of the trunks, and the lid came down and accidently latched?"
Cory would suffocate. He'd die!
Like crazy we ran and looked, throwing open the lids of every old trunk. We tossed out pantaloons, shifts, camisoles, petticoats, stays, suits, all with insane, distressed terror. And while I ran and searched, I prayed over and over again for God not to let Cory die.
"Cathy, I've found him!" shouted Chris. I spun around to see Chris lifting Cory's small, inert form from a trunk that had latched and kept him inside. Weak with relief, I stumbled over and kissed Cory's small, pale face, turned a funny color from lack of oxygen. His slitted eyes were unfocused. He was very nearly unconscious. "Momma," he whispered, "I want my momma."
But Momma was miles away, learning how to type and take shorthand. There was only a pitiless grandmother we didn't know how to reach in an emergency.
"Run quick and fill the bathtub with hot water," said Chris, "but not too hot. We don't want to scald him" Then he was racing with Cory in his arms toward the stairwell.
I reached the bedroom first, then sped on toward the bath. I glanced backward to see Chris lay Cory down on his bed. Then he bent above, held Cory's nostrils, and then Chris lowered his head until his mouth covered Cory's blue lips, which were spread apart. My heart jumped! Was he dead? Had he stopped breathing?
Carrie took one glance at what was going on--her small twin blue and not moving--and she began to scream.
In the bathroom I turned on both faucets as far as they would go; full blast they gushed. Cory was going to die! Always I was dreaming of death and dying . . . and most of the times my dreams came true! And as always, just when I thought God had turned his back on us and didn't care, I whirled to grab hold of my faith, and prayed, demanding Him not to let Cory die . . . please God, please God, please, please, please. . ."
Maybe my desperate prayers did as much to help Cory back to life as the artificial resuscitation Chris performed.
"He's breathing again," said Chris, pale-faced and trembling as he carried Cory to the tub. "Now all we have to do is warm him up."
In no time at all we had Cory undressed and in the tub of warm water.
"Momma," whispered Cory as he came to, "I want Momma." Over and over again he kept saying it, and I could have pounded my fists through the walls it was so damned unfair! He should have his mother, and not just a pretend mother who didn't know what to do. I wanted out of this, even if I had to beg in the streets!
But I said in a calm way that made Chris lift his head and smile at me with approval, "Why can't you pretend I'm Momma? I'll do everything for you that she would. I'll hold you on my lap, and rock you to sleep while I sing you a lullaby, just as soon as you eat a little lunch, and drink some milk"
Both Chris and I were kneeling as I said this. He was massaging Cory's small feet, while I rubbed his cold hands and made them warm again. When his flesh was colored normally again, we dried Cory off, put on his warmest pajamas, wrapped him in a blanket, and, in the old rocker Chris had brought down from the attic, I sat down and cuddled my small brother on my lap. I covered his wan face with kisses, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear that made him giggle.
If he could laugh, he could eat, and I fed him tiny bits of sandwich, and gave him sips of lukewarm soup, and long drinks of milk And as I did this, I grew older. Ten years I aged in ten minutes. I glanced over at Chris as he sat down to eat his lunch, and saw that he, too, had changed. Now we knew there was real danger in the attic beyond that of slow withering from lack of sunlight and fresh air. We all faced threats much worse than the mice and spiders that insisted on living, despite all we did to kill every last one.
All alone Chris stalked up the narrow, steep stairs to the attic, his face grim as he entered the closet. I rocked on and on, holding both Carrie and Cory on my lap, and singing "Rock-a-bye, Baby." Suddenly there was a fierce hammering coming from above, a terrible clamor the servants might hear.
"Cathy," said Cory in
a small whisper while Carrie nodded off into sleep, "I don't like not having a momma anymore." "You do have a momma--you have me."
"Are you as good as a real momma?"
"Yes, I think I am. I love you very much, Cory, and that's what makes a real mother."
Cory stared up at me with wide blue eyes, to see if I was sincere, or if I were only mocking his need. Then his small arms crept up around my neck, and he cuddled his head on my shoulder. "I'm so sleepy, Momma, but don't stop singing."
I was still rocking, still singing softly, when Chris came back wearing a satisfied expression. "Never again will a trunk lock inadvertently," he said, "for I smashed every last lock and the wardrobes, now they won't lock, either!"
I nodded.
He sat on the nearest bed and watched the slow rhythm of the rocking chair, listening to the childish tune I kept right on singing. A slow flush heated his face so he seemed embarrassed. "I feel so left out, Cathy. Would it be all right if I sat in the rocker first, and then the three of you piled on?"
Daddy used to do that. He'd hold all of us on his lap, even Momma. His arms had been long enough, and strong enough, to embrace us all, and give us the nicest, warmest feeling of security and love. I wondered if Chris could do the same.
As we sat in the rocker with Chris underneath, I caught a glimpse of us in the dresser mirror across the way. An eerie feeling stole over me, making all of this seem so unreal. He and I looked like doll parents, younger editions of Momma and Daddy.
"The Bible says there is a time for everything," whispered Chris so as not to awaken the twins, "a time to be born, a time to plant, a time to harvest, a time to die, and so on, and this is our time to sacrifice. Later on will come our time to live and enjoy."