She let go of the pitcher and went into the bathroom. The sound of water rushing from the faucet partially distracted her from whatever had bothered her and she dumped half a jar of bubble soap into the tub. Kate would love her extravagance.
The following day the Reverend Mr. White, rector of St. Steven’s Church, called. He had the same cheery roundness as a Toby jug, smoked good Havanas, and produced a box of licorice cough drops for Kate. Before he left, he told Kate to bring her parents to church Sunday. It’d be a good way for her to make new friends, too.
Until the mail came at eleven, Phyllis had planned to spend the afternoon with Kate, repainting her doll shelves. But she received a letter from her agent. Woman’s World was interested in her revised manuscript, but they had decided the climax was still weak. She felt a familiar, obsessive pressure to get the work finished as soon as possible.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she told Kate after lunch. “But I’m going to have to type for awhile.”
Kate’s gray eyes clouded. “I got everything ready out on the back porch.”
“I know, but I’d be all on edge if I tried to do anything before this gets done. You run on outside now. Take your dolls down to the arbor. Or ride your bike.”
“Couldn’t I start painting anyway? I’d be careful.”
“You’d have the whole porch smeared up and get paint all over your hair. Remember what happened the last time I left you alone with a paintbrush?” She pushed Kate away gently. “Go on, now. I’ll try not to be long.”
Phyllis had already taken the cover off the typewriter. She didn’t hear Kate leave the house and walk down the path to the creek.
Whether it was because she hadn’t written for weeks or because it was hard to concentrate in new surroundings, the story just wouldn’t come off right. Before she started the third draft, she looked at the clock. Five thirty, and she hadn’t even taken the meat from the freezer. Then she remembered Kate. Phyllis called upstairs and didn’t get an answer. She went out on the porch. Kate wasn’t in the arbor. She called louder.
Finally, from under the willows beside the creek, Kate appeared. She ran toward the house, pigtails flapping wildly. Phyllis hugged her. “I was beginning to get worried. Didn’t you hear me calling and calling you?”
Katie’s face was vibrant. “We were playing. Is dinner ready?” She pulled away from her mother and threw open the screen door.
Phyllis followed after her. “By the time you get washed and set the table, it will be.” As she was searching the refrigerator for something to fix in a hurry, she thought of what Kate had said. She asked curiously, “Were you playing with someone?”
Katie turned toward her with a handful of silver, and her eyes glowed. “Her name’s Letty. She’s just my age. Seven and a half. Only her birthday’s in December. I guess that makes her a little bit older.”
Phyllis sliced some cheese. “Where does she live?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said. “But she showed me how to make a cat’s-cradle. It’s a trick you do with string. Want me to show you?”
Her fingers were still grubby.
“Young lady, you were supposed to wash your hands.”
“I did.”
“Well, take another look. And use plenty of soap this time.”
She heard Ben pull into the drive. She hoped he was in a good mood. As a rule, he didn’t like grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner.
Kate didn’t mention her doll shelves the following day. Right after breakfast, she told her mother that she was going down to the creek. Letty might be there. In a way, Phyllis was glad. She could have the morning free to work without any twinges of guilt over Katie’s having nothing to do. She wrote until noon.
Katie came in long enough to wash down a peanut butter sandwich with lemonade. Then she wanted to be off again, telling her mother before she left, “Letty said she might have to go into Washington City tomorrow to visit her aunt. So we’re trying to finish our doll house this afternoon. Can I take her some cookies?”
Phyllis wrapped a handful in a paper napkin. A phrase Katie had used reverberated queerly. “Did Letty mean her aunt lives in Washington, D.C.?”
The girl stuffed two plastic cups into a paper bag. “I guess so. Letty says she loves to go there. Her mother always packs a lunch and they stop off by the canal locks to eat. I asked her if I could go, too, but she said there wouldn’t be room.” Kate filled the thermos with milk. “What’s a gig, Mommy?”
Phyllis hesitated. “It’s some kind of carriage, I think. Why?”
Kate started past her. “Oh. Well, I’d better go now.”
Phyllis caught at her arm. “Look, why don’t you bring Letty up here to play? You’d have lots of fun, showing her all your things. I feel funny about the two of you being down there all alone.”
“Why do you feel funny? You could hear us if anything happened.” Then she said evasively, “Letty’s kind of shy. I already asked her to come inside, but she won’t. She said her mother wouldn’t like it.”
Phyllis snapped, “What does her mother think we are, anyway? I never heard of anybody being so... so provincial.”
Katie squirmed. “Letty’s not like that. She’s nice. Honest, she is.”
Her mother released her. “All right, but don’t go any farther away than the creek.”
Perversely, now she wished Kate weren’t so wrapped up in this other child. She felt like taking a break herself. It would be nice for the two of them to work in the garden or bake something special like eclairs. There weren’t any excuses now for not being with her daughter as much as she liked. Phyllis poured another cup of coffee. She stared at the white linen curtains in the living room gently breathing in, then out against the low sills. Finally, she went back to the typewriter.
Later she decided to walk down to the creek. She could hear Kate chattering away. When she pushed aside the trailing willow branches, she saw only her child.
Kate looked up. “Hi. Letty just went over to the woods to get some more ferns. See, we’re making a rock garden...”
Eddies were still swirling in the stream from a recent wading, but Phyllis couldn’t detect any movement among the trees beyond.
For a time, Kate was eager to tell her mother and father all about Letty. Gradually, however, she divulged less and less. She sensed that something about her friend made her mother uneasy.
“I’d swear this child was all in her imagination,” Phyllis told Ben one night as they were getting ready for bed. “But she’s really there... or was, until I show up. I mean, the things they do together are really there. Like checkers and doll dishes and scrapbooks.”
Ben surveyed his face in the mirror. He leaned closer. “More gray hairs. ‘Will you love me in December as you do in May?’ ”
Phyllis put down her face cream. “Haven’t you been listening?”
He turned around. “Sure, I have. It just seems to me that you’re the one with the imagination, not Kate. This friend of hers is all right, I guess. From what I gather, her folks must belong to some kind of offbeat religious sect or something. You know how strict they are with their kids. They’re pretty slow about taking up with outsiders, too.”