The boy, fighting for self-control, gulped and said nothing.
“It’s all right,” said Welles, lighting a cigarette and pretending to watch the smoke rise. Anything rather than appear to be watching the badly shaken small boy shivering in the chair opposite him. “Sorry. You didn’t tell me about the things you don’t like, the things you’re afraid of.”
The words hung in the silence.
“Yes,” said Timothy slowly. “I’m afraid of shots. I hate needles. It’s just one of those things.” He tried to smile.
“We’ll do without them, then. You’ve passed all the tests, Tim, and I’d like to walk home with you and tell your grandmother about it. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll stop for something to eat,” Welles went on, opening the door for his patient. “Ice cream, or a hot dog.”
They went out together.
Timothy Paul’s grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Davis, lived in a large old-fashioned house that spelled money and position. The grounds were large, fenced, and bordered with shrubbery. Inside the house there was little that was new, everything was well-kept. Timothy led the psychiatrist to Mr. Davis’s library, and then went in search of his grandmother.
When Welles saw Mrs. Davis, he thought he had some of the explanation. Some grandmothers are easy-going, jolly, comparatively young. This grandmother was, as it soon became apparent, quite different.
“Yes, Timothy is a pretty good boy,” she said, smiling on her grandson. “We have always been strict with him, Dr. Welles, but I believe it pays. Even when he was a mere baby, we tried to teach him right ways. For example, when he was barely three I read him some little stories. And a few days later he was trying to tell us, if you will believe it, that he could read! Perhaps he was too young to know the nature of a lie, but I felt it my duty to make him understand. When he insisted, I spanked him. The child had a remarkable memory, and perhaps he thought that was all there was to reading. Well! I don’t mean to brag of my brutality,” said Mrs. Davis, with a charming smile. “I assure you, Dr. Welles, it was a painful experience for me. We’ve had very little occasion for punishments. Timothy is a good boy.”
Welles murmured that he was sure of it.
“Timothy, you may deliver your papers now,” said Mrs. Davis. “I am sure Dr. Welles will excuse you.” And she settled herself for a good long talk about her grandson.
Timothy, it seemed, was the apple of her eye. He was a quiet boy, an obedient boy, and a bright boy.
“We have our rules, of course. I have never allowed Timothy to forget that children should be seen and not heard, as the good old-fashioned saying is. When he first learned to turn somersaults, when he was three or four years old, he kept coming to me and saying, ‘Grandmother, see me!’ I simply had to be firm with him. Timothy,’ I said, ‘let us have no more of this! It is simply showing off. If it amuses you to turn somersaults, well and good. But it doesn’t amuse me to watch you endlessly doing it. Play if you like, but do not demand admiration.’”
“Did you never play with him?”
“Certainly I played with him. And it was a pleasure to me also. We—Mr. Davis and I—taught him a great many games, and many kinds of handicraft. We read stories to him and taught him rhymes and songs. I took a special course in kindergarten craft, to amuse the child—and I must admit that it amused me also!” added Tim’s grandmother, smiling reminiscently. “We made houses of toothpicks, with balls of clay at the corners. His grandfather took him for walks and drives. We no longer have a car, since my husband’s sight has begun to fail him slightly, so now the garage is Timothy’s workshop. We had windows cut in it, and a door, and nailed the large doors shut.”
It soon became clear that Tim’s life was not all strictures by any means. He had a workshop of his own, and upstairs beside his bedroom was his own library and study.
“He keeps his books and treasures there,” said his grandmother, “his own little radio, and his schoolbooks, and his typewriter. When he was only seven years old, he asked us for a typewriter. But he is a careful child, Dr. Welles, not at all destructive, and I had read that in many schools they make use of typewriters in teaching young children to read and write and to spell. The words look the same as in printed books, you see; and less muscular effort is involved. So his grandfather got him a very nice noiseless typewriter, and he loved it dearly. I often hear it purring away as I pass through the hall. Timothy keeps his own rooms in good order, and his shop also. It is his own wish. You know how boys are—they do not wish others to meddle with their belongings. ‘Very well, Timothy,’ I told him, ‘if a glance shows me that you can do it yourself properly, nobody will go into your rooms; but they must be kept neat.’ And he has done so for several years. A very neat boy, Timothy.”
“Timothy didn’t mention his paper route,” remarked Welles. “He said only that he plays with other boys after school.”
“Oh, but he does,” said Mrs. Davis. “He plays until five o’clock, and then he delivers his papers. If he is late, his grandfather walks down and calls him. The school is not very far from here, and Mr. Davis frequently walks down and watches the boys at their play. The paper route is Timothy’s way of earning money to feed his cats. Do you care for cats, Dr. Welles?”
“Yes, I like cats very much,” said the psychiatrist. “Many boys like dogs better.”
“Timothy had a dog when he was a baby—a collie.” Her eyes grew moist. “We all loved Ruff dearly. But I am no longer young, and the care and training of a dog is difficult. Timothy is at school or at the Boy Scout camp or something of the sort a great part of the time, and I thought it best that he should not have another dog. But you wanted to know about our cats, Dr. Welles. I raise Siamese cats.”
“Interesting pets,” said Welles cordially. “My aunt raised them at one time.”
“Timothy is very fond of them. But three years ago he asked me if he could have a pair of black Persians. At first I thought not; but we like to please the child, and he promised to build their cages himself. He had taken a course in carpentry at vacation school. So he was allowed to have a pair of beautiful black Persians. But the very first litter turned out to be short-haired, and Timothy confessed that he had mated his queen to my Siamese torn, to see what would happen. Worse yet, he had mated his torn to one of my Siamese queens. I really was tempted to punish him. But, after all, I could see that he was curious as to the outcome of such crossbreeding. Of course I said the kittens must be destroyed. The second litter was exactly like the first—all black, with short hair. But you know what children are. Timothy begged me to let them live, and they were his first kittens. Three in one Utter, two in the other. He might keep them, I said, if he would take full care of them and be responsible for all the expense. He mowed lawns and ran errands and made little footstools and bookcases to sell, and did all sorts of things, and probably used his allowance, too. But he kept the kittens and has a whole row of cages in the yard beside his workshop.”
“And their offspring?” inquired Welles, who could not see what all this had to do with the main question, but was willing to listen to anything that might lead to information.
“Some of the kittens appear to be pure Persian, and others pure Siamese. These he insisted on keeping, although, as I have explained to him, it would be dishonest to sell them, since they are not purebred. A good many of the kittens are black short-haired and these we destroy. But enough of cats, Dr. Welles. And I am afraid I am talking too much about my grandson.”
“I can understand that you are very proud of him,” said Welles.