Stephen was sitting by himself, at the little low table they had given him for his birthday, coloring pictures with his crayons. He was intent on his work, his small face lined with concentration. Robert walked toward him slowly, across the wet grass.
Stephen looked up, putting down his crayons. He smiled shyly, friendlily, watching the man coming toward him. Robert approached the table and stopped, smiling down, a little uncertain and ill at ease.
“What is it?” Stephen said.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“No.”
Robert rubbed his jaw. “Say, what is it you’re doing?” he asked presently.
“Doing?”
“With the crayons.”
“I’m drawing.” Stephen held his picture up. It showed a great yellow shape, like a lemon. Stephen and he studied it together.
“What is it?” Robert said. “Still life?”
“It’s the sun.” Stephen put the picture back down and resumed his work. Robert watched him. How skillfully he worked! Now he was sketching in something green. Trees, probably. Maybe someday he would be a great painter. Like Grant Wood. Or Norman Rockwell. Pride stirred inside him.
“That looks good,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to be a painter when you grow up? I used to do some drawing, myself. I did cartooning for the school newspaper. And I designed the emblem for our frat.”
There was silence. Did Stephen get his ability from him? He watched the boy, studying his face. He did not look much like him; not at all. Again doubt filled his mind. Could it really be that—But Peg would never—
“Robert?” the boy said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“Who was Sir Francis?”
Robert staggered. “What? What do you mean! Why do you ask that?”
“I just wondered.”
“What do you know about him? Where did you hear the name?”
Stephen went on working for a while. “I don’t know. I think mother mentioned him. Who is he?”
“He’s dead,” Robert said. “He’s been dead for some time. Your mother told you about him?”
“Perhaps it was you,” Stephen said. “Somebody mentioned him.”
“It wasn’t me!”
“Then,” Stephen said thoughtfully, “perhaps I dreamed about him. I think perhaps he came to be in a dream and spoke to me. That was it. I saw him in a dream.”
“What did he look like?” Robert said, licking his lip nervously, unhappily.
“Like this,” Stephen said. He held the picture up, the picture of the sun.
“How do you mean? Yellow?”
“No, he was white. Like the sun is, at noon. A terribly big white shape in the sky.”
“In the sky?”
“He was flying across the sky. Like the sun at noon. All ablaze. In the dream, I mean.”
Robert’s face twisted, torn by misery and uncertainty. Had she told the child about him? Had she painted a picture for him, an idealized picture? The Duck God. The Great Duck in the Sky, descending all ablaze. Then perhaps it was so. Perhaps he was not really the boy’s father. Perhaps—It was too much to bear.
“Well, I won’t bother you any more.” Robert said. He turned away, toward the house.
“Robert?” Stephen said.
“Yes?” He turned quickly.
“Robert, what are you going to do?”
Robert hesitated. “How do you mean, Stephen?”
The boy looked up from his work. His small face was calm and expressionless. “Are you going inside the house?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Robert, in a few minutes I’m going to do something secret. No one knows about it. Not even mother.” Stephen hesitated, slyly studying the man’s face. “Would—would you want to do it with me?”
“What is it?”
“I’m going to have a party in the garden here. A secret party. For myself alone.”
“You want me to come?”
The boy nodded.
Wild happiness filled up Robert. “You want me to come to your party? It’s a secret party? I won’t tell anyone. Not even your mother! Of course I’ll come.” He rubbed his hands together, smiling in a flood of relief. “I’d be glad to come. Do you want me to bring something? Cookies? Cake? Milk? What do you want me to bring?”
“No.” Stephen shook his head. “Go inside and wash your hands and I’ll make the party ready.” He stood up, putting the crayons away in the box. “But you can’t tell anyone about it.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Robert said. “I’ll go wash my hands. Thanks, Stephen. Thanks a lot. I’ll be right back.”
He hurried toward the house, his heart thumping with happiness. Maybe the boy was his after all! A secret party, a private, secret party. And not even Peg knew about it. It was his boy, all right! There was no doubt of that. From now on he would spend time with Stephen whenever Peg left the house. Tell him stories. How he was in North Africa during the war. Stephen would be interested in that. How he had seen Field Marshal Montgomery, once. And the German pistol he had picked up. And his photographs.
Robert went inside the house. Peg never let him do that, tell stories to the boy. But he would, by golly! He went to the sink and washed his hands. He grinned. It was his kid, all right.
There was a sound. Peg came into the kitchen with her arms full of groceries. She set them on the table with a sigh. “Hello, Robert,” she said. “What are you doing?”
His heart sank. “Home?” he murmured. “So soon? I thought you were going to get your hair fixed.”
Peggy smiled, small and pretty in her green dress and hat and high heeled shoes. “I have to go back. I just wanted to bring the groceries home first.”
“Then you’re leaving again?”
She nodded. “Why? You look so excited. Is something going on? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Robert said. He dried his hands. “Nothing at all.” He grinned foolishly.
“I’ll see you later today,” Peggy said. She went back into the living room. “Have a good time while I’m gone. Don’t let Stephen stay in the garden too long.”
“No. No, I won’t.” Robert waited, listening until he heard the sound of the front door closing. Then he hurried back out onto the porch and down the steps, into the garden. He hurried through the flowers.
Stephen had cleared off the little low table. The crayons and paper were gone, and in their place were two bowls, each on a plate. A chair was pulled up for him. Stephen watched him come across the grass and toward the table.
“What took you so long?” Stephen said impatiently. “I’ve already started.” He went on eating avidly, his eyes gleaming. “I couldn’t wait.”
“That’s all right,” Robert said. “I’m glad you went ahead.” He sat down on the little chair eagerly. “Is it good? What is it? Something extra nice?”
Stephen nodded, his mouth full. He went on, helping himself rapidly from his bowl with his hands. Robert looked down at his own plate, grinning.
His grin died. Sickened misery filled his heart. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He pushed his chair back, standing up.
“I don’t think I want any,” he murmured. He turned away. “I think maybe I’ll go back in.”
“Why?” Stephen said, surprised, stopping a moment.
“I—never cared for worms and spiders,” Robert said. He went slowly back, into the house again.
The King of the Elves
It was raining and getting dark. Sheets of water blew along the row of pumps at the edge of the filling station; the tree across the highway bent against the wind.
Shadrach Jones stood just inside the doorway of the little building, leaning against an oil drum. The door was open and gusts of rain blew in onto the wood floor. It was late; the sun had set, and the air was turning cold. Shadrach reached into his coat and brought out a cigar. He bit the end off it and lit it carefully, turning away from the door. In the gloom, the cigar burst into life, warm and glowing. Shadrach took a deep draw. He buttoned his coat around him and stepped out onto the pavement.