Chapter III

When he was almost four, Timmy spoke his first words. He said clearly and matter-of-factly, “I want that one, Helen.”

His mother’s mouth slowly opened while her face turned gray with shock. The buckling of her knees in cataplexy forced her to sit down heavily on a kitchen chair not cushioned for such descents, but she was hardly aware of it. Timmy, seated on the kitchen floor and surrounded by half-grown pups owned by a neighbor, screwed his head around to glance at her impatiently over his shoulder.

“I want that one,” he repeated confidently, and pointed to the most ill-proportioned of an ill-conceived litter of mongrels. Helen raised shaking hands to her face, and screamed.

The quick scrape of a chair in the living room and the sound of hasty footsteps glissading on the throw-rug in the hall heralded the approach of Timmy’s father. The doorway filled with flexing muscles that flexed in vain, but somewhat at a disadvantage by the strictly static tableaux. Helen sat at the table, her staring eyes fixed on the child who looked back in blank astonishment. Even the pups were motionless, having cowered in alarm at Helen’s scream.

“What’s the matter?” Timmy’s father asked.

His voice was a spur rudely galvanizing her into action, into an awkward convulsion that landed her on her knees beside Timmy. She gripped his little shoulders with fierce intensity and almost glared into his eyes.

“Say it again, Timmy--say it again!” She looked around wildly. “He spoke, Jerry, as clear as anyone! He said ‘I want that one,’ and pointed! Timmy ... darling... angel ... say it again!”

Timmy’s face twitched uncertainly, giving the effect of a confused play of expressions. For a moment he looked as though he would cry, but then the crumpled, puckered lines magically smoothed. The eyes, dull and blank, stayed dry. He made a senseless noise and slobbered in doing so. His jaw was slack, his chin wet.

Jerry felt slightly sick.

“Get up, Helen.” He lifted her somewhat roughly to her feet, overrode her babble. “You’re frightening the ... the child.”

“He talked, Jerry ... you heard him! Didn’t you hear him!”

“Come in the living room and sit down.” She was half-carried, her protests ignored. There was a certain grim determination in his actions as he made her comfortable. “Now we’re going to face it, Helen. It can’t be put off. Timmy was heart-wrenching enough by himself, but I’ve had to watch the change in you in the past few months. You’re getting ... well, we’ll call it hysterical. I could cut off my arm for saying this, honey, but, if we keep Timmy any longer, you’ll just have a breakdown, that’s all!”

She moaned softly, rocking back and forth in misery’s timeless attitude. “I can’t help it, Jerry. I ... just ... can’t ... help it.”