Pathways - Jeri Taylor [42]
Out. He wanted out. These bars were keeping him from what he wanted. His small body, rather than his mind, suggested the answer, as his toes found friction on the slats of the crib and he felt himself crawling higher, higher . . .
Instinct told him he was about to fall, to pitch headfirst onto the floor below. Clutching the top rail tightly, he stretched his body along it and then shifted his grip so that his fingers now curled toward the crib, rather than toward the room.
The rest was easy. His toes climbed down the slats on the outside of the crib and, when he could go no farther, he released the top rail one hand at a time, clasping the slats hand over hand, and in this way lowered himself until he could drop easily to the floor.
He crowed with delight. That was fun! He stared up at the crib, wondering how to get back in so he could re-create the climb to freedom, but quickly realized reversing his course would be considerably more difficult. The urge instantly left his mind, and he turned to the first object of his desire, the fluttering motes that rode the sunlight. All the while, his mother’s singing, and the beguiling sound of the ancient instrument, flooded the room.
He toddled somewhat awkwardly across the floor—this new upright mobility had been achieved only a short time ago—and reached toward the first pool of light he encountered. His fist closed around the specks and he drew his hand close. But when he opened it, nothing was there.
This was a puzzle. But he knew from experience that many new tasks required attempting them over and over. That had been true of his first locomotion, on hands and knees, and certainly was the case when he learned one could put one foot in front of the other and travel much more quickly (this method also freed the hands for grabbing things, another plus).
But grabbing the motes was proving a difficult task. No matter how many times his fingers closed around the flickering specks, they disappeared by the time he opened his fist. This caused him no anguish—Harry would not suffer a moment’s anguish throughout his charmed childhood—but simply redoubled his determination to succeed.
So focused was he on his task that he didn’t notice that the music had stopped. It was such a constant in his life that its presence or absence didn’t call attention to itself. And so it was that his mother opened the door and found him standing in the middle of the room, clutching and unclenching his fist, trying to capture the sparkling bits of dust that were illuminated by the streaming afternoon sun.
She laughed, a sound not unlike the delicate tones of her singing. Harry looked up at her and he laughed, too. “How did you get down there?” his mother asked merrily, but Harry couldn’t understand her. He understood only the joy and love that glowed from her like the streams of lemon sunlight that illuminated his room.
Every birthday was a vast celebration. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, in-laws, and friends jammed the beautifully appointed Kim home in Monterey. He remembered his first birthday, the first awareness of a cake topped with candles, the first gooey mouthful of frosting. Faces crowded round him, laughing eyes peering, murmured sounds of laughter, soft voices urging him to blow candles, to eat the cake, to tear paper from a massive pile of presents. It was then that one of his relatives presented him with a small bundle of fur that meowed comically, at which Harry pointed and said, “Mousie,” a word he had just learned from hearing his mother read to him, and Mousie was the cat’s name from that point on.
On each birthday, the adults would drink a joyous toast, acknowledging the specialness of this princely child. On his fifth birthday, Harry asked his mother why they did that.
Her soft hand reached out and caressed his cheek, brushed his dark hair away from his forehead. “We waited such a long time for you,” she said, gazing at him with shining eyes. “We’d given up any hope that you might come. So when you