The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [599]
“What?” she said, in an edgy tone. “What do you mean, they’re born potty?” She had one hand on Jemmy’s shoulder, balancing him, while the other cupped his round little belly, an index finger disappearing into the shadows below to direct his aim.
“Potty,” Roger explained, with a brief circular gesture at his temple in illustration. “You know, barmy. Daft.”
She opened her mouth to say something in reply to this, but Jemmy swayed alarmingly, his head sagging forward.
“No, no!” she said, taking a fresh grip. “Wake up, honey! Wake up and go potty!”
The insidious term had somehow taken up residence in Roger’s mind, and was merrily replacing half the fading words of the verse he had been trying to recapture.
Willie sat upon his pot/The sword to potty gane . . .
He shook his head, as though to dislodge it, but it was too late—the real words had fled. Resigned, he gave it up as a bad job and crouched down next to Brianna to help.
“Wake up, chum. There’s work to be done.” He drew a finger gently under Jemmy’s chin, then blew in his ear, ruffling the silky red tendrils that clung to the child’s temple, still damp with sleep-sweat.
Jemmy’s eyelids cracked in a slit-eyed glower. He looked like a small pink mole, cruelly excavated from its cozy burrow and peering balefully at an inhospitable upper world.
Brianna yawned widely, and shook her head, blinking and scowling in the candlelight.
“Well, if you don’t like ‘go potty,’ what do you say in Scotland, then?” she demanded crabbily.
Roger moved the tickling finger to Jem’s navel.
“Ah . . . I seem to recall a friend asking his wee son if he needed to do a poo,” he offered. Brianna made a rude noise, but Jemmy’s eyelids flickered.
“Poo,” he said dreamily, liking the sound.
“Right, that’s the idea,” Roger said encouragingly. His finger twiddled gently in the slight depression, and Jemmy gave the ghost of a giggle, beginning to wake up.
“Pooooooo,” he said. “Poopoo.”
“Whatever works,” Brianna said, still cross, but resigned. “Go potty, go poo—just get it over with, all right? Mummy wants to go to sleep.”
“Perhaps you should take your finger off of his . . . mmphm?” Roger nodded toward the object in question. “You’ll give the poor lad a complex or something.”
“Fine.” Bree took her hand away with alacrity, and the stubby object sprang back up, pointing directly at Roger over the rim of the pot.
“Hey! Now, just a min—”he began, and got his hand up as a shield just in time.
“Poo,” Jemmy said, beaming in drowsy pleasure.
“Shit!”
“Chit!” Jemmy echoed obligingly.
“Well, that’s not quite—would you stop laughing?” Roger said testily, wiping his hand gingerly on a kitchen rag.
Brianna snorted and gurgled, shaking her head so the straggling locks of hair that had escaped her plait fell down around her face.
“Good boy, Jemmy!” she managed.
Thus encouraged, Jemmy took on an air of inner absorption, scrunched his chin down into his chest, and without further ado, proceeded to Act Two of the evening’s drama.
“Clever lad!” Roger said sincerely.
Brianna glanced at him, momentary surprise interrupting her own applause.
He was surprised himself. He had spoken by reflex, and hearing the words, just for a moment, his voice hadn’t sounded like his own. Very familiar—but not his own. It was like writing the words of Clellan’s song, hearing the old man’s voice, even as his own lips formed the words.
“Aye, that’s clever,” he said, more softly, and patted the little boy gently on his silky head.
He took the pot outside to empty it while Brianna put Jemmy back to bed with kisses and murmurs of admiration. Basic sanitation accomplished, he went to the well to wash his hands before coming back inside to bed.
“Are you through working?” Bree asked drowsily, as he slid into bed beside her. She rolled over and thrust her bottom unceremoniously into his stomach, which he took as a gesture of affection, given the fact that she was about thirty degrees warmer than he was after the sortie outside.
“Aye, for tonight.” He put his arms round her