Pigeon Feathers by John Updike

It would be their third.
    “So the wizard said, ‘Oh, very well. Go to the end of the lane and turn around three times and look down the magic well and there you will find three pennies. Hurry up.’ So Roger Skunk went to the end of the lane and turned around three times and there in the magic well were
three pennies!
So he took them back to the wizard and was very happy and ran out into the woods and all the other little animals gathered around him because he smelled so good. And they played tag, baseball, football, basketball, lacrosse, hockey, soccer, and pick-up-sticks.”
    “What’s pick-up-sticks?”
    “It’s a game you play with sticks.”
    “Like the wizard’s magic wand?”
    “Kind of. And they played games and laughed all afternoon and then it began to get dark and they all ran home to their mommies.”
    Jo was starting to fuss with her hands and look out of the window, at the crack of daylight that showed under the shade. She thought the story was all over. Jack didn’t like women when they took anything for granted; he liked them apprehensive, hanging on his words. “Now, Jo, are you listening?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because this is very interesting. Roger Skunk’s mommy said, ‘What’s that awful smell?’ ”
    “Wha-a-at?” He had surprised her.
    He went on, “And Roger Skunk said, ‘It’s me, Mommy. I smell like roses now.’ And she said, ‘Who made you smell like that?’ And he said, ‘The wizard,’ and
she
said, ‘Well, of all the nerve. You come with me and we’re going right back to that very awful wizard.’ ”
    Jo sat up, her hands dabbling in the air with genuine fright. “But, Daddy, then he said about the other little animals run
away!
” Her hands skittered off, into the imaginary underbrush.
    “All right. He said, ‘But, Mommy, all the other little animals run
away
.’ She said, ‘I don’t care. You smelled the way a little skunk should have and I’m going to take you right back to that wizard,’ and she took an umbrella and went back with Roger Skunk and hit that wizard right over the head.”
    “No,” Jo said, and put her hand out to touch his lips, yet even in her agitation did not quite dare to stop the source of the narrative. Inspiration came to her. “Then the wizard hit
her
on the head and did not change that little skunk back.”
    “No,” he said. “The wizard said ‘O.K., maybe you’re right,’ and Roger Skunk did not smell of roses any more. He smelled very bad again.”
    “But the other little amum
—oh!—
amumals—”
    “Joanne. It’s Daddy’s story. Shall Daddy not tell you any more stories?” Her broad face looked at him through sifted light, astounded. “This is what happened, then. Roger Skunk and his mommy went home and they heard
Woo-oo
,
woooo-oo
, and it was the choo-choo train bringing Daddy Skunk home from Boston. And they had lima beans, pork chops, celery, liver, mashed potatoes, and Pie-Oh-My for dessert. And when Roger Skunk was in bed, Mommy Skunk came up and hugged him and said he smelled like her little baby skunk again and she loved him very much. And that’s the end of the story.”
    “But Daddy.”
    “What?”
    “Then did the other little ani-mals run away?”
    “No, because eventually they got used to the way he was and did not mind it at all. Or did not mind it very much.”
    “What’s evenshiladee?”
    “In a little while.”
    “That was a stupid mommy.”
    “It was
not
,” he said with rare emphasis, and believed, from her expression, that she realized he was defending his own mother to her, or something as odd. “Now I want you to put your big heavy head in the pillow and have a good long nap.” He adjusted the shade so not even a crack of day showed, and tiptoed to the door, in the pretense that she was already asleep. But when he turned, she was crouching on top of the covers and staring at him. “Hey. Get under the covers and fall
faaast
asleep. Bobby’s asleep.”
    She stood up and bounced