Shortest Day by Jane Langton Page B

ransacked the catalogues and called an 800 number and used her credit card to order things. And the UPS truck came, and came again, and delivered things in boxes, and the boxes piled up in the back room.
    The mountain of boxes was an index of the Henshaws’ excess. There were boxes that television sets had come in, and stereos and toasters and tape recorders and clock radios and cordless telephones and microwave ovens and video-cassette recorders and exercise equipment, and all the gee-gaws his wife was so fond of—little tables and footstools and candlesticks and ornaments. The whole house was cluttered with things, the closets bulged with clothing. Sometimes it was difficult to clear the rooms, to shove everything out of the way into the back, the laundry, the toolshed.
    Henshaw sometimes felt he was pawing the air, clearing it of boxes. Whenever he walked into the Yard he dared not turn around, because they were trailing after him, a whole baggage train of boxes, tumbling after him, turning end over end, blowing up against the backs of his knees, heaping up behind him.
    He nodded at the file cabinets. “Just throw all this stuff out. It’s too much.”
    Ellery Beaver stared at him, murmured, “Right you are,” and hurried out of the office.
    Something was the matter with the old man. Ellery had been suspicious about the mental condition of his boss before, but now he was sure of it. Ernest Henshaw must have had a stroke or something. He was definitely barmy.
    Ellery was right—something had indeed happened to Ernest Henshaw. Of course it was possible that it had been a stroke, but it was also possible that he had been granted a new vision. Perhaps he had been carried aloft to a place high above the world from which he could look down and see it truly for the first time.
    Whatever the reason, Ernest Henshaw was a changed man, unable to carry on.

CHAPTER 16
    So all you young lasses, stand straight and stand firm ,
    Keep everything tight and close down ,
    For if anything happens in forty weeks’ time ,
    The blame will be laid on the clown .
    Traditional British Mummers’ Play
    S arah couldn’t keep it a secret from Morgan any longer. Her clothes were too tight. She had taken to wearing her biggest shirts and the same old skirt with the elastic waistband. The failure of the baby to thrash out with its arms and legs had become a consuming worry, as though it were a punishment for her secrecy, for not giving Morgan a chance to veto the whole idea while there was still time.
    One morning, lying warmly beside him in bed, Sarah decided the moment had come. Although it was nearly seven o’clock, the sky was still dark. The dawnlight of the dark December morning barely distinguished the objects in the room. Her desk was a gray shape, and so was the dresser and the chair with her sweater draped over the back. She could hear a car start up outside. The inhabitants of the street were already going to work.
    â€œMorgan,” she murmured, caressing his face, kissing the place where his beard met his bare cheek. “Morgan, darling, listen.”
    â€œDarling,” repeated Morgan sleepily, reaching out for her, pulling her close.
    Her voice was soft, but the words came out plain. “Morgan, we’re going to have a baby.” She kissed him again. “I’m sorry. I’ve been pregnant for five months. It’s due on April thirteenth. I know I should have told you.”
    Morgan sat up and looked at her. He was wide awake. “Oh, Sarah, my dear.” Tenderly he embraced her. “Of course you should have told me! My poor darling, are you all right?”
    Sarah said she was fine, just fine, and in a moment they were making love. Then they lay in each other’s arms and murmured about what it would mean to have a baby in the house, how they would manage. They would have to find a bigger place. They would have to move.
    Astonished and relieved, Sarah slipped