THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

By Janet Lorimer

    The little girl was huddled next to a newspaper rack at the front of the store, her face smeared with tears. Benny knelt beside her. “Did you lose your mommy?” he asked gently.

    The tot stopped crying, and stared at him in the curious, unblinking way of very young children.

    “Don’t worry, she’s probably around here somewhere,” he said, reaching out to take her tiny hand. “Shall we—?”

    “Oh, there you are.” A cross-sounding woman materialized behind Benny.  He turned and saw her glaring at him. She snatched the child’s hand and dragged her away. “How many times have I told you….” Her voice faded as they disappeared out the door.

    Benny sighed, stood. It’s the little ones, he thought. They’re always at the mercy of the adults.

    He bought a newspaper and left the store.

    It was beginning to snow. The air was so cold it felt like the inside of his nose was burning every time he drew a breath. He shivered and looked at his watch. Better hurry. He needed to find a place to stay before dark.

    He removed the classified section, folded it neatly and tucked it inside his jacket. Then he quickly scanned the front page.

Fourth Toddler Murdered

    Benny winced at the brutal headline but it forced him to read the story. The police claimed they had no witnesses and no leads. Quelling a sigh of relief, Benny dropped that section of the paper into a trashcan.

    He read the classifieds carefully, marking addresses that seemed promising. Then he took out his cell phone and began punching in numbers. With the third call he knew his luck was holding. The room for rent was still available, and, yes, he could come immediately to see it. The rent was within his means and included dinner.

    The house was at the end of a lane in a shabby neighborhood. Snow was falling faster and the light was nearly gone as Benny paused at the gate. He eyed the dilapidated two-story house, noting with mild distaste that paint was peeling from the eaves and the porch rail sagged. Still, if the room was clean, that was all that mattered. At least he’d be warm and dry.

    Someone had seen his approach; just as he raised his hand to knock, the front door opened.

    “Mr. Ramsey?” The woman appeared to be in her late thirties. She was small, with plain features and sallow coloring. Benny made an awkward little bow. She smiled and put out her hand. “I’m Rose Lawson,” she said. “Please come in.”

    Benny scraped his shoes more than necessary, and stepped inside. Rose led him down a dark, chilly hall that smelled of stale wood smoke and cooked cabbage. “My husband will be late tonight,” she said, “but we can wait in the living room where it’s warm.”

    Just barely warm, Benny thought, sitting down gingerly in a faded armchair. The stuffing was coming out of the arms, and the chair tilted dangerously to one side when he leaned back. He sat forward quickly.

    Rose took a rocking chair next to him, and for a few moments the silence was broken only by the squeak of her chair as she rocked companionably back and forth.

    “About the room,” Benny began.

    “Oh, you’ll like it,” Rose said. “It has the best view.”

    “May I see it?”

    “As soon as my husband comes home,” Rose said. She looked at the clock on the mantel. “I’m sorry he’s late. He must have had to work overtime.”

    “Couldn’t you show me the room?” Benny asked. “I don’t want to interrupt—.”

    “It’s so late, you must stay for dinner, Mr. Ramsey. Besides, I know you’ll like the room.” Rose smiled.

    Benny glanced about as if looking for a topic of conversation. The room was large, with a high ceiling and paneling darkened by age and smoke.  A fire burned in the stone fireplace, but it was too small to give out much heat. The sparse furniture was shabby, the carpet threadbare.

    Suddenly he became aware that his hostess was watching him with a sad smile.

    “It’s very homey,” he said quickly.

    “That’s kind of you, but—.” She paused, nibbling her lower lip. “Well, it isn’t much, I’m afraid. Still, the children love to play in here on bad weather days.”

    As if on cue, Benny heard the sound of footsteps pattering on the floor overhead. “How many children do you have?” he asked.

    She smiled. “Seven. Four boys and three girls. I love a large family. I only wish we could give them more, but….” She shrugged, her voice trailing off into silence.

    Seven children, Benny thought. That explained the dilapidated house and the Lawsons’ need to take in boarders.

    “Times are hard,” he said, thinking how trite that sounded.

    “They are indeed,” Rose said. “It’s not easy trying to make ends meet. Cut a corner here, scrimp a little there. One does what one has to.”

    He nodded, trying to look sympathetic.

    “Do you like children, Mr. Ramsey?” she asked. “That’s rather important, you know. Because if you don’t—.”

    He beamed. “Oh, but I do. I love children. I like to tell them stories and play games with them. I even know a few simple magic tricks.”

    “Do you!” She looked pleased. “What a stroke of luck for us. What I mean is, I’ve been thinking of trying to find a job. Well, you can see we need the extra income. Perhaps we could strike a deal. If you like to baby-sit, we could reduce the rent and….” Her voice trailed off, and she gazed at him hopefully.

    Oh, better and better, Benny thought. “That sounds like a fine arrangement, Mrs. Lawson.”

    She checked the clock again. “Usually my husband interviews the prospective boarders, but since it is so late, perhaps I could ask you a few questions about yourself.”

    “Questions?”

    “We like to know the kind of person we’re renting to. Take the last boarder, for example. He turned out to be rather coarse. The children didn’t like him at all.”

    “I keep to myself most of the time,” Benny said. “I’m very quiet, Mrs. Lawson. I—.”

    “Then there’s this business of those poor babies,” she burst out. “I supposed you’ve heard.” Benny nodded, remembering the headline. “A sin. That’s what it is,” she went on. “Little ones brutalized by a—.” As Benny stared at her in bafflement, she added shrilly, “I hate it when my husband has to work late. One never knows.”

    Bafflement turned to horror. The cold leached into his veins as he realized why she’d made this conversational leap. Rose Lawson suspected that her husband—.

    The pattering overhead became a veritable pounding and a few sprinkles of plaster drifted down from the old ceiling.

    Suddenly Rose said:

         “Between the dark and the daylight,

         When night is beginning to lower,

         Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,

         That is known as the children’s hour.  

Are you familiar with that verse, Mr. Ramsey?”

    She’s mad, Benny thought, or going mad from her fear. Four babies murdered, and where was Mr. Lawson each time? Working late?

    He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should come back another time to see—.”

    “Oh, please don’t go,” she begged. Then, rather coyly, she added, “You can’t guess, can you?”

    “Guess?”

    Rose leaned forward. “The author?”

    Benny lifted his chin, as if to ease the tightness of his collar. “Longfellow, isn’t it? The Children’s Hour?”

    A bright smile transformed Rose Lawson’s plain features. “Very good, Mr. Ramsey. Not many people appreciate poetry. Do you remember the second verse?”

    “It was so long ago, I’m afraid I—.”

    A sudden scratching noise overhead startled him into looking up. What were they doing up there?

         “I hear in the chamber above me,

         The patter of little feet,

         The sound of a door that is opened,

         And voices soft and sweet.”

Rose beamed as she finished the verse.

    It was appropriate, Benny decided, except for the patter of little feet. It sounded as if the children wore hobnailed boots. Then he thought of the sparse fire that barely warmed this room and wondered what the temperature must be like upstairs. Probably the children were dressed in their heaviest clothes to keep warm. Playing a vigorous game would also increase body heat. 

    The clock on the mantel ticked and the fire hissed as it burned down. Rose went to stir the embers. They flared briefly, but she didn’t add more wood.

         “From my study I see in the lamplight,

         Descending the broad hall stair,

         Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,

         And Edith with golden hair.”

    Rose took her seat in the rocking chair again. “Only we don’t have an Edith or an Allegra,” she said, with a laugh. “And our children aren’t blonde. All the same, I do like that verse, don’t you?”

    “It’s very picturesque,” Benny agreed. This was the oddest family he had ever encountered. 

    Did the police know about Rose Lawson’s secret fear? Was her husband a suspect? Had she at some point been questioned? She must be desperate to come this close to confiding in a stranger.

    There was a scraping sound overhead. Rose sighed and glanced at the ceiling. “How impatient they are.”

    Of course, the collective impatience of seven children might drive any man to madness. Their boisterous demands, their hunger for attention, their—.”

    “Perhaps we shouldn’t wait any longer,” Rose said, cutting across his musing. “Are you hungry, Mr. Ramsey?” Then, before he could answer, she added, “It’s just a stew. I hope you like stew.”

    “One of my favorites,” Benny said, trying to smile so widely that she couldn’t tell how much he loathed the stuff. It would be the worst kind of stew, he thought. Bits of gray meat and pale cabbage floating in a sea of thin broth. That was the kind of meal eaten by the poor. Still, what choice did he have? He was hungry. “Anything I can do to help?” he added.

    “How kind of you.” She smiled. “There is one small thing….”

    “Of course,” he said, coming to his feet.

    “Would you mind going upstairs and entertaining the children while I set the table?”

    Benny nodded, trying to hide his great delight. At last! When he’d phoned to ask about the room, he’d heard their voices in the background. Seven of them to choose from. A veritable banquet of children.

    People were so suspicious these days. In the beginning he’d have to be patient, curb his hunger. Later, when he’d settled in, when they trusted him…. Poor Rose, those imagined fears twisting her insides.

    “The first door on your right,” Rose said, “at the top of the stairs. As he began to climb, she added, “The children have been indoors all day, Mr. Ramsey, so they’re bound to be restless. Don’t let them play any tricks on you. Remember what Longfellow wrote:

         A whisper and then a silence,

         Yet I know by their merry eyes,

         They are plotting and planning together,

         To take me by surprise.”

    Benny nodded. “I have a lot of experience with children,” he said, trying not to lick his lips. “I’ll manage.” 

I have a few tricks of my own, he thought, and they aren’t all magic. He remembered the sweet face of the toddler, lost in the store, and his insides twisted with another kind of hunger.

    As Benny disappeared into the darkness at the top of the stairs, Rose heard the front door open. She hurried into the hall. Her husband was stamping snow from his boots.

    “We have a guest for dinner,” she said, taking his coat. “He came to inquire about the room. He’s upstairs with the children, but don’t go up—” Some of her words were drowned out by a bloodcurdling scream overhead. “—until they’ve finished eating.”

The End