Charlotte was very uneasy after having spent yet another day with her part-time babysitter, Mrs. King. Usually she was a happy, little girl of 3 years, and Anthony was proud of his pretty, and smart daughter who charmed everybody with her blonde hair and big, blue eyes. After her mother, Ellen, had died so tragically in a car accident, she had been the most important person in his life and he loved her very much, but he also found it confusing that one can't communicate everything in words with such a young child.
Now that she had started to fret when she had been with Mrs. King he was worried about her, but he took for granted that her problem with the babysitter was of a passing nature. After all she had been with her three to four times and at first she hadn't seemed to resent this arrangement that fitted so very well into his busy work-program. It was only when she had a cold or something that made it impossible for her to go to the Kindergarten he left her with Mrs. King in the morning and fetched her in the late afternoon. Had Mrs. King not accepted this obligation he would have had to stay at home himself to look after her as his few relatives were living far away.
In his opinion Mrs. King, who was an exceedingly tidy, middle-aged widow with a penchant for pets like small dogs, fish and turtles, was the ideal baby-sitter. They lived in the same house, she liked Charlotte and she could teach her some of her own tidyness. She was well-to-do and didn't want any payments, only flowers or a book by some specific religious and very moral writer whose name kept escaping him, but who looked like a cross between a Satyr and an angel.
Now, had Anthony been able to understand what his daughter tried to tell him of the stays with Mrs. King he would have been alarmed, but he couldn't get any meaning in her sudden baby-like need for the diapers she otherwise didn't use anymore. Nevertheless that was more of a genuine statement than a symptom of regression into babyhood. Also her sudden crying in her sleep, her kicking him as well as her clinging to him when he left her with Mrs. King were part of her communication that something was wrong - very wrong.
Sometimes she said something about "bad", "hit" and "Pete". As she didn't bear any bruises that told the tale of Mrs. King being "bad" to her he took for granted that she hadn't "hit" her. "Pete" was a mystery, but he thought that he was one of the small dogs that Mrs. King had for a pet and that he somehow might have scared Charlotte.
Had Charlotte been able to communicate her fear of Mrs. King her father might still not have understood her. What was so bad in this excessive cleanliness, this insistence on order and precision? Well, first and foremost it drew blood and Charlotte was afraid of blood. Also it drew screams and wriggling limbs, which scared her even more.
This day when Mrs. King opened the door to let her and her father in she noticed that Beatrice, the small terrier she had liked so much, wasn't to be seen. When the door was about to close on her father she started to scream because she suspected that Beatrice had gone the same way as Pete and some of the other pets. "Oh, dear heart," Mrs. King exclaimed, "your darling father will be back. Come let's have some cookies and play with the dolls."
At the word "dolls" Charlotte went berserk, but still, she had to stay. Her father who by now was rather worried about her and the arrangement with Mrs. King went downstairs to their apartment with heavy feet and an even heavier heart. 'What can be wrong?' he thought. 'Why doesn't she cry in kindergarten when I leave, but only here?' There was no answer to that question that he could think of, but he more or less decided to drop the convenient baby-sitting-arrangement that he had found so wonderful.
Had he seen his little, angelic daughter looking like a haunted mini-demon in the kitchen of Mrs. King he would have grabbed her and ran away, far away. By now she was totally subdued, but with eyes as big and sorrowful as could be. She was staring at Mrs. King who had brought out William the turtle and had put him on an old newspaper that was laid out on the kitchen table.
"I told you about William being so very untidy, right, dear?" Mrs. King chirped, while buzzing around looking for something which Charlotte knew where was, but didn't intend to tell about. "Oh, what a nuisance," Mrs. King exclaimed, "I can't find those scissors, and as you know, we need them."
Charlotte started to cry, and to her horror Mrs. King hugged her. "Ohhhh, darling child, don't cry, we shall find the scissors in a whiff."
That made Charlotte cry even harder, especially as William by now had decided to put out his feet and head from under his shell. Besides, he had had the audacity to produce what humans consider "dirt", but what turtles don't have any regrets about. They just do what Nature bids them to do: Relieve themselves.
"You bad boy!" Mrs. King screamed into the shell of William which by now once again contained both his head and feet.
"Well, let's have a little something to drink and some cookies." Mrs. King said with a shrug at the turtle, but that was before she saw the product of William and Nature. As her eye caught the offensive "dirt" on the old newspaper she turned to the cupboard and without saying one word more she brought out a large knife.
Charlotte knew what would follow and she closed her eyes tightly. Actually, she closed down her entire personality to this horror, adamant that she would not cry, nor pee herself as she had done that time when Mrs. King had gone so mad at her and also had brought out the knife. Had her father not come at that very moment there would be no knowing what might have happened. That was the day she had cried all evening over Pete, her favorite dog at the King-household.
When Anthony came for Charlotte that afternoon he found her looking very different from the angelic creature he knew as his daughter. Her blue eyes looked almost black and her face was sort of haggard. Actually, she looked aged.
"Did you and Mrs. King have a nice day?" he asked her. She didn't answer him, just looked at him, which was her way of communication. However, her not saying anything in words made him decide that everything must be all right, and that he could keep this nice, and convenient arrangement of babysitting in the house.
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Originally Posted On Site: 2009-10-30 03:58:02
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