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sin. He says a man named Bartholomew Winslow was

my real daddy and he died in a fire. Our mother

seduced him."

Seduced? I gave him a long searching look.

"Do you know what that word means?"

"Nope--but I know it's bad, real bad!" "Do you love our mother?"

Worry tormented his dark eyes. He sat heavily

on the ground and contemplated his sneakers. He

should have answered quickly, spontaneously. "Bart,

do me a big favor and yourself too--go into the house

and tell Mom and Dad what's bothering you. They'll

understand anything. I know you think Mom loves me

best, but it's not so. She has room in her heart for ten

children."

"Ten?" he screamed. "You mean Momma is gonna adopt more?" He jumped up and ran then, haltingly, as if pretending to be old had made him lose what little agility he had. That hospital stay had

robbed him of a great many things, in my opinion. It was sneaky of me and not quite honorable,

but I had to hear what Bart told our mother when they

were alone. She was on the back veranda. Cindy was

on her lap, dozing as Mom read a book. When Bart

ran up she quickly put the book down, then shifted

Cindy onto a nearby chair as Bart stood staring at her,

mutely pleading with his eyes.

Then, of all things, he asked, "What's your

name?"

"You know my name," she said.

"Does it begin with a C?"

"Yes, of course it does." Now she looked

disturbed.

"But--but----" he stumbled, "I know someone

who cries after you go away. Someone little like me