"Hum!" he said. "Hum a few bars for me."
Sara looked at the piece of paper in her hands. "I can't."
"Sure you can. You just start at the top. Go ahead. Hum it for me."
She looked up at her father. The perspiration slunk its way down the middle of her shoulder blades. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. Her shorts dug in at her waist, and rode up on her legs. She wanted to pull them down, to adjust her underpants, to lift the hair off of her neck so the ceiling fan could cool her down. She did none of these things. She stood still; the only movement came from the paper in her hands oscillating from the fan.
"Quit shaking that paper and hum it for me, Sara." her father demanded once again, his voice rising to meet the tension he created in her.
If only she hadn't walked inside to get a drink. She should have just done what the rest of the children did and taken her turn at the hose, but the last time she'd tried to drink from Mr. Barker's hose, the water had come out all rusty and gross. It had splashed onto her school uniform and left a red stain Aunt Belinda struggled to remove. She'd received quite a scolding for that mishap. She'd learned her lesson, or so she thought. How was she to know her father would be here?
She'd run through the door so quickly - in a hurry to get back to the game of man hunt the children were playing in the woods across the street - that she'd been half way to the kitchen before she heard his gravelly voice.
"Sara Elizabeth, what is your hurry? Slow down, child."
"Yes, sir," she responded obediently.
"Come tell me why you were running," he summoned her.
And she stopped and turned to face this man, her father, whose aging hand was holding Aunt Belinda's Chinese fan - the one she brought with her when she came home her days as a missionary, the fan Sara was forbidden from touching - and fanning his face.
"I was going to get myself a drink, sir," she said.
"Belinda," he called. "Will you bring me a glass of lemonade, sister? And bring one for Sara Elizabeth, too, please."
To Sara he tilted his head, "Why don't you come over here and sing for me, child? I haven't heard you sing in a long time." His hand laid down the fan and lifted a piece of paper from the pile beside his thigh.
"Here," he said handing her the paper. "Hum a few bars for me, Sara."
She reached for the page, glanced it over, then said, "I can't."
"Sure you can. You just start at the top. Go ahead."
She beseeched her aunt who arrived with their lemonade.
"She can't, John." Aunt Belinda said softly, setting the glasses down carefully on the oriental coasters. Belinda reached beside her brother, picked up a piece of sheet music, and handed it to her niece.
"You handed her a blank piece of paper, John. How long did the doctor say your eyes would be dilated, anyway?"
Sara looked at the piece of paper in her hands. "I can't."
"Sure you can. You just start at the top. Go ahead. Hum it for me."
She looked up at her father. The perspiration slunk its way down the middle of her shoulder blades. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. Her shorts dug in at her waist, and rode up on her legs. She wanted to pull them down, to adjust her underpants, to lift the hair off of her neck so the ceiling fan could cool her down. She did none of these things. She stood still; the only movement came from the paper in her hands oscillating from the fan.
"Quit shaking that paper and hum it for me, Sara." her father demanded once again, his voice rising to meet the tension he created in her.
If only she hadn't walked inside to get a drink. She should have just done what the rest of the children did and taken her turn at the hose, but the last time she'd tried to drink from Mr. Barker's hose, the water had come out all rusty and gross. It had splashed onto her school uniform and left a red stain Aunt Belinda struggled to remove. She'd received quite a scolding for that mishap. She'd learned her lesson, or so she thought. How was she to know her father would be here?
She'd run through the door so quickly - in a hurry to get back to the game of man hunt the children were playing in the woods across the street - that she'd been half way to the kitchen before she heard his gravelly voice.
"Sara Elizabeth, what is your hurry? Slow down, child."
"Yes, sir," she responded obediently.
"Come tell me why you were running," he summoned her.
And she stopped and turned to face this man, her father, whose aging hand was holding Aunt Belinda's Chinese fan - the one she brought with her when she came home her days as a missionary, the fan Sara was forbidden from touching - and fanning his face.
"I was going to get myself a drink, sir," she said.
"Belinda," he called. "Will you bring me a glass of lemonade, sister? And bring one for Sara Elizabeth, too, please."
To Sara he tilted his head, "Why don't you come over here and sing for me, child? I haven't heard you sing in a long time." His hand laid down the fan and lifted a piece of paper from the pile beside his thigh.
"Here," he said handing her the paper. "Hum a few bars for me, Sara."
She reached for the page, glanced it over, then said, "I can't."
"Sure you can. You just start at the top. Go ahead."
She beseeched her aunt who arrived with their lemonade.
"She can't, John." Aunt Belinda said softly, setting the glasses down carefully on the oriental coasters. Belinda reached beside her brother, picked up a piece of sheet music, and handed it to her niece.
"You handed her a blank piece of paper, John. How long did the doctor say your eyes would be dilated, anyway?"
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