Bed Time, Red Time
By William Griner
It was 10 minutes after 8 p.m. and Charlotte Anne Jane was browsing a storybook when a tall figure tip-toing in the hallway appeared at her door. The 7-year-old smiled and set her book aside.
"Daddy!"
She reached up just as Patrick Jane leaned over, and they embraced for a long moment. Charlotte Anne's golden hair, the same curly texture as her father's, tickled his nose.
"Mommy said you were gonna be late tonight."
Easing out of the hug, her father nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. "But I made it just in time," he said, "for a magic trick."
"What is it?" Brown eyes searched her father's hands for a deck of cards or coins, but they were empty.
Patrick cupped her chin, tenderly brushed the tip of her nose with an index finger. With mock seriousness, he said, "Using magic words, it is my intention to take that frown on the face of my lovely young assistant and turn it upside down."
"Mommy told you."
Her father shrugged. "Your dear mother, while respecting your privacy, might have mentioned in passing just now that it was a tough day."
"I don't wanna go back to school."
A certain irony crept into Patrick's consciousness. Under the tutelage of his own father, carnival psychic Alex Jane, he had learned how to softly probe for the information that would separate the gullible from their hard-earned cash. "Wanna loosen a tongue?" Alex had once advised him. "Put on a blank face and just look at the person across the table. Say nothing. Silence intimidates the weak."
Yes, Alex Jane had been correct in his assessment of human behavior, and his instruction had paid off. Patrick, however, couldn't bring himself to manipulate his daughter. Just as he had put distance between Alex Jane and himself years ago, Jane abandoned his father's methods in his relationship with his daughter. Just a whiff of his father in the room would taint everything for Patrick.
He broke the stillness with Charlotte Anne.
"It would mean a lot to me if you would share."
The little girl sighed. "Mrs. Davenport just doesn't like me, Daddy."
Maybe because of the good influence of his wife Angela, he suppressed the urge to describe his own scrapes with authority. He could find other ways to strengthen his bond with Charlotte Anne; subverting her respect for her first-grade teacher would not help her in the long run. Instead, he asked, "Another rough show-and-tell?"
Charlotte Anne, mouth set in a pout, nodded. "She said there wasn't time for me to go this morning."
"Well, that might have been true, baby. How many other kids are in your class?"
"I was the only one who didn't get to go."
Injustice, visited upon his little girl. Patrick the professional talker was momentarily at a loss for words. It was quickly becoming a night of ironies.
"I've met Mrs. Davenport," Patrick finally managed. "She seemed pretty fair to me. I'll bet she explained why she left you out."
"She did. But Daddy, the thing is –"
Patrick interrupted. "Something just occurred to me, baby. What if we recorded you playing the piano? I'll bet Mrs. Davenport wouldn't mind if you shared a song instead of the magic tricks."
He realized what had happened at the exclusive private school and mentally kicked himself for not preparing Charlotte Anne. The times that Patrick had dropped his daughter off in her classroom, he had been met with the hostile stares from teachers and parents who disapproved of Patrick Jane's lucrative career as a great seer into the beyond. Great, he thought. He and Angela would need to craft a better game plan for their daughter's teenage years.
Charlotte Anne shook her head. "Daddy, I wasn't trying to do magic this morning."
"Baby, I know it's hard to understand right now, but Mrs. Davenport and you just have different agendas."
"What's an agenda?"
"It's kind of like a purpose or a plan," Patrick answered. "Your teacher wants to prepare you for life. Show-and-tell is nice and gets you attention, but sometimes other things are more important."
"I didn't want attention for myself." Charlotte Anne sighed and studied the bedspread. When she looked up again, those brown eyes melted her father's heart. "Daddy, what's your agenda?"
"Well …" Patrick considered the question thoughtfully. "I talk to people who have questions and problems and … you know, in my own way, I try to help them. Sometimes … I believe that sometimes people know what to do, they know the answers, but they need little pushes in the right direction."
With that, Patrick reached for the storybook and opened its brightly colored pages. "Right now," he said, "my agenda is for the two of us to find out what happens to the beautiful princess in this story."
"I know the ending already."
"You do?" Patrick asked, frowning.
"Mommy read this one to me earlier."
"Ahh."
Charlotte Anne was like her mother in the sense that, when troubled, it took a while to verbalize the source of concern. In the hush of the bedroom, she finally spilled what was bothering her.
"Mrs. Davenport didn't want me talking about you, Daddy."
"That's not a big deal."
"I wanted to tell the class about how you were going to be on TV, and Judy Monroe raised her hand. She was mean and said that her daddy thought you were a crook." Charlotte Anne's eyes moistened with tears. "I tried to tell them that you were helping the police, and Judy said you were a fraud."
The little girl reached for her father and buried her face in his sports jacket. Her small body shook with sobs, and Patrick draped an arm around her and just held her until the shaking subsided. As he cradled her – protectively, fiercely – he felt weak at the prospect of shielding this innocent little person from the cruel world outside. He wanted to just sit here forever and breathe in that smell of strawberries and cream from her hair, the same scent that Angela had when she shampooed.
"Charlotte Anne," he whispered. "You don't need to worry about defending me."
"But you do help people, Daddy."
"It's just a little hard for some people to understand."
Patrick wondered again if being a parent would get easier. He doubted it. At the same time, it was, along with being a husband to Angela, the most fulfilling part of his life.
"The bad man," Charlotte Anne said.
Patrick stiffened. "What about him?"
"Mommy said you were going to help the police catch him."
"That's my plan."
"When you do," Charlotte Anne said, "I'm going to stand up and brag to my friends, whether Mrs. Davenport likes it or not."
"Thank you, baby, but I'd prefer not to talk about the bad man before bed. It might give me nightmares." He smiled to let her know he wasn't serious and then wiped a tear from the girl's cheek.
"Mommy said you were gonna be on TV tomorrow night. Can I watch?"
"It wouldn't be very interesting to you, baby." But advising on the Red John serial killer case would put Patrick in the spotlight, exactly where he wanted to be. There had been talk, idle speculation, of offering the psychic his own show.
"I'm old enough."
Patrick eased off the bed and knelt so that he was resting his elbows on the pillow. "What's on TV isn't important," he said. "I'll come home right after the interview and read you a story. A new one."
"Promise?"
"Of course," Patrick said.
"Thank you, Daddy."
He kissed Charlotte Anne's cheek, still wet from the tears, and stood over her for one last, long moment. "Remember," Patrick said.
She gazed up expectantly, and he recited what he always said to his daughter before she drifted away into slumber.
"You are safe, you are loved, and you are wise."
Charlotte Anne smiled and rested her golden head on the pillow so sleep could claim her.
Patrick turned off the light and stood in the door, watching. Satisfied that his little girl was going to be fine, he turned and drifted away, the cares of his day far behind him.
The scent of strawberries and cream lingered, and that was the way that Patrick Jane liked it.
The End