He got out of bed and scurried to his desk. Although the winter sunshine now filled his room, he switched on the lamp to throw a spotlight on his work. Last night’s drawings lay hidden under sheets of virgin white. The stub of a pencil weighed down the papers, and he stared at the blank surface, waiting for an image to appear, some transfer from his mind, and then with the pencil in hand, he carefully drew the first curved line, satisfied that he had at least, at last, started. Within those first few moments, he was free from all exterior distraction and possessed by the flow of lines against the page. A face appeared slowly out of nothing, not a real face, but facelike enough to stand for the thing itself, so that the image on the page became a substitute for the image that had been in his mind.
He had nearly completed his new picture when the others began to awaken. The alarm clock in his parents’ room disturbed him from his work, and his mother rose from her bed, the box springs creaking, and out slipped a mild curse as she stubbed a toe. She would be in soon to awaken him, after she had made a pit stop in the bathroom, so he had just enough time to put away his drawing, turn off the light, climb back into bed, and pretend to be asleep.
“Jack,” she called from above, and when he refused to answer, she spoke his name again, careful not to touch him. “Rise and shine. I can’t afford to be late today.”
With a long and deep moan, he rolled away from her entreaties, so she circled around to the other side and sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his eyes and offered himself to her, remembering yesterday morning he had struck her by accident and wanting to make peace. He pulled her hand to his face, and she caressed his cheek and then brushed his mussed hair with her fingers. “C’mon, Jack, you’ve got to help me out here. Wake up, wake up, buttercup. Time to get out of bed, sleepyhead. We need to get dressed and have some breakfast.” After a few moments of cajoling, she succeeded at last in raising him to a seated position. He pretended to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Mornings had become a game between the two of them. He would dawdle as long as possible whether actually tired or not, and she would coax as long as patience held out. “Lift your arms,” his mother said, and when he had surrendered, she tugged his pajama top over his head. The cold gave him the shivers and he yearned for his sweater.
From the direction of his desk came a rattle, and as they turned toward it, they saw the top drawer shake slightly in its slides as though something inside wanted to get out. Her fingers flew to her mouth to trap in her apprehension. They waited, still and quiet, until the scrabbling began again.
“You’ve got a little visitor, Jack.”
He hugged himself, his thin, bare arms as pale as his undershirt. “What is it?”
The drawer jerked lightly on its rails.
“Sounds like a big mouse.” She smiled and joked, “Or a small rat.”
Gathering the fabric into a circle, she guided the sweater over his head, and he smiled, as always, once he’d pushed his way through the opening. As he worked his way into the sleeves, Jack Peter asked, “Aren’t you going to see what’s in there?”
“Are you kidding? I have no intention of opening that drawer. Would scare me half to death, whatever’s in there. I’ll have your father take a look. That’s why I keep him around—to kill spiders and get rid of mice.”
“But don’t you want to know?”
“I do not. Now, do you think you can put on your pants by yourself and some socks and shoes and march down to breakfast?”
He nodded, so she kissed him on the forehead. She lingered a moment at the foot of the bed, regarding him with tenderness and a short smile, and then she was gone. Jack Peter gathered the blankets around his legs and listened to the next part of the morning routine.
Through his open doorway floated the familiar rhythm of his parents’ fleeting conversation. His mother roused his father from his slumber and readied herself for work. Reminders of the day’s schedule were exchanged, and this morning, words about a mouse in a drawer. She hurried downstairs, poured herself a mug of coffee for the trip to the office, and left, closing the front door with an emphatic click. Some days, after his mother had gone, a brief interval of silence returned to the house, a sure sign that his father had gone back to bed. No such luck today. Down the hall, the pipes rattled and the shower gushed. He had seven minutes before his father would arrive.
As he quickly dressed and straightened his sheets and blankets, he stole glances at the desk drawer to make sure it did not suddenly pop open and release its contents. He sat on the smoothed quilt and counted off the remaining minutes, tapping his left foot on the floor to keep time. At the seven-minute mark, he got up and went to the doorway, anxious for the schedule to be maintained. Even though he knew it was coming, when the door swung open, he was caught by surprise. Clad in a yellow robe bright as a canary, his father stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam that trailed him to the bedroom door. “Up and ready to get cracking? We have Dr. Wilson this morning.”
“I don’t want to go. I don’t like Dr. Wilson.”
“Look, I had to call and get them to squeeze you in this morning. I know you don’t want to go, but it’s mandatory, I’m afraid. No Dr. Wilson, no magic pills.”
“I don’t want to take the magic pills.”