Jane let her hand fall away. “Now you try,” she repeated.
The presence of her father seemed to be the deciding factor in trying the new game. Dorie turned a look of intent concentration on her applesauce and carefully raised the spoon. As it neared her mouth she forgot to hold her wrist level, and the applesauce fell in a plop on her skirt. Immediately she turned her blank face to Mr. Rochart.
“Good try,” said her father. He reached down and wiped the blob from her dress. But to Jane he murmured, “I have seen her play the trained monkey before, when she wants something. But the minute your back is turned…”
“Baby steps,” said Jane firmly. She turned Dorie’s hand level again. The spoon still had applesauce clinging to it. “Try again.”
Dorie brought the spoon back, and after banging it into her chin, she slid it in. She sucked the applesauce off the end of it.
“Very good,” said Jane. “Much better. Let’s try it again.”
They got in two more bites, and then Dorie looked up at her father for praise.
He was no longer standing in the door. He had melted away. No doubt trying to avoid a parting scene, Jane thought in exasperation.
Which meant Jane was going to have to deal with the aftermath he shied away from.
Dorie’s face stayed blank, perfectly blank. Her hand opened and the spoon fell. Drops of applesauce spattered the clean floorboards.
“Oh no you don’t,” Jane muttered under her breath. She grabbed the spoon and put it back into Dorie’s hand. “Let’s continue to eat our applesauce,” she said. She attempted to close her charge’s fingers around the spoon handle, which was probably her first mistake.
Dorie glared, struggling to pull her palm out of Jane’s grip. She squirmed free and threw the spoon down. “Father!” she said.
“He’s gone!” said Jane, temper rising. “Let’s show him what a good job we can do.”
The bowl of applesauce rose off the floor and floated up to Dorie’s chin.
“No!” said Jane, and she pulled the bowl away. “No applesauce unless it’s with a spoon.” She wiped dust off the spoon and put it back into Dorie’s unwilling hand. Keeping her hand closed on Dorie’s, Jane maneuvered Dorie’s stiff arm toward the bowl. Carefully Jane scooped up one spoonful of applesauce with Dorie’s spoon and put it in Dorie’s mouth. “Good,” said Jane, letting go. “Now you try again.”
Dorie stared obstinately at the spoon in her hand. Then she threw it down, mentally yanked all the silverware off the tray, and set it whirling above Jane’s head in furious clanks.
“No!” Jane shouted. She pulled Dorie’s tray away, shoved it out into the hallway, and shut the door. She sat down beneath the whirling silverware and plucked it out of the air, one by one, until she had a fistful of spoons and forks. She kept her hand tight on the silverware and stared down at the little girl. Yanked the bowl of applesauce back in front of Dorie. “Try again.”
Dorie lifted the bowl of applesauce and dumped it on Jane’s head.
There was absolute silence in the room as Dorie stared blankly and stubbornly straight through Jane, and an angry Jane counted to thirty, willing her temper to calm.
I am not on fire, she told the hot orange rage that licked the mask around her cheek. I am cool water, putting out the fire. This little girl will not beat me.
Apple mush dripped around her ears.
At long length Jane rose slowly and went to her room. She changed her dress, ran a washcloth over her face and hair, drank a glass of water. Stared out the window for a while, considering her options.
When she returned, Dorie was standing at the window, looking into the forest.
“Dorie,” Jane said, then stopped.
The applesauce was neatly wiped off the floor and piled back in the stoneware bowl. All the silverware was tidily stacked next to it.
Dorie turned from the white-trimmed window. Jane could not tell if the blank expression was guilt or pretend innocence. She decided not to push it.
“Let’s listen to your gramophone,” she said.
*