PROMISES AND GOOD INTENTIONS

by Monika

What have I gotten myself into? Father asked himself. How … Why!? But he knew exactly how it had happened. He sat among all his children, wishing he’d chosen something else.

Vincent had told him that every New Year’s Day he made a promise – a resolution – to do something new or to change some habit, and – so he couldn`t talk himself out of it – he set a time limit. Depending on the resolution, he gave himself 3 months to achieve his new goal: to learn a new language, for example, to chisel out a new chamber or – and this had been, at the time, the most difficult thing – to ask Catherine to a concert.

“I try to leave my comfort zone,” Vincent said. “It’s too easy to hide there.”

And Father thought he should leave his comfort zone too. Suddenly an idea occurred to him.

Not bad! he thought then …

Big mistake, he thought later. But how was I to know?

Let the people come to me with their good or crazy ideas, any dweller below, adult or child, he decided, chuckling nervously at the memory of the hydro-powered water wheel Mouse once attempted to build in the kitchen, and get my permission to begin a new, possibly unusual project, something they wouldn’t expect to receive my blessing for … He’d choose the least harebrained idea (which meant Mouse was out of the running before he even applied). He’d give the process three weeks and then choose a … winner.

Easy! He stroked his chin and nodded. He found himself quite pleased – he was a master resolution maker. Already he was out of his comfort zone, just imagining himself open to such a change of protocol.

But half the ideas brought before him were just too crazy. And the rest? A waterslide at the Falls, Mouse suggested. Ahhhh, no, Mouse. (THIS BOY!) Their suggestions were impossible, simply … impossible.

The three weeks passed, and it was the last day. Still, he had made no choice. He was a man of his word, but what was he to do? Was it his fault that nothing brought before him had made sense?

And then came Grace, only seven and much too earnest for her age, having suffered so much loss in her few years above. If one of the tunnel dwellers hadn’t found her, alone, wandering and cold, she’d have perished. “She’d have been just a name on a list,” Catherine had said, “if her name had even been known.”

Grace had looked up at him with her dark eyes. “Father, can I ask you something? And do you promise not to tell I asked?”

Astounded, he waited for her to go on. The child had heretofore kept her distance from adults – in particular, from him. “Of course, Grace. Whatever you ask will stay between us. Would you like a cup of tea or cocoa?”

She appeared tempted; her gaze drifted to the tea table … and back. “Perhaps later. Thank you, Father.”

He sat back in his chair and folded his hands, hoping her idea would be The One. He checked the calendar and clock on his desk. Really, her idea needed to be a good one. He took a breath, ready to stretch his … parameters.

“Father, is it true there’s a Valentine’s Day party for children over twelve and a separate party for grownups?”

He nodded.

“Couldn’t we also have a party for children over five?” A light came into her eyes and, for the first time, she pushed past her hesitancy around adults. “The children could all come with their teddy bears or frogs or whatever stuffed animal they like to cuddle. Vincent could come too – Jacob says he’s a good cuddler. And we could have tea or hot chocolate … and cake and fancy sandwiches on pretty plates. We could do it in the afternoon after the little ones’ naps.”

What came next sealed it – he would say only Yes, Grace, of course.

“And perhaps, Father,” she went on, looking up at him with all the trust she’d learned she could have, “you would go with me and tell one or two of your wonderful stories at the party. Everyone will be jealous that you and I have a real date!”

He should have called for Vincent and turned the entire project over to him. But … no. How could he refuse?

And so, on Valentines Day, he sat with over forty children and told at least five stories. Phil – a well-meaning child – came running to him with a bowl in his hands, crowing Something good for you, Father!, at the last minute stumbling so that soon he had ice cream on his trousers.

Next year, he determined, later that night, alone with a wash basin and laundry soap, a scrub brush and his best pair of pants, I’ll have Mouse watch the children. And have Jamie watch Mouse.”

But after all, it had been nice. And he had promised …