Ain’t Misbehaving

Except with the children, on Saturday mornings. Mitch paused in the open doorway of room 209. The room was a private one; Mitch had already tried to persuade Rhoda to move the boy into a two-bed room. Little ones needed company, not solitude, and this boy even more than most.

Peter was seven, a redhead with more freckles than face. His left leg was in a heavy cast. At a glance, Mitch could see the blotchy red around the youngster’s eyes, as if he had only recently finished crying. However, at the moment Peter’s cheeks were puckered, and he was clearly fighting laughter.

Mitch’s eyes shifted promptly to the source of that miracle. Both amusement and curiosity caused his lips to curve in a smile. Gazing at the woman’s back, he realized this must be the Kay that Rhoda had mentioned. She was evidently acting out a story for the little boy.

“Crrreeeak, went the door,” she whispered dramatically. “Little Archibald’s heart was beating so hard he couldn’t think. Slowly, slowly, he peeked around the corner, and right there, right there in the center of the room, was a monster. A big, fat yellow monster with three eyes, and all of those eyes were crying…”

Silently, Mitch eased his way to a corner from which he could see the woman’s reflection in the mirror over the bureau. Peter was captivated, his eyes huge with curiosity and expectation.

“He wanted a cookie,” Kay said sadly. “That’s all he’d ever wanted in his whole monster’s life-one little cookie.”

“Did Archie give him one?” Peter demanded impatiently. “If it had been me, I’d have given him one.”

“Archibald was terrified out of his wits. This was a terrible-looking monster, yellow and hairy and fat. And he looked mean.”

Mitch’s smile grew broader. Kay was trying to describe her monster graphically, by bloating her cheeks and hunching her shoulders and crossing her eyes. Peter giggled.

With a total lack of self-consciousness, Kay mussed up her hair until it was going every which way-evidently trying to reproduce her monster’s hairstyle. She lurched toward the bed, squinting out of one eye and trying to talk out of the side of her mouth. Peter giggled again. “You’re silly, Kay,” he told her.

“Hey. Would you kindly try to get into this?” Kay told him severely. “This is a very scary story.”

“I’m scared, I’m scared,” Peter assured her. “It’s just that I’m so much braver than Archie. What happened about the cookie?”

“Weeelll…”

Mitch couldn’t seem to stop watching her. Somewhere amid all those grossly contorted features was an unusual pair of sherry-brown eyes-big, deep-set and heavily lashed. Neither the bulky red sweater nor her ridiculously hunched shoulders could hide a distinctly feminine set of curves. His eyes lazily drifted from the small rainbow patch on the fanny of her jeans to her soft white throat to the arch of her delicate brows. Her hair was sort of brown, half honey and half coffee-colored, and he speculated that she must normally wear it simply curling to her shoulders. It was hard to tell, when at the moment, it was sticking out in a witch’s tangle.

But it was easy to see the luster of it, as it caught the dull day’s light from the windows. It was also easy to see that she must be a few years younger than he was, and that she was working her little tail off to entertain Peter. Warmth and compassion radiated from her like sun rays. So did a certain spice of humor, and a natural vibrancy that tugged at his curiosity. And if her face would just stand still long enough for him to be sure, he had a sneaky feeling that she had a very special brand of beauty.

Peter was clearly in love with her. “And they lived happily ever after,” he finished for her. “But I still don’t understand how the monster never got to eat a cookie before. His mom would have given him lots of them.” The little boy chewed on his lower lip. “My mom…” His smile abruptly faltered. “I want,” he said, very quietly, very firmly, “my mom.”

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Aching for him, Kay reached out her fingers to brush the wiry carrot-colored hair off his forehead.

“I want her now.” The blue eyes filled up. “They keep telling me she’s okay. She’s not okay. You don’t know my mom. She’d have been here if she knew something had happened to me. I want-”

“Oh, honey.” Kay leaned over and hugged him, her lips pressed to his temples. She wanted to pick up that little frail bundle and rock him so close he couldn’t cry. Damn. A seven-year-old could only understand so much… “She’s fine,” Kay soothed. “You’ve been so very brave-you think I didn’t notice?-and you’re going to see your mother in a few more days. I promise, Petie.”

“No,” he choked. “I’m sick of everybody saying that. Something’s happened to her…”

“Petie-”

“Sport?” The deep male voice startled Kay, and she jerked around. “If you really want to see her, we’ll manage it.”

“Mitch!” Peter cried. His two fists hurriedly rubbed the moisture from his eyes.

“You in the mood to take a ride this morning?”

“A ride?”

“Down to your mother’s room. We can’t go in, of course. But I can’t think of a reason in he-on earth why you couldn’t talk to her. If you want to.”

“I want to,” Peter breathed.

The stranger cocked his head in Kay’s direction as he moved forward. “So who’s your friend?” he asked Peter.

“Just Kay. Don’t you know Kay?”

“Now I do. Hello, just-Kay.”

Peter giggled. Kay found herself moving forward to accept a mock-formal handshake. “How do you do…?”

“Just Mitch.”

“How do you do, just-Mitch,” she said gravely.

“I’m pleased to meet you, just-Kay.”

“No, no,” Peter chortled. “You don’t say just-Kay-it’s just Kay.”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Mitch insisted.

“No!”

Like windmills, Kay’s hands were hurriedly trying to straighten her hair and tug down her sweater. Unobtrusively. While Peter continued to explain the vagaries of the English language to Mitch, Kay stole a studying glance at the stranger. He was about a zillion feet tall and lanky, all limbs and big hands. His broad shoulders were encased in a fisherman’s sweater, but beyond that he was rather lean. His old cords looked comfortable; his suede boots even more so. His movements were slow and sure, easy.

And he was very lazily, very nonchalantly, raising Peter’s bed to stretcher height. Kay’s eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute. Are you sure-”

“That I need your help? Very. Hold this for a minute, would you?”

Behind her back, she dropped the brush into her purse. So much for her hair. “Listen,” she started politely, but he was gone, out the doorway. Weakly, Kay offered her most reassuring smile to Peter.

“You don’t have to worry,” the boy told her. “Mitch can do anything.”

“I’m sure he can.” She wasn’t sure of any such thing.

“He can. Honest. And he gets real mad if you tell him you can’t do something. Never say can’t, he says. Just thought I’d warn you.”

“I get the picture.”

Mitch returned moments later with a gurney. Even in the ensuing confusion, Kay noted that he wheeled it around with the assurance of one who has had long experience in stealing hospital equipment. She tried to sneak in a polite “Are you out of your mind?” but she couldn’t seem to get the chance. He was talking nonstop to the child in that deliciously vibrating baritone.

Suddenly, Peter’s leg was elevated on pillows; the child was strapped onto the gurney and giggling to beat the band. For a man with such a lazy economy of movement, this Mitch accomplished a remarkable amount in a very short time, Kay mused. He didn’t give anyone a chance to think.

More puzzling yet was watching herself help him every step of the way. Still, she balked at the door, her hands determinedly perched on her hips. Kay was no stranger to a moment’s impulse, but the child’s welfare had to be their paramount consideration right now. Her lips parted to fire out at least seven of her ninety-seven concerns, but