Katie’s First Stomachache

       Katie woke up in a cold sweat, her stomach wrenched in knots of cramping pain. She sat up in bed, panicking:  what should she do?  Wake her mother up? If this pain continued, she would have to.  Still, Katie hesitated:  she had never, in all her living memory, woken her mother up at night. She had never gone to her mother’s room at night for any reason. There had been no need to; she never got sick, never had bad dreams, never had any trouble falling asleep. And she had certainly never had anything like this. Now she could sympathize with Brian who had told her all about the flu and how awful it was.  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded off to the toilet.

       Twenty uncomfortable minutes later, the cramping pain was still severe. What if she had accidentally eaten poison? That was what her mother said was in the food most people ate. She hadn’t even stopped to consider that there might be poison in the food she’d eaten today!  Katie hugged her stomach and groaned. She would have to wake up her mother; it couldn’t be helped. Surely her mother would never let her go to lunch at the Homeless Center again. Earlier in the day that would have bothered her a lot, but now she found that she hardly cared whether she ever ate again.

       Katie made her way across the hallway to her mother’s room. She so rarely ever went there that she hesitated now, not quite knowing what to do. She stood shivering a little in front of her mother’s door until a sudden spasm of pain made her quite desperate and she knocked. No answer. “Mother!” she called, her voice trembling. Still no answer. She gave a little whimper of pain and opened the door. The bed was not only empty, it had obviously not been slept in.  Finally, she padded downstairs, the floorboards cool under her feet. Her mother was not in the main room, not in the kitchen, not in the shed where they washed their vegetables. Katie unbolted the shed door and peered out into the garden, but she could not see her mother. Was she in the garden shed, or perhaps her workshop in the garden? If she was, it did not make sense, and she could see no candle burning in either window, at any rate. She went back inside the house and bolted the door behind her, her fingers fumbling as her bowels cramped in another spasm of pain. She needed the toilet again!

       Trembling, she began to climb the stairs again, when she suddenly heard a key turning in the lock, followed by the door creaking open quietly…she gasped and turned to see who it was.

       “Katie!” her mother called out. “What are you doing out of bed?”

       “Looking for you,” Katie replied, her voice trembling.  Her mother locked the door behind her and moved swiftly towards her.

       “What is wrong? Were you frightened?” She could not see her mother’s face clearly, but in the dark it looked a little disapproving and sinister.

       “No. I mean, yes, I was, a little. My stomach hurts… I went to find you, but you weren’t there.”

       “Just a moment while I light a candle,” she heard her mother mutter. Lighting a candle, she gazed intently into Katie’s eyes. Then she grunted and said one word:  “Indigestion.”

       “Is that poison?” asked Katie tremulously.

       “No, no. Or at least it is not a very strong kind of poison. Not a permanent one. Wait here a moment, and I will be back.”

       Her mother disappeared into the kitchen and Katie heard the door to the shed open. In a few minutes her mother was back, a tiny parcel of cheesecloth in one hand, a glass of something in the other.

       “This is bitter, but the unpleasant taste is well worth bearing. She opened the parcel and emptied the brownish powder inside into the glass.

       “Drink it down, child.”

       Katie drank. Her mother was right. It was as bitter as the awful tonics her mother had her drink from time to time in the winter.

       “Now, back to bed.”

       “Mother, did I really eat poison? You know, like you say sometimes…that the food other people eat has poison in it…?”

       “No, you did not. It is simply that your digestive system is used to our humble fare. Your belly was taken by surprise; that is all. And no doubt you ate more than you should have.”   Katie blushed. 

       “And even if you had eaten poison – food poisoning as they call it – you would not have been badly affected at all; we are protected. Now, to bed with you. Sleep will complement the tonic that I have given you; in the morning you will find it difficult to believe that your belly ever troubled you at all.”

       And it was true. Back in bed Katie could feel the spasms in her belly beginning grow weaker and weaker, until, as she began to drift into a deep and restful sleep, she could not feel them anymore at all.

Mrs Posey Gets Interested

       Several weeks passed before she saw Brian again. According to his mother, who stopped by after the second week, he had managed to catch yet another cold, and both of his ears had been affected this time. She’d been so busy at work that she had not been able to let Katie know. Katie’s mother gave her an evil-smelling oil in a wooden jar. “Just a drop of this in each ear every morning.”

       Two days later, Brian had made a full recovery and he and Katie were on their way to the library.

       “You can’t imagine the pain,” Brian told her. “It’s like tiny knives digging into you. And your ears don’t get better and yellow junk doesn’t start dripping out of them, they lance them. And sometimes they even put tubes in them. Know what that means?”

       Katie did not, and what was more, she did not want to know. But there was no stopping Brian.

       “They make holes in your eardrums!  Ad then they put these tiny tubes in them and the stuff drains into your throat.” He made a disgusted choking sound. “And that relieves the pressure and that horrible, throbbing pain goes away for a while. But knives and tubes in your ears, just imagine!” Katie shivered. She found that she now could imagine. Best not to think about it. She decided to change the subject, but could not find a more interesting topic.

       “But your ears are fine now, aren’t they? Did my mother’s medicine work?”

       “Nah, I don’t think so. I think my ears were ready to get better again anyway, and the medicine just made us think it was fixing my ears. And man, it sure did stink!”

       Katie didn’t want to bring up the subject of her indigestion and how effectively her mother’s medicine had cured it. It wouldn’t be polite to say that she had gotten the very first bellyache of her life after eating with them.

       It was a beautiful June morning. The library had very few people in it today; it must be that the wonderful, sunny weather was keeping them outside. Katie browsed through the children’s books, taking her time. When she had as many books as you were allowed to check out at one time, she went to join Brian and saw that a woman was talking to him, a woman who looked oddly familiar. Why? Then she remembered:  this was the woman who had taken away their trays at the Homeless Center. Brian looked miserable – trapped and put-upon. Katie quietly took her place across from Brian and the woman turned to look at her with lively interest.

       “Well, hello!” She passed her eyes over Katie, who was wearing her oldest and most raggedy tee-shirt and jeans. She had not even had time to brush off the dirt from the garden, much less change into something a little less ragged, and her hair was not as tidy as it should have been. The woman stared at her for a moment or two longer than was polite; Katie averted her eyes, ashamed of her appearance – and also a little ashamed for the woman who, as an adult, should know better than to stare at someone like that, no matter what they looked like. The woman smiled brightly and then leaned down and whispered a question into Brian’s ear. Brian turned red, and looked annoyed.

       “No. She has a home,” he said loudly. Much too loudly considering the fact that they were in a library.

       The woman laughed merrily, a little too loudly as well. Katie could sense that the librarians were beginning to pay attention to them.

       Katie studied the woman. She was tall, and wearing a white dress with a matching hat. Her shoes were cream-colored and looked as though they had never been acquainted with mud or dirt. She smelled strongly of the same strong flower-like odor that Katie had smelled at the luncheon.

       “So, you must be in the same class at school, then?” she asked in a noisy whisper.

       “No,” said Brian and Katie at once, then looked at each other and grinned.

       “Katie doesn’t go to school,” Brian explained.

       “Oh? Well, your mother is home-schooling you then, I suppose?”

       “No,” said Katie. “I know how to read and write, but my moth – my mom says I don’t need school.” And although she felt a little ashamed, she couldn’t quite keep this last sentence from sounding somewhat glum.

       “Oh, everyone needs school,” the woman whispered passionately. “School of some kind – whether it’s home-schooling or public or private…” And she gave them a conspiratorial look as she went on. “And I’m a great believer in our public schools, you know. At least the public schools in this town.  It’s a fine school. My son Steven goes there too – but of course, he’s in your class, isn’t he, Brian?” She smiled brightly, and Katie almost laughed at the disgusted look on Brian’s face.

       ”And while home-schooling is just fine for some, I’m sure –” she gestured vaguely – “For normal children, a proper, old-fashioned school with a teacher and lots of friends is the very best thing. Wouldn’t you like to go to school?"

       Katie had long since tuned the woman out, and was caught by surprise by this last question which she realized, with a start, had been addressed to her.

       “Wh – uh…yes,” she answered, feeling embarrassed.

       “Well, perhaps if you tell your mom that you’d like to go to school, she’ll let you.”

       “No,” said Katie, “my mother doesn’t think I need it. And I have to help her, too.”

       The woman looked aghast. “What, with your younger brothers and sisters and the housework?”

       “Oh, no, I don’t have any brothers or sisters. We work in the garden. I have to help my mother with our roots and mushrooms and things.

       The woman gave Katie an astonished look. “Roots and mushrooms…?”

       But just then one of the librarians appeared, and she was frowning. “If you must chat, can I ask you to please continue your conversation outside?”

       Katie was mortified. This was the first time they had ever been reprimanded by a librarian.

       “My fault entirely!” trilled the woman, leaning forward, and placing a hand over the librarian’s, who looked at her in some amazement.

       “Just having a chat with one of my son’s classmates –  I really do feel that adults don’t listen to children enough, you know. But we’ll continue this conversation another time, okay?” She smiled gaily at Katie and Brian.  “I was just on my way out, anyway.  ‘Bye!” And she flashed them a brilliant smile and gave Katie a conspiratorial wink.

       “Golly,” said the librarian when the woman had breezed out the door. “Sorry to have to yell at you kids – it wasn’t your voices that were carrying, you know.” Katie was reassured by this:  it would be awful to be asked to leave the library and never be allowed back! Brian had told her that was what happened sometimes to noisy people.

       On their way home from the library, Brian talked about Mrs Posey, and what a trial she was. “I see her all the time; she’s one of those people you can’t stand who always seems to be where you are, even weird places they don’t belong like the hardware store or the bike shop. And when she sees you she always makes a big deal of it like she’s trying to show people ‘Look, I know all these little kids, aren’t I something?’ And she always squats way down when she talks to you, like she’s saying, “gosh, I’ve got to get down low like this to be at your level, and she acts all serious and fascinated about whatever dumb thing you’re telling her, even if she’s just asked you ‘How are you?’ and all you’ve said is ‘Fine thank you.’”

       “Basically,” he continued, “adults are all pretty stupid about kids. Even the nice ones.”  Katie had to agree; although she’d had little contact with adults, this seemed to be true. “I guess, they’re so old, they just can’t remember what it feels like, and they – did you know? – I’ll bet you didn’t – they even have to go to special classes just to find out how to deal with kids?”  Katie burst out laughing.

       “It’s true! I swear to God; my mother told me. They write reports and stuff and get grades on how well they do and everything.”

       They walked along in silence for a while, both lost in thought over the stupidity and insensitivity of adults.

       “Mrs Posey’s in the P.T.A. and she and these other moms started this “Save our Schools” group – they call it ‘S.O.S.’ – and because of that group, do you know what?

       “What?”  It just had to be something really bad.

       “We have to do homework three nights a week now. All of those women were really upset because the teachers weren’t giving us enough homework.” His face was twisted with disgust.

       “Is homework -- ?”

       “It’s school stuff that you take home to do. Always boring, very easy to forget, and you get into trouble when you forget it. I hate homework.”

       School stuff, thought Katie longingly. It sounded so interesting.   

       “But you know, I love Bess,” said Brian suddenly. “She isn’t one of those stupid adults, is she? She’s cool.”

       Bess was the librarian who had saved them from Mrs Posey.

       “Bess is nice,” agreed Katie.

       Bess was nice. She was old and funny looking with a scrawny neck, wild white hair and wrinkly skin, and she wore long, full skirts, thick white socks and men’s black shoes. And even when she was standing still, she was moving her head just a little, in funny, shaky little nods that never seemed to stop. But when you talked to Bess, you never felt like you were talking to an adult. You felt as if you were talking to a normal person.