Baldwin says a few things he regrets

Lord Baldwin pushed the door to his Papa’s study slightly open and peeked through the crack. His Papa was writing at his table, but he was alone.

“Papa, may I come play here?” he asked as loudly as he dared.

“What’s that?” His Papa looked up from the desk.

He opened the door wider and stepped inside. “Papa, may I come play here by you?” he asked again.

“If you’re quiet. Does your Mama know you’re here?”

“She said I might ask.”

“Hmm,” he grunted and looked back at his papers.

“May I bring my blocks?”

“If you’re quiet,” his Papa said without looking up.

“Thank you.”

He went out and plodded up the steps to his room and back down again with his sack of blocks. Baldwin never ran.

He sat himself before the fire where he could both warm his back and keep an eye on his Papa, and he began removing the blocks from the sack. Margaret or Emmie or Cynewulf would have simply dumped them on the floor in a great clatter, but not Baldwin. His Papa did not like loud noises, and neither did he. He took the blocks one by one and deposited them neatly on the floor, sorted by color. Most of the paint had been rubbed off of Cynewulf’s blocks, but not his. He was careful with his toys!

Once his blocks were arranged, he began to consider what he would like to build with them. His Papa was planning to build a new tower in the spring, so he decided he would build a tower. If his Papa had had the time to play with him, he would have asked for advice, but he would have to do the best he could alone. He thought he would start with the red blocks and work his way up.

When he had built as far as the yellow blocks, his Papa began muttering to himself as he wrote. Baldwin knew that meant he had forgotten that he was not alone. Baldwin stopped his building and looked up at him.

His Papa looked worried, as he always did when he thought he was alone. Sometimes he would put his head down on his desk or hold his head in his hands for a long time when he thought he was alone. Sometimes he would even cry. Baldwin hated that the most. Whenever he saw his Papa cry, he would feel a pain in his throat, like when he swallowed a big piece of meat without chewing it enough. But the pain was not in his throat, it was in his heart.

Today, however, his Papa was only writing, and Baldwin went back to his building after a while. The tower was proving difficult. His blocks were not all the same size, and some of them were thicker than the others, which was making them hard to stack. He hadn’t made it past the yellow blocks when the whole left side of the tower fell away, and the right side swayed but a moment before crashing down upon it.

“Damn!” Baldwin cried, and then clapped his hand over his mouth in dismay. He hadn’t meant that to happen!

It was Cynewulf who said that word all the time, and it only made Matilda laugh in glee, though his own Mama did not like it. He had learned that recently when he had let the word slip before Mama. How could such a word come out of one’s mouth all by itself, when it was always so hard to say anything at all whenever someone besides Mama and Ardith was in the room?

Baldwin lifted his eyes hesitantly to his Papa’s face, hoping desperately he hadn’t heard. But his Papa had heard, and was staring at him with wide eyes in an otherwise grim face.

Baldwin would have liked to have excused himself, but his hand was still tight over his mouth. Moreover, he did not know just how bad that word was, though his Mama had told him it was very bad. Perhaps his Papa would whip him now.

But after a moment’s surprise his Papa began to laugh instead. It was his good laugh, which closed his eyes and opened his mouth. “I had thought I was careful not to say such things around you two,” he said. “Your Mama will never forgive me for teaching you that word.”

Baldwin dropped his hand in relief. “You didn’t teach me. Cynewulf teached me.”

“What?” his Papa laughed. “The Old Man isn’t even three years old!”

“I know, but he says it. His Mama likes it.”

His Papa put down his pen and came over to sit before him. “I believe you. But I can promise you that your Mama won’t, so I hope you won’t say it before her, or before other ladies either.”

“Is Matilda a lady?”

“Indeed she is, but she didn’t have a Mama, so she never learned not to say such things.”

“Why didn’t she have a Mama?”

“Because her Mama died when she was a little baby.”

“But why didn’t her Papa get her a new Mama like you?”

“What?” His Papa had stopped smiling.

“When my old Mama died when I was a little baby.”

“Who told you about that?” his Papa whispered.

“My Mama did. My new Mama. Didn’t you?”

His Papa didn’t answer. He only leaned his elbow on his knee and hid his face in his hand.

Baldwin half-​heartedly put his hand back over his mouth, although once again it was far too late. He had not known it was a bad thing to talk about his old Mama. He knew that the damn-​word was bad, but he had not even known about this. And now he saw, to his horror, that he had made his Papa cry.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he whimpered.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I made you cry.”

“No, you didn’t, Baldwin.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand and then reached out to touch Baldwin’s cheek. Baldwin didn’t like to hear him speak with this crying voice. “It is simply that I didn’t know you knew. And you have… you have her very eyes,” he added in a whisper.

“I shan’t talk about her any more,” Baldwin promised.

“No—no—I hope we shall talk about her someday,” his Papa said. “When you’re older, and when I—when I—” His Papa reached out his strong arms and pulled him against him, pulled his head against his shoulder, and began to cry into his hair as he did sometimes when they two were alone.

Baldwin hated this more than anything. Whenever his Papa cried into his hair, he would feel a pain in his stomach like when he ate too many green plums. Only it wasn’t in his stomach, it was in his heart.