Cassie Binegar by Patricia MacLachlan

Author:Patricia MacLachlan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

10

Questions and Answers

THE FIRST THING the writer did when he arrived was to put up a small bird feeder. He hung it from the porch hook and filled it with sunflower seeds. Cassie saw this from her perch up a small pine tree nearby. She had not meant to be up the tree when he arrived. It had just happened. And now there was no coming down until he left.

Cassie’s mother walked up the path and into the hidden yard where the small cottage stood.

“Is everything all right?” she called to him.

“Fine.” He turned and smiled at her. “First things first. I’m feeding the birds.”

“Come for dinner tonight,” said Cassie’s mother. “You can meet everyone. Then we’ll leave you on your own.”

Cassie’s mother went off again, humming to herself. When she had disappeared, the writer walked over to the tree and looked up.

“You can come down now, little bird.”

Cassie sighed and climbed down the tree.

“I didn’t mean it. This time,” she added, red-faced.

The writer smiled at her and held out his hand.

“I’m Jason.”

“I know. The writer. I’m Cassie.” Cassie took his hand. It was long fingered and cool. Now she loved his fingers, too.

“Ah, of course you know. I’d almost forgotten.”

“It was nice of you not to say anything,” said Cassie.

“You’re welcome,” said the writer. “You know, hiding is not always a good thing.”

“You sound like Margaret Mary,” said Cassie.

“And who’s Margaret Mary?”

“My friend,” explained Cassie. “She’s from England and she has plastic plants that her mother sprays with disinfectant and her favorite word is hair ball.”

The writer laughed for a long time. I suppose, Cassie thought, resigned, I will now love his teeth. And she did.

“Anyway,” said Cassie, “she thinks my hiding is not good. But I’m doing it because I want to be a writer, like you. And hiding is the best way to find out what you want to know.”

“Not so,” said the writer, sitting on the porch steps. “Being a part of it all is the best way.”

“But aren’t you hiding?” asked Cassie. She waved her arm. “Here?”

“I don’t think so,” said the writer. “No,” he said more positively, “I don’t think so at all.”

“Margaret Mary says asking questions is the best way to find out,” said Cassie.

“True,” said the writer.

“Well, sometimes I can’t ask questions. Not the right ones.”

The writer thought a moment.

“Well, then, since you are going to be a writer, do the next best thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Write the questions,” said the writer.

Write them.

“But who will write back?”

“I’ll bet the most important person will,” said the writer.

“Who’s that?”

“The person who knows the answers,” said the writer. He looked closely at Cassie. Finally, he got up and stretched.

“I’m going,” said Cassie, knowing that her time was up. “But before I go, could I ask you one very important and personal question?”

The writer paused, midstretch. “Starting right off? All right.” He finished the stretch. “What?”

Cassie wanted to ask if he was married, with a sharp-chinned wife and horrid children; if he loved the color blue; if he liked sunrises or sunsets.

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