“Bad dream?”
He shook his head, no.
“Then what’s the trouble?”
He looked at his father.
“Feared a-fraid of the dark?”
He nodded; he felt tears on his eyes.
“Nooooooooo,” his father said, pronouncing it like do. “You’re a big boy now. Big boys don’t get skeered of a little dark. Big boys don’t cry. Where’s the dark that skeered you? Is it over here?” With his head he indicated the darkest corner. The child nodded. He strode over, struck a match on the seat of his pants.
Nothing there.
“Nothing there that oughtn’t to be… Under here?” He indicated the bureau. The child nodded, and began to suck at his lower lip. He struck another match, and held it under the bureau, then under the washstand.
Nothing there. There either.
“Nothing there but an old piece a baby-soap. See?” He held the soap close where the child could smell it; it made him feel much younger. He nodded. “Any place else?”
The child turned and looked through the head of the crib; his father struck a match. “Why, there’s poor ole Jackie” he said. And sure enough, there he was, deep in the corner.
He blew dust from the cloth dog and offered it to the child. “You want Jackie?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t want poor little ole Jackie? So lonesome? Alayin back there in the corner all this time?”
He shook his head.
“Gettin too big for Jackie?”
He nodded, uncertain that his father would believe him.
“Then you’re gettin too big to cry.”
