Chapter 9
Dashiell’s fear of blindfolds lasted.
Of course.
One week later he found the silk blindfold in a drawer and froze.
I considered throwing it away.
Then stopped.
Not my decision alone.
“What do you want done with it?”
He stared.
“Trash.”
Easy.
He threw it away himself.
No preservation.
No symbolic burning.
Trash.
At his next birthday, someone suggested a piñata.
Blindfold.
I said no before thinking.
Dashiell looked at me.
“Why?”
I stopped.
His question.
His choice.
“Some people wear a blindfold for it.”
He frowned.
“Like Grandma?”
“Similar object. Different game.”
He considered.
“Don’t want.”
“Then no.”
Simple.
No need to prove recovery.
Winifred requested to see him after four months.
No.
Seven months.
No.
Nine months, Dashiell asked:
“Grandma still alive?”
Children.
“Yes.”
“Why no come?”
“Because she hurt you.”
He thought.
“Is she sorry?”
“She says yes.”
“Can ask?”
We arranged a short meeting.
I stayed.
Bodyguard nearby.
Winifred entered without jewelry except her wedding ring.
She stopped several feet away.
Dashiell asked immediately:
“Why slap wrong answer?”
Her face broke.
“Because I wanted you to stop remembering something.”
“What?”
“Your uncle’s voice.”
“Why?”
“Because I was scared.”
He frowned.
“That dumb.”
Yes.
Very.
She laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
Then Dashiell asked:
“Was Uncle there?”
Winifred looked at me.
I said nothing.
Truth.
“Yes.”
“Did he make Daddy die?”
“No.”
Good.
No ambiguity.
“Then why hide?”
Winifred could barely answer.
“Because adults sometimes think one truth will make people believe another.”
Dashiell stared.
Probably too complex.
Then:
“Don’t slap.”
“I won’t.”
Meeting finished.
No hug.
No absolution.
May you like
But one lie died cleanly.
Sometimes that is enough.
