23 February 2013
By Miscellaneous
‘…It’s actually quite…” the child paused, struggling for words. “Plausible!” ‘Is that so.” Loretta turned the page of her novella. After working for a tedious, sleepless 63 years in Child Care, or as a nanny, or, (she hated the informal term,) babysitter, she had a reliable system: The babies would be sat in a chair opposite her and be told to shush as Loretta read her romance novels. A movement from the child, and they would have a piercing gaze thrown upon them, pinning them to their seat. A single coo or moan would receive the same. But not with this one. “Plausible,” the girl repeated. “Plausible plausible plausible.” The sitting part was not an issue. The child could be mistaken for a statue if she chose to. If a statue talked constantly. But Loretta had learned to drone her out. If she concentrated on the words on her page, it would just be white noise in the background. But now, she just couldn’t keep her mind on her latest read, A Romantic Affair, Her mind kept straying to the fact that she was getting less and less clients than usual. In the beginning, most parents just wanted their kids to be home when they got back at night, they didn’t care whether their child was engaged or not during that period. Slowly, however, all of her babies grew up to graduates and left, or the parents realized the luxury of babysitters who actually communicated with their child. Soon, only a handful of people called Loretta when wanting to get away from their little ones. But Loretta, however fond of the greens slapped onto her palm after another day’s work, had tried to find excuse after excuse to not take care of her patron today, till she realized she had to look after her at one point or another. For the child was always the strange one. Not the type that would be whispered of when seen on the street, excited stories telling of her latest exploits that somehow seemed to be slightly less believable at each telling, but was believed none the less by gaping listeners. No, this child was the type that adults would say to one another, “An odd one, there,” and smile endearingly upon her, before switching to more worldly subjects, such as Mrs Johnson’s new toaster oven. Since the subject was dropped after the endearing looks, it was never really decided about what made her off. Perhaps it was her use of big words at an early age, four, or maybe her large, blue eyes that cared not for eyelids closing down upon them, and hiding a fraction of a scene she watched intently and with perfect stillness; still, but not silent. ‘I told you it was plausible!” the child squealed again, and Loretta would’ve taken no notice of it, except that the voice was coming from higher than a baby’s mouth should be, and she looked up from A Romantic Affair’s Paul and Wendy – and up and up and up, to see the girl levitated in the air. No, not levitated, for she was rising still, and all 43 pounds of her somehow crashed through the roof, and Loretta heard a faint, childlike giggle. She thought not of the child’s safety, nor did she think in more poetic terms, that the girl was going to places more suitable, far from the dreary town that confined her unfamiliar skills. Instead, the thought that flitted across Loretta’s mind was: would she still be paid?
It Was Actually Quite Plausible • Opuss № I