Free The Stand-In by Evelyn Piper

flashlight through the dark house, he felt weightless, as if he and not the flashlight was giving off light.
    Using his handkerchief, he took a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp which he stuck on the envelope. Then he picked up one of the ballpoint pens with Peepshow printed on it out of a bunch lying in a bowl. (Probably ink could be traced, too.) Ossian even had an electric razor there, and while Desmond used it, and then carefully cleaned it, he composed a note. He would ask the kid what she called her mommy and daddy. If she had some special name he’d use it; if not, he wouldn’t bother with a salutation. (He told himself that the shorter the better, but the truth was he wanted to be back with Ronnie. He wanted more of that head-nodding respect.)
    The kid still had her thumb in her mouth and her big eyes on the door. When he came in, she sat up asking if the party was now. Not now, he said. Now they were going to play a game. They were going to see if she really could write the alphabet.
    She began, “A,B,C,D,E—”
    â€œNo, sweetie, write it.” There was nothing for her to lean on, so he put her on the cold linoleum floor and placed the ballpoint in her hand. “Kitten, what do you call your mommy and daddy?” She was touching the printing on the pen. “Kitten, do you have a special name for your mommy and daddy?”
    She could only stare at the pen, because he took it away from her. “Do you call them Coral and Bran?”
    With her mouth hanging open, she shook her head. No modern first-name stuff in that family! He’d better begin the letter. First he had to get the pen into a writing position, because she held it funny. Her hand was very cold, so he rubbed it and she smiled at him. “Now write ‘I’.”
    She stuck out her lower lip, licked it, then the tip of her tongue came out and the “I” took so long that he shortened the letter to: I’m fine. Do like they say so I can see you .
    After each letter she gave a deep sigh and wanted to sit back and appreciate her art work, as if she was Picasso. Then she did the “K” for Kitten backwards and before he could stop her, scratched it out so hard she almost went through the paper. She tried again and did “K” backwards again, but this time he took the pen away. If she always did it that way, the backwards “K” was great for a signature.
    The address took even longer because the post office had to be able to read it. Halfway through the address she said she didn’t like this game, could she stop playing, but after one look at his face when he said no, she went on. She was a smart little cookie.
    Then he told her to get on the bed again and tucked in the cape so she knew he was going to leave her alone. She said, “Isn’t it the party yet?”
    â€œSoon.”
    She stuck her thumb back in her mouth. Desmond told himself to save his pity for kids who needed it. This one knew when to throw a fit and when not, just like her old man had known exactly how much he could get away with. After all, Bran had never gone so far that he, the lousy stand-in, the stunt boy, might have been given the part, and Kitten, he told himself, was a chip off the old block. Oh, she made big sad eyes and kept them on him, but she was a smart little cookie.
    He wrapped the envelope in his handkerchief. Although he had itched to guide the pen and hurry her, he hadn’t. Any fingerprints on the letter and envelope would be hers.
    The big master bedroom was a different kettle of fish from the servant’s room the kid was in. Here the wash-stand was mahogany and the basin was porcelain. There was no toilet in the bathroom; Ronnie’s ancestors used the chamber pot in its mahogany case. They didn’t have to empty it. (His ancestors probably emptied it.) It pleased him that Ronnie, who had always flopped down on Desmond’s bed with his shoes on whenever he visited, had