artoons, really--she
had to fill in the story they illustrated. She told it while Richard
ate: how the intrepid Spaceman gallantly used his ray gun against the
villainous Martians to aid the green-haired Princess. Richard spooned up
the thrills with his mush, gazing fascinated at Cappy's colorful and
fantastic pictures, propped before him on the table. Had Ted been home,
the scene might almost have been blissful.

It might have been ... if their own tree hadn't reminded her of
Cappy's. Still, she'd almost managed to stuff her fear back into that
mental pigeon-hole before their own tree. It was unbelievable, but she'd
been glancing out the window every few minutes, so she saw it start.
Their own tree began to walk.

Down the hill it came--right there!--framed in the window behind
Richard's head, moving slowly but inexorably on a root system that
writhed along the surface. Like some ancient sculpture of Serpents
Supporting the Tree of Life. Except that it brought death ...

"Are you sick, Mommie?"

No, not sick. Just something the matter with her throat, preventing a
quick answer, leaving no way to keep Richard from turning to look out
the window.

"I think our tree is coming to play with me, Mommie."

No, no! Not Richard!

"Remember how you used to say that about Cappy? When he was really
coming to see your daddy?"

"But Daddy isn't home!"

"He'll get here, dear. Now eat your supper."

A lot to ask of an excited little boy. And the tree _was_ his friend, it
seemed. Cappy's tree had even followed the child's orders. Richard might
intercede--

No! Expose him to such danger? How could she think of it?

"Had enough to eat, dear? Wash your hands and face at the pump, and you
can stay out and play till Daddy gets home. I--I want----I may have to
see your friend, the tree, by myself ..."

"But you haven't finished my story!"

"I will when Daddy gets home. And if I'm not here, you tell Daddy to do
it."

"Where are you going, Mommie?"

"I might see Cappy, dear. Now go and wash, please!"

"Sure, Mommie. Don't cry."

Accept his kiss, even if it _is_ from a mouth rimmed with supper. And
don't rub it off till he's gone out, you damned fool. You frightened
fool. You shaking, sweating, terror-stricken fool.

Who's he going to kiss when you're not here?

The tree has stopped. Our little tree is having its supper. How nice.
Sucking sustenance direct from soil with aid of sun and air in true
plant fashion--but