Cassie Binegar by Patricia MacLachlan Page A

something to Coralinda, and she bent forward eagerly, her hair loose, brushing her cheek. It was then that Cassie saw just what it was that was different about Coralinda. She looked at Margaret Mary and knew, by her look, that Margaret Mary had seen too. Looking more closely, Cassie saw what it was. Cousin Coralinda looked much less like a horse than usual tonight. Cassie wondered if the writer noticed.
    After dinner, everyone gone to bed, the writer gone home to his very own sheets and towels, Cassie walked quietly into the upstairs bathroom and turned on the light. There, on the sheet of paper, was something written that had not been there before. The writing was new, tall and straight. Cassie smiled. She knew who had written it. She came closer to read:
    Each of us has a space of his own. We carry it around as close as skin, as private as our dreams. What makes you think you don’t have your own, too?
    Cassie’s smiled faded. What did that mean? It was just like the writer to answer a question with another question, thought Cassie.
    â€œHe must have been a teacher once,” she announced right out loud in the bathroom. No quick answers after all, thought Cassie unhappily. And she turned off the light, leaving herself and the questions in the dark.

11
Cocoons
    C ASSIE PASSED BY the writer’s cottage often, sometimes with real errands, most times with imaginary ones. Some days she could see him at his typewriter by the window, punching away in a two-fingered assault. Other days he was pacing and speaking out loud, gesturing, to no one. But sometimes his listeners were real. Once, Cassie had peered in the window to a scene of littered papers, Baby Binnie in the middle with a pan and a wooden spoon, the writer reading something to Cousin Coralinda. Peering closer, Cassie could see Coralinda, leaning forward as she had at the family dinner, chin in hand, looking rapt—one of Cassie’s new words. There were few feathers to be seen, except on Coralinda’s shoes. But, looking at the writer, Cassie saw with a prickling sense of dread that he had a feather stuck behind his ear where a pencil might be. Should be. Cassie waited a long time, standing behind a tree, then sitting, until at long last the writer emerged, holding Baby Binnie easily in one arm, his other arm resting gently across Coralinda’s shoulders. They had walked along the path, passing whisper near to Cassie.
    â€œIt’s the character I’m worried about, Cor . . .”
    â€œBut there’s no need . . .” Cousin Coralinda’s voice came, soft.
    â€œAre you sure?” The writer’s voice, worried.
    â€œNamnit,” announced Baby Binnie, her hands buried in the writer’s hair.
    Ask me, Cassie cried out silently. Ask me. They had disappeared from view then, down the path to Cousin Coralinda’s cottage, and Cassie had sat and waited, as if still under the tablecloth. But no one came for her to listen to. Only a chickadee, fearless and friendly, working its way down a branch.
    Today, Cassie heard the writer mumbling to himself as he carried a brown paper bag of sunflower seeds for the feeder. Cassie waited behind a tree, watching as he emptied a few seeds into his hand. He stood, hand out, still as a rock, and waited for a chickadee to eat them. Cassie felt a small sound of wings next to her head, and she slowly raised her head to see the bird sit on a branch and watch. And then, there was the sound of the bird leaving the branch. The writer smiled as the chickadee sat for a moment on his hand, then, seed in his beak, he flew off above their heads.
    The writer saw Cassie, waiting by the tree, and he smiled and beckoned to her.
    â€œCome, join the chickadees in dinner.” He popped a sunflower seed in his mouth. “And me in tea?” He turned and walked up the front porch steps.
    â€œWhat are you doing out here?” asked Cassie. “You should be