“Aubrey Geezenstack brought home her report card today, Papa. She got ninety in arithmetic and eighty in spelling and—”
And two days later, Sam was calling up the headmaster of the school. Calling from a pay station, of course, so nobody would hear him. “Mr. Bradley, I’d like to ask a question that I have a uh—rather peculiar, but important, reason for asking. Would it be possible for a student at your school to know in advance exactly what grades…”
No, not possible. The teachers themselves didn’t know, until they’d figured averages, and that hadn’t been done until the morning the report cards were made out, and sent home. Yes, yesterday morning, while the children had their play period.
“Sam,” Richard said, “you’re looking kind of seedy. Business worries? Look, things are going to get better from now on, and with your company, you got nothing to worry about anyway.”
“That isn’t it, Dick. It—I mean, there isn’t anything I’m worrying about. Not exactly. I mean—” And he’d had to wriggle out of the cross-examination by inventing a worry or two for Richard to talk him out of.
He thought about the Geezenstacks a lot. Too much. If only he’d been superstitious, or credulous, it might not have been so bad. But he wasn’t. That’s why each succeeding coincidence hit him a little harder than the last.
Edith and her brother noticed it, and talked about it when Sam wasn’t around.
“He has been acting queer lately, Dick. I’m—I’m really worried. He acts so— Do you think we could talk him into seeing a doctor or a—”
“A psychiatrist? Um, if we could. But I can’t see him doing it, Edith. Something’s eating him, and I’ve tried to pump him about it, but he won’t open up. Y’know—I think it’s got something to do with those damn’ dolls.”
“Dolls? You mean Aubrey’s dolls? The ones you gave her?”