Tad met a woman in the hall, a woman in homespun. She told Tad that her girls and boys were hungry and sick, because their father was in prison in Washington. Tad believed her; taking in every word she said he ran to me. I was at my desk; I had been hearing bad news of deserters; deserters present a grave problem; often there are complications that make judgment difficult.
Tad’s tear-streaked face shocked me, and, little by little, as he sat on my lap, as I cuddled him, we put together the woman’s story. He kissed me and clasped me around the neck and begged me to intercede. I promised I would.
Dashing into the hall, he knelt by the woman, and cried that she was to have her husband back, that her children were going to have something to eat.
“Papa promised,” I heard him say. “Papa promised.”
March 3rd
Many object to Tad, to his vivacity, his dashing into my office, throwing his arms around me, staying or dashing off. There are those who think I, in my office, my high office, should be above love. Some of those same people object to my rural humor.
I carry Tad to his bed. I tell him stories. I linger, linger until he falls asleep. Young as he is he knows that death is around the city. I ask his fate: shall he experience an early death, live to be old and wise, remembering some of these days in Washington, some of the war stories? A father can ask questions.
Make a noise, Tad, dash into my office tomorrow, jump on me, kiss me.