2 Aunt Kar's eyes were open, but she dreamed of many members of the Pus family pitching in. Dreams in vain of a family effort to move all the parlor furniture to the walls. Then baby Andrew clearly would be the center of attention on his baptism day. The dream was as peaceful as flower petals tumbling in breezes of her mother's angel wings. Kar had left home, home of respectful and God-fearing parents, and cleaved unto JoJo, Andrew's uncle. In her daydream, the entire Pus household and inveterate Sunday drop-ins surrounded the baby and eagerly bestowed smiles and gifts.
"Moo!" she whispered, carton of fresh white milk in hand. But Kar knew. No one would bring a gift. The furniture would stay where it was. "More than probable," she uttered, breaking off the dream. It would be life as usual until the last second, when one Pus or another--now Kar merely was envisioning--yelped, "Right!" A couple of them might pull back their legs and slouch
in a different direction. Then gingerly Kar could approach through the sprawl
of feet with a tray of comestible tributes for the baptism boy.
Kar knew this family. Granny Pus would say, "Well, look who's here!" and beam at the baby for ten seconds, as if Andrew wasn't already just a few feet away from her lumpy recliner, he watchful in his way, she, in degraded form, in hers.
To Kar, baby Andrew was a love. To the lumpy Pus grand-matriarch, nearly indistinguishable from her overstuffed chair in color and features, baby Andrew was a reminder of something basic, although she'd long forgotten what. He had remarkable warning eyes. He was vigilant, like a hawk. He was self-protective in a way that forced her to care, although that, too, was an inchoate feeling. She raised a stink if family didn't jump to it when she dropped her empty banana cake tins, lest the lingering aroma draw pests to her and Andrew's mutual sphere of influence, two precious yards of carpet between them where (x)Pus feared to tread, and other sentients died trying.