"Let's think of some more sad things," I prompted. "Who can think of something even sadder?"

"My mommy went away," said Toby-Joy.

"I never had a mommy," said one of the little girls. "My mommy died," said another.

Good. Now, they were comparing sadnesses.

"My mommy said she'd come back to me. I'm just waiting for her here," said one little girl in an almost haughty tone. The way she said it, she was setting herself above the game: I'm not one of you. I'm just visiting.

Several disbelieving looks answered this declaration. These children weren't stupid. Everybody knew that if you were here it was because you didn't have anywhere else to go and nobody was coming back for you. That was even true for most of the adults. Popular rumor had it that Jack Balaban was wanted for murder in Ireland. Not true-it was something more like a hundred and forty-seven parking violations in Chicago-but the rumor was more fun than the truth.

There was abrupt silence in the room. All of the children were abruptly alone with their own griefs.

I said, "Okay, everybody think of something sad. If you can't think of something sad, make something up; but think of the saddest thing you can. Now, let's all think real hard about how sad we feel. Close your eyes if you want." Most of them buried their faces in their hands. We'd played lots of imagining games before: This one wasn't so different, just more intense.

"Gosh," I said. "I feel so sad. I feel so very very sad. I think I'm going to cry. Let's everybody cry because we feel sad. If you can't cry, it's all right to pretend. Just make it up. Just let yourself be sad. See how sad you can feel. It's all right to miss Mommy and Daddy and all your friends from school and your favorite teacher or your dog or your cat or your favorite doll or toy or TV show or Gramma and Grampa-anything. Just think of something you miss. Even your favorite food is fine. Now feel real sad about it. Oh, my goodness. I'm starting to cry. . . ."

I put my own face into my hands and made weeping noises. Around me, some of the children began to weep too, some of them pretend, some for real. One or two giggled while they pretended, some of them peeked out between their fingers; but when they saw that we were serious, they went back behind the safety of their hands. In a minute, most of them were crying softly to themselves.

Alec sat in my lap and looked up at me. I looked down at him. Very gently, I took his hands in mine and kissed them, then I placed them over his eyes and wrapped my arms around him. We made little weepy sounds together. His were almost imperceptible, but I could feel them in the cradle of my embrace and it made me feel warm. I couldn't remember Alec ever crying before.

"Everybody cry," I repeated as gently as I could. "Everybody think of the saddest thing you can and just let the tears come out. You're doing fine. Just cry until you're through crying. Just like me. Just like Little Ivy."

One or two of the girls were still giggling. They still thought this was all make-believe; they didn't realize how serious this was about to get.

After a while, the crying ended and Little Ivy began working her way around the room, wiping eyes and noses. We all looked at each other; the children had such solemn expressions on their laces, I had to smile. "Listen. It's all right to be sad," I reassured them. "It's part of missing things. It's all right to miss things and then when you're through missing them, it's all right to smile again. Okay, everybody hug everybody else now," I said. "Don't stop until you've given everybody in the room a big hug."

The children liked hugging games, and in a very few minutes, they were all giggling again. And then they all jumped on me in a big wet cluster-hug and we collapsed in a pile of laughter with me and Alec on the bottom.

After a bit, we continued.

The next part of the game was the scary part.

I had them resume their places on the floor and we began again. "When I was a little boy," I said. "We used to go out in the woods at night and tell the spookiest stories we knew to see how much we could scare ourselves. Who knows a scary story?" I looked around the room. Nobody raised a hand. "Oh, come on-am I going to have to tell the story about the leprechauns and the penguin?"

Little Ivy groaned. "No, no-" she said in mock horror. "Anything but that. Somebody think of a scary story."

"I know one," said a small voice. A little girl we called Crystal because she seemed so delicate and fragile.

"Do you want to tell it to us?" She hesitated.

"Well, when you're ready." I let her off the hook. "Little Ivy, do you know a scary story?"

Little Ivy nodded enthusiastically. "I once saw a great . . . big . . . purple . . . and red . . ." She held up her two fingers about ten inches apart, but her eyes were looking directly into mine. Her expression was impish.

"Ivy!" I started to say

". . . hippopotamus!" she finished, spreading her arms out widely, laughing at me.

"That's not scary," said Tommy. "Besides, there aren't any hippopotamuses any more. Now, if you'd seen a great big hairy red, purple furry catty-pillar, that woulda been scary."

"Have you ever seen one?" He nodded quickly. Somberly. "Was it scary?"

He nodded even quicker. As if he didn't even want to admit it. I lowered my voice and looked around the room. "Who else has seen big hairy red, purple furry catty-pillars?"

A few of them raised their hands. Some of them were probably lying or making it up, it didn't matter.

"Okay," I said, holding Alec firmly in my lap. "Let's make some noises to show how scary we think big hairy red, purple furry catty-pillars are. Now, wait-this isn't about making the loudest noise you can, just the scariest; fraidiest noises, okay? Make the noise you would make if you were really scared."

It was a chilling sound, the sound of fifty children moaning and screaming and weeping. Even pretend-moaning and weeping and screaming was eerie.

"Good," I said. I was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. But once started, we had to go through to the end. I couldn't leave these kids stuck in the middle of a scary place. The experience had to be completed. "Okay. Who has another scary story. "

"I'm scared of the dark," said Holly, a tiny voice beside me. I reached over and patted her hand. I was surprised by her presence. I had thought she was sitting next to Little Ivy.

"Who else is scared of the dark?" I asked. Almost all of the Iiands went up. I raised mine too. In my lap, Alec moved. He raised Bear's one paw.

"That's a good scary one. Okay, let's make some 'fraid of the dark noises."

This was a different quality of noise, but no less chilling. Little Ivy was losing her grin. She wasn't sure where I was going with this.

"I'm not scared of the dark," said Davey Holmes. He and Chris I linchley were sitting side by side. Chris looked a little pale and hc was holding Davey's hand tightly. "Uh-uh," said Chris. "It's the things that hide in the dark."

"Big hairy men with long dark hair and bushy beards," said Davey. "That's who hides in the dark. I don't like them. I don't want to grow up if it means being like that."

"Little round fat men with bright red faces," said Chris. "I don't like little round men who say nasty things."

"Big mean women who yell at you," said Toby-Joy. "That's who I'm scared of."

"I'm scared that my mommy won't come back," said a little round girl we called Hobbit.

"I'm scared that my mommy will," said Crystal. "I'm scared of my mommy."

The room was suddenly quiet. This was a new dimension in mrror and the children were clearly uncomfortable with it. As if she sensed this wasn't enough explanation, Crystal added, "My mommy tried to hurt me. She had a big knife, but I ran away and hid from her."