The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued

Page 299

Scuffy the Tugboat

In the soft hush of evening, a father sits on the edge of his son's small bed, the room dimly lit by the warm glow of a nightlight shaped like a lighthouse. The boy, no more than four, is tucked beneath a quilt patterned with boats and stars, his eyelids already heavy with sleep. In his father's hands is a well-worn copy of “Scuffy the Tugboat,” its corners softened by years of bedtime readings.

The father opens the book with a familiar creak of the spine, and his voice lowers into a gentle cadence. “Scuffy was sad. Scuffy was cross. Scuffy sniffed his blue smokestack.” The boy smiles faintly, mouthing the words he knows by heart. His father pauses to show the page; Scuffy, proud and red, floating in the bathtub, dreaming of bigger waters.

As the story unfolds, the father’s voice becomes the current, carrying his son down the brook, past the cows and the fields, through the towns and under bridges. The boy’s breathing slows, his fingers curled around the edge of his blanket, lulled by the rhythm of the tale and the security of his father’s presence.

When Scuffy is finally rescued from the wide, wild river and returned to the bathtub, the father closes the book with a quiet thump. He leans down, kisses his son’s forehead, and whispers,