ClassXII Should Wizard Hit Mommy? - Phonetic Script of the Text

In the evenings and for Saturday naps like today’s, Jack told his daughter Jo a story out of his head. This custom, begun when she was two, was itself now nearly two years old, and his head felt	ɪn ði ˈiːvnɪŋz ænd fɔː ˈsætədeɪ næps laɪk təˈdeɪz, ʤæk təʊldhɪz ˈdɔːtə ʤəʊ ə ˈstɔːri aʊt ɒv hɪz hɛd. ðɪs ˈkʌstəm, bɪˈgʌnwɛn ʃiː wɒz tuː, wɒz ɪtˈsɛlf naʊ ˈnɪəli tuː jɪəz əʊld, ænd hɪzhɛd fɛlt
empty. Each new story was a slight variation of a basic tale: a small Who is Jo? How creature, usually named Roger (Roger does she respond Fish, Roger Squirrel, Roger Chipmunk), had some problem and went with it to the wise old owl. The owl told him to go to the wizard, and the wizard performed a magic spell that solved the problem, demanding in payment a number of pennies greater than the number that Roger Creature had, but in the same breath directing the animal to a place where the extra pennies could be found. Then Roger was so happy he played many games with other creatures, and went home to his mother just in time to hear the train whistle that brought his daddy home from Boston. Jack described their supper, and the story was over. Working his way through this scheme was especially fatiguing on Saturday, because Jo never fell asleep in naps any more, and knowing this made the rite seem futile.	ˈɛmpti. iːʧ njuː ˈstɔːri wɒz ə slaɪt ˌveərɪˈeɪʃən ɒv ə ˈbeɪsɪkteɪl: ə smɔːl huː ɪz ʤəʊ? haʊ ˈkriːʧə, ˈjuːʒʊəli neɪmdˈrəʊʤə (ˈrəʊʤə dʌz ʃiː rɪsˈpɒnd fɪʃ, ˈrəʊʤə ˈskwɪrəl, ˈrəʊʤəˈʧɪpmʌŋk), hæd sʌm ˈprɒbləm ænd wɛnt wɪð ɪt tuː ðə waɪzəʊld aʊl. ði aʊl təʊld hɪm tuː gəʊ tuː ðə ˈwɪzəd, ænd ðəˈwɪzəd pəˈfɔːmd ə ˈmæʤɪk spɛl ðæt sɒlvd ðəˈprɒbləm, dɪˈmɑːndɪŋ ɪn ˈpeɪmənt ə ˈnʌmbər ɒv ˈpɛnɪz ˈgreɪtəðæn ðə ˈnʌmbə ðæt ˈrəʊʤə ˈkriːʧə hæd, bʌt ɪn ðə seɪm brɛθdɪˈrɛktɪŋ ði ˈænɪməl tuː ə pleɪs weə ði ˈɛkstrə ˈpɛnɪz kʊd biːfaʊnd. ðɛn ˈrəʊʤə wɒz səʊ ˈhæpi hiː pleɪd ˈmɛni geɪmz wɪðˈʌðə ˈkriːʧəz, ænd wɛnt həʊm tuː hɪz ˈmʌðə ʤʌst ɪn taɪm tuːhɪə ðə treɪn ˈwɪsl ðæt brɔːt hɪz ˈdædi həʊm frɒmˈbɒstən. ʤæk dɪsˈkraɪbd ðeə ˈsʌpə, ænd ðə ˈstɔːri wɒzˈəʊvə. ˈwɜːkɪŋ hɪz weɪ θruː ðɪs skiːm wɒz ɪsˈpɛʃəli fəˈtiːgɪŋɒn ˈsætədeɪ, bɪˈkɒz ʤəʊ ˈnɛvə fɛl əˈsliːp ɪn næps ˈɛnimɔː, ænd ˈnəʊɪŋ ðɪs meɪd ðə raɪt siːm ˈfjuːtaɪl.
The little girl (not so little any more; the bumps her feet made under the covers were halfway down the bed, their big double bed that they let her be in for naps and when she was sick) had at last arranged herself, and from the way her fat face deep in the pillow shone in the sunlight sifting through the drawn shades, it did not seem fantastic that some magic would occur, and she would take her nap like an infant of two. Her brother, Bobby, was two, and already asleep with his bottle. Jack asked, “Who shall the story be about today?”	ðə ˈlɪtl gɜːl (nɒt səʊ ˈlɪtl ˈɛni mɔː; ðə bʌmps hɜː fiːt meɪd ˈʌndəðə ˈkʌvəz wɜː ˌhɑːfˈweɪ daʊn ðə bɛd, ðeə bɪg ˈdʌbl bɛd ðætðeɪ lɛt hɜː biː ɪn fɔː næps ænd wɛn ʃiː wɒz sɪk) hæd æt lɑːstəˈreɪnʤd hɜːˈsɛlf, ænd frɒm ðə weɪ hɜː fæt feɪs diːp ɪn ðəˈpɪləʊ ʃɒn ɪn ðə ˈsʌnlaɪt ˈsɪftɪŋ θruː ðə drɔːn ʃeɪdz, ɪt dɪd nɒtsiːm fænˈtæstɪk ðæt sʌm ˈmæʤɪk wʊd əˈkɜː, ænd ʃiː wʊdteɪk hɜː næp laɪk ən ˈɪnfənt ɒv tuː. hɜː ˈbrʌðə, ˈbɒbi, wɒztuː, ænd ɔːlˈrɛdi əˈsliːp wɪð hɪz ˈbɒtl. ʤæk ɑːskt, “huː ʃæl ðəˈstɔːri biː əˈbaʊt təˈdeɪ?”
“Roger...” Jo squeezed her eyes shut and smiled to be thinking she was thinking. Her eyes opened, her mother’s blue. “Skunk,” she said firmly.	“ˈrəʊʤə...” ʤəʊ skwiːzd hɜːr aɪz ʃʌt ænd smaɪld tuː biːˈθɪŋkɪŋ ʃiː wɒz ˈθɪŋkɪŋ. hɜːr aɪz ˈəʊpənd, hɜː ˈmʌðəz bluː. “skʌŋk,” ʃiː sɛd ˈfɜːmli.
A new animal; they must talk about skunks at nursery school. Having a fresh hero momentarily stirred Jack to creative enthusiasm. “All right,” he said. “Once upon a time, in the deep dark woods, there was a tiny little creature by the name of Roger Skunk. And he smelled very bad.”	ə njuː ˈænɪməl; ðeɪ mʌst tɔːk əˈbaʊt skʌŋks æt ˈnɜːsəriskuːl. ˈhævɪŋ ə frɛʃ ˈhɪərəʊ ˈməʊməntərɪli stɜːd ʤæk tuːkri(ː)ˈeɪtɪv ɪnˈθjuːzɪæzm. “ɔːl raɪt,” hiː sɛd. “wʌns əˈpɒn ətaɪm, ɪn ðə diːp dɑːk wʊdz, ðeə wɒz ə ˈtaɪni ˈlɪtl ˈkriːʧə baɪðə neɪm ɒv ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk. ænd hiː smɛld ˈvɛri bæd.”
“Yes,” Jo said.	“jɛs,” ʤəʊ sɛd.
“He smelled so bad that none of the other little woodland creatures would play with him.” Jo looked at him solemnly; she hadn’t foreseen this. “Whenever he would go out to play,” Jack continued with zest, remembering certain humiliations of his own childhood, “all of the other tiny animals would cry, “Uh-oh, here comes Roger Stinky Skunk,” and they would run away, and Roger Skunk would stand there all alone, and two little round tears would fall from his eyes.” The corners of Jo’s mouth drooped down and her lower lip bent forward as he traced with a forefinger along the side of her nose the course of one of Roger Skunk’s tears.	“hiː smɛld səʊ bæd ðæt nʌn ɒv ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈwʊdlənd ˈkriːʧəzwʊd pleɪ wɪð hɪm.” ʤəʊ lʊkt æt hɪm ˈsɒləmli; ʃiː ˈhædntfɔːˈsiːn ðɪs. “wɛnˈɛvə hiː wʊd gəʊ aʊt tuː pleɪ,” ʤækkənˈtɪnju(ː)d wɪð zɛst, rɪˈmɛmbərɪŋ ˈsɜːtn hju(ː)ˌmɪlɪˈeɪʃənz ɒvhɪz əʊn ˈʧaɪldhʊd, “ɔːl ɒv ði ˈʌðə ˈtaɪni ˈænɪməlz wʊd kraɪ, “ʌ-əʊ, hɪə kʌmz ˈrəʊʤə Stinky skʌŋk,” ænd ðeɪ wʊd rʌnəˈweɪ, ænd ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk wʊd stænd ðeər ɔːl əˈləʊn, ænd tuːˈlɪtl raʊnd teəz wʊd fɔːl frɒm hɪz aɪz.” ðə ˈkɔːnəz ɒv ʤəʊzmaʊθ druːpt daʊn ænd hɜː ˈləʊə lɪp bɛnt ˈfɔːwəd æz hiːtreɪst wɪð ə ˈfɔːˌfɪŋgər əˈlɒŋ ðə saɪd ɒv hɜː nəʊz ðə kɔːs ɒvwʌn ɒv ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋks teəz.
“Won’t he see the owl?” she asked in a high and faintly roughened voice.	“wəʊnt hiː siː ði aʊl?” ʃiː ɑːskt ɪn ə haɪ ænd ˈfeɪntli ˈrʌfndvɔɪs.
Sitting on the bed beside her, Jack felt the covers tug as her legs switched tensely. He was pleased with this moment — he was telling her something true, something she must know — and had no wish to hurry on. But downstairs a chair scraped, and he realised he must get down to help Clare paint the living-room woodwork.	ˈsɪtɪŋ ɒn ðə bɛd bɪˈsaɪd hɜː, ʤæk fɛlt ðə ˈkʌvəz tʌg æz hɜːlɛgz swɪʧt ˈtɛnsli. hiː wɒz pliːzd wɪð ðɪs ˈməʊmənt — hiː wɒzˈtɛlɪŋ hɜː ˈsʌmθɪŋ truː, ˈsʌmθɪŋ ʃiː mʌst nəʊ — ænd hæd nəʊwɪʃ tuː ˈhʌri ɒn. bʌt ˌdaʊnˈsteəz ə ʧeə skreɪpt, ænd hiːˈrɪəlaɪzd hiː mʌst gɛt daʊn tuː hɛlp kleə peɪnt ðə ˈlɪvɪŋ-ruːmˈwʊdwɜːk.
“Well, he walked along very sadly and came to a very big tree, and in the tiptop of the tree was an enormous wise old owl.”	“wɛl, hiː wɔːkt əˈlɒŋ ˈvɛri ˈsædli ænd keɪm tuː ə ˈvɛri bɪgtriː, ænd ɪn ðə ˈtɪpˈtɒp ɒv ðə triː wɒz ən ɪˈnɔːməs waɪz əʊldaʊl.”
“Good.”	“gʊd.”
“Mr Owl,” Roger Skunk said, “all the other little animals run away from me because I smell so bad.” “So you do,” the owl said. “Very, very bad.” “What can I do?” Roger Skunk said, and he cried very hard.	“Mr aʊl,” ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk sɛd, “ɔːl ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz rʌnəˈweɪ frɒm miː bɪˈkɒz aɪ smɛl səʊ bæd.” “səʊ juː duː,” ði aʊlsɛd. “ˈvɛri, ˈvɛri bæd.” “wɒt kæn aɪ duː?” ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋksɛd, ænd hiː kraɪd ˈvɛri hɑːd.
“The wizard, the wizard,” Jo shouted, and sat right up, and a Little Golden Book spilled from the bed.	“ðə ˈwɪzəd, ðə ˈwɪzəd,” ʤəʊ ˈʃaʊtɪd, ænd sæt raɪt ʌp, ændə ˈlɪtl ˈgəʊldən bʊk spɪld frɒm ðə bɛd.
“Now, Jo. Daddy’s telling the story. Do you want to tell Daddy the story?”	“naʊ, ʤəʊ. ˈdædiz ˈtɛlɪŋ ðə ˈstɔːri. duː juː wɒnt tuː tɛl ˈdædiðə ˈstɔːri?”
“No. You me.”	“nəʊ. juː miː.”
“Then lie down and be sleepy.”	“ðɛn laɪ daʊn ænd biː ˈsliːpi.”
Her head relapsed onto the pillow and she said, “Out	hɜː hɛd rɪˈlæpst ˈɒntʊ ðə ˈpɪləʊ ænd ʃiː sɛd, “aʊt
of your head.”	ɒv jɔː hɛd.”
“Well. The owl thought and thought. At last he said,	“wɛl. ði aʊl θɔːt ænd θɔːt. æt lɑːst hiː sɛd,
“Why don’t you go see the wizard?” “Daddy?”	“waɪ dəʊnt juː gəʊ siː ðə ˈwɪzəd?” “ˈdædi?”
“What?”	“wɒt?”
“Are magic spells real?” This was a new phase, just this last month, a reality phase. When he told her spiders eat bugs, she turned to her mother and asked, “Do they really?” and when Clare told her God was in the sky and	“ɑː ˈmæʤɪk spɛlz rɪəl?” ðɪs wɒz ə njuː feɪz, ʤʌst ðɪs lɑːstmʌnθ, ə ri(ː)ˈælɪti feɪz. wɛn hiː təʊld hɜː ˈspaɪdəz iːt bʌgz, ʃiːtɜːnd tuː hɜː ˈmʌðər ænd ɑːskt, “duː ðeɪ ˈrɪəli?” ænd wɛnkleə təʊld hɜː gɒd wɒz ɪn ðə skaɪ ænd
all around them, she turned with a sly yet eager smile, “Is “They’re real in stories,”	ɔːl əˈraʊnd ðɛm, ʃiː tɜːnd wɪð ə slaɪ jɛt ˈiːgə smaɪl, “ɪz “ðeərɪəl ɪn ˈstɔːriz,”
had made him miss a beat in “Go through the dark woods, the swamp, over the crick —”	hæd meɪd hɪm mɪs ə biːt ɪn “gəʊ θruː ðə dɑːk wʊdz, ðəswɒmp, ˈəʊvə ðə krɪk —”
“What’s a crick?”	“wɒts ə krɪk?”
A little river. “Over the crick, and there will be the wizard’s house.” And that’s the way Roger Skunk went, and pretty soon he came to a little white house, and he rapped on the door.” Jack rapped on the window sill, and under the covers Jo’s tall figure clenched in an infantile thrill. “And then a tiny little old man came out, with a long white beard and a pointed blue hat, and said, “Eh? Whatzis? Whatcher want? You smell awful.” The wizard’s voice was one of Jack’s own favourite effects; he did it by scrunching up his face and somehow whining through his eyes, which felt for the interval rheumy. He felt being an old man suited him.	ə ˈlɪtl ˈrɪvə. “ˈəʊvə ðə krɪk, ænd ðeə wɪl biː ðə ˈwɪzədzhaʊs.” ænd ðæts ðə weɪ ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk wɛnt, ænd ˈprɪti suːnhiː keɪm tuː ə ˈlɪtl waɪt haʊs, ænd hiː ræpt ɒn ðə dɔː.” ʤækræpt ɒn ðə ˈwɪndəʊ sɪl, ænd ˈʌndə ðə ˈkʌvəz ʤəʊz tɔːl ˈfɪgəklɛnʧt ɪn ən ˈɪnfəntaɪl θrɪl. “ænd ðɛn ə ˈtaɪni ˈlɪtl əʊld mænkeɪm aʊt, wɪð ə lɒŋ waɪt bɪəd ænd ə ˈpɔɪntɪd bluː hæt, ændsɛd, “eɪ? Whatzis? Whatcher wɒnt? juː smɛl ˈɔːfʊl.” ðəˈwɪzədz vɔɪs wɒz wʌn ɒv ʤæks əʊn ˈfeɪvərɪt ɪˈfɛkts; hiː dɪdɪt baɪ ˈskrʌnʧɪŋ ʌp hɪz feɪs ænd ˈsʌmhaʊ ˈwaɪnɪŋ θruː hɪzaɪz, wɪʧ fɛlt fɔː ði ˈɪntəvəl rheumy. hiː fɛlt ˈbiːɪŋ ən əʊld mænˈsjuːtɪd hɪm.
“I know it,” Roger Skunk said, “and all the little animals run away from me. The enormous wise owl said you could help me.”	“aɪ nəʊ ɪt,” ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk sɛd, “ænd ɔːl ðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz rʌnəˈweɪ frɒm miː. ði ɪˈnɔːməs waɪz aʊl sɛd juː kʊd hɛlp miː.”
“Eh? Well, maybe. Come on in. Don’t get too close.” Now, inside, Jo, there were all these magic things, all jumbled together	“eɪ? wɛl, ˈmeɪbiː. kʌm ɒn ɪn. dəʊnt gɛt tuːkləʊs.” naʊ, ɪnˈsaɪd, ʤəʊ, ðeə wɜːr ɔːl ðiːz ˈmæʤɪk θɪŋz, ɔːlˈʤʌmbld təˈgɛðə
in a big dusty heap, because the wizard	ɪn ə bɪg ˈdʌsti hiːp, bɪˈkɒz ðə ˈwɪzəd
did not have any cleaning lady.”	dɪd nɒt hæv ˈɛni ˈkliːnɪŋ ˈleɪdi.”
“Why?”	“waɪ?”
“Why? Because he was a wizard, and a very old man.”	“waɪ? bɪˈkɒz hiː wɒz ə ˈwɪzəd, ænd ə ˈvɛri əʊld mæn.”
“Will he die?”	“wɪl hiː daɪ?”
“No. Wizards don’t die. Well, he rummaged around and found an old stick called a magic wand and asked Roger Skunk what he wanted to smell like. Roger thought and thought and said, “Roses.”	“nəʊ. ˈwɪzədz dəʊnt daɪ. wɛl, hiː ˈrʌmɪʤd əˈraʊnd ændfaʊnd ən əʊld stɪk kɔːld ə ˈmæʤɪk wɒnd ænd ɑːskt ˈrəʊʤəskʌŋk wɒt hiː ˈwɒntɪd tuː smɛl laɪk. ˈrəʊʤə θɔːt ænd θɔːtænd sɛd, “ˈrəʊzɪz.”
“Yes. Good,” Jo said smugly.	“jɛs. gʊd,” ʤəʊ sɛd ˈsmʌgli.
Jack fixed her with a trance like gaze and chanted in the wizard’s elderly irritable voice:	ʤæk fɪkst hɜː wɪð ə trɑːns laɪk geɪz ænd ˈʧɑːntɪd ɪn ðəˈwɪzədz ˈɛldəli ˈɪrɪtəbl vɔɪs:
“Abracadabry, hocus-poo, Roger Skunk, how do you do, Roses, boses, pull an ear, Roger Skunk, you never fear:	“Abracadabry, ˈhəʊkəs-puː, ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk, haʊ duː juːduː, ˈrəʊzɪz, boses, pʊl ən ɪə, ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk, juː ˈnɛvə fɪə:
Bingo!”	ˈbɪŋgəʊ!”
He paused as a rapt expression widened out from his daughter’s nostrils, forcing her eyebrows up and her lower lip down in a wide noiseless grin, an expression in which Jack was startled to recognise his wife feigning pleasure at cocktail parties. “And all of a sudden,” he whispered, “the whole inside of the wizard’s house was full of the smell of — roses! ‘Roses!’ Roger Fish cried. And the wizard said, very cranky, “That’ll be seven pennies.”	hiː pɔːzd æz ə ræpt ɪksˈprɛʃən ˈwaɪdnd aʊt frɒm hɪz ˈdɔːtəzˈnɒstrɪlz, ˈfɔːsɪŋ hɜːr ˈaɪbraʊz ʌp ænd hɜː ˈləʊə lɪp daʊn ɪn əwaɪd ˈnɔɪzlɪs grɪn, ən ɪksˈprɛʃən ɪn wɪʧ ʤæk wɒz ˈstɑːtld tuːˈrɛkəgnaɪz hɪz waɪf ˈfeɪnɪŋ ˈplɛʒər æt ˈkɒkteɪl ˈpɑːtiz. “ændɔːl ɒv ə ˈsʌdn,” hiː ˈwɪspəd, “ðə həʊl ɪnˈsaɪd ɒv ðə ˈwɪzədzhaʊs wɒz fʊl ɒv ðə smɛl ɒv — ˈrəʊzɪz! ˈrəʊzɪz!’ ˈrəʊʤə fɪʃkraɪd. ænd ðə ˈwɪzəd sɛd, ˈvɛri ˈkræŋki, “ˈðætl biː ˈsɛvnˈpɛnɪz.”
“Daddy.”	“ˈdædi.”
“What?”	“wɒt?”
“Roger Skunk. You said Roger Fish.”	“ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk. juː sɛd ˈrəʊʤə fɪʃ.”
“Yes. Skunk.”	“jɛs. skʌŋk.”
“You said Roger Fish. Wasn’t that silly?”	“juː sɛd ˈrəʊʤə fɪʃ. wɒznt ðæt ˈsɪli?”
“Very silly of your stupid old daddy. Where was I? Well,	“ˈvɛri ˈsɪli ɒv jɔː ˈstjuːpɪd əʊld ˈdædi. weə wɒz aɪ? wɛl,
you know about the pennies.” “Say it.”	juː nəʊ əˈbaʊt ðə ˈpɛnɪz.” “seɪ ɪt.”
“O.K. Roger Skunk said, ‘But all I have is four pennies,’ and he began to cry.” Jo made the crying face again, but this time without a trace of sincerity. This annoyed Jack. Downstairs some more furniture rumbled. Clare shouldn’t move heavy things; she was six months pregnant. It would be their third.	“əʊ.keɪ. ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk sɛd, bʌt ɔːl aɪ hæv ɪz fɔː ˈpɛnɪz,’ ændhiː bɪˈgæn tuː kraɪ.” ʤəʊ meɪd ðə ˈkraɪɪŋ feɪs əˈgɛn, bʌt ðɪstaɪm wɪˈðaʊt ə treɪs ɒv sɪnˈsɛrɪti. ðɪs əˈnɔɪdʤæk. ˌdaʊnˈsteəz sʌm mɔː ˈfɜːnɪʧə ˈrʌmbld. kleə ʃʊdnt muːvˈhɛvi θɪŋz; ʃiː wɒz sɪks mʌnθs ˈprɛgnənt. ɪt wʊd biː ðeə θɜːd.
“So the wizard said, ‘Oh, very well. Go to the end of the lane and turn around three times and look down the magic well and there you will find three pennies. Hurry up.’ So Roger Skunk went to the end of the lane and turned around three times and there in the magic well were three pennies! So he took them back to the wizard and was very happy and ran out into the woods and all the other little animals gathered around him because he smelled so good. And they played tag, baseball, football, basketball, lacrosse, hockey, soccer, and pick-up-sticks.”	“səʊ ðə ˈwɪzəd sɛd, əʊ, ˈvɛri wɛl. gəʊ tuː ði ɛnd ɒv ðə leɪnænd tɜːn əˈraʊnd θriː taɪmz ænd lʊk daʊn ðə ˈmæʤɪk wɛlænd ðeə juː wɪl faɪnd θriː ˈpɛnɪz. ˈhʌri ʌp.’ səʊ ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋkwɛnt tuː ði ɛnd ɒv ðə leɪn ænd tɜːnd əˈraʊnd θriː taɪmz ændðeər ɪn ðə ˈmæʤɪk wɛl wɜː θriː ˈpɛnɪz! səʊ hiː tʊk ðɛm bæktuː ðə ˈwɪzəd ænd wɒz ˈvɛri ˈhæpi ænd ræn aʊt ˈɪntuː ðəwʊdz ænd ɔːl ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz ˈgæðəd əˈraʊnd hɪmbɪˈkɒz hiː smɛld səʊ gʊd. ænd ðeɪ pleɪdtæg, ˈbeɪsbɔːl, ˈfʊtbɔːl, ˈbɑːskɪtˌbɔːl, ləˈkrɒs, ˈhɒki, ˈsɒkə, ændpɪk-ʌp-stɪks.”
“What’s pick-up-sticks?”	“wɒts pɪk-ʌp-stɪks?”
“It’s a game you play with sticks.”	“ɪts ə geɪm juː pleɪ wɪð stɪks.”
“Like the wizard’s magic wand?”	“laɪk ðə ˈwɪzədz ˈmæʤɪk wɒnd?”
“Kind of. And they played games and laughed all	“kaɪnd ɒv. ænd ðeɪ pleɪd geɪmz ænd lɑːft ɔːl
afternoon and then it began to get dark and they all ran home to their mommies.”	ˈɑːftəˈnuːn ænd ðɛn ɪt bɪˈgæn tuː gɛt dɑːk ænd ðeɪ ɔːl rænhəʊm tuː ðeə ˈmɒmiz.”
Jo was starting to fuss with her hands and look out of the window, at the crack of day that showed under the shade. She thought the story was all over. Jack didn’t like women when they took anything for granted; he liked them apprehensive, hanging on his words. “Now, Jo, are you listening?”	ʤəʊ wɒz ˈstɑːtɪŋ tuː fʌs wɪð hɜː hændz ænd lʊk aʊt ɒv ðəˈwɪndəʊ, æt ðə kræk ɒv deɪ ðæt ʃəʊd ˈʌndə ðə ʃeɪd. ʃiː θɔːtðə ˈstɔːri wɒz ɔːl ˈəʊvə. ʤæk dɪdnt laɪk ˈwɪmɪn wɛn ðeɪ tʊkˈɛnɪθɪŋ fɔː ˈgrɑːntɪd; hiː laɪkt ðɛm ˌæprɪˈhɛnsɪv, ˈhæŋɪŋ ɒnhɪz wɜːdz. “naʊ, ʤəʊ, ɑː juː ˈlɪsnɪŋ?”
“Yes.”	“jɛs.”
“Because this is very interesting. Roger Skunk’s mommy said, ‘What’s that awful smell?’	“bɪˈkɒz ðɪs ɪz ˈvɛri ˈɪntrɪstɪŋ. ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋks ˈmɒmi sɛd, wɒtsðæt ˈɔːfʊl smɛl?’
“Wha-at?”	“Wha-æt?”
“And, Roger Skunk said, ‘It’s me, Mommy. I smell like roses.’ And she said, ‘Who made you smell like that?’ And he said, ‘The wizard,’ and she said, ‘Well, of all the nerve. You come with me and we’re going right back to that very awful wizard.”	“ænd, ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋk sɛd, ɪts miː, ˈmɒmi. aɪ smɛl laɪkˈrəʊzɪz.’ ænd ʃiː sɛd, huː meɪd juː smɛl laɪk ðæt?’ ænd hiːsɛd, ðə ˈwɪzəd,’ ænd ʃiː sɛd, wɛl, ɒv ɔːl ðə nɜːv. juː kʌm wɪðmiː ænd wɪə ˈgəʊɪŋ raɪt bæk tuː ðæt ˈvɛri ˈɔːfʊl ˈwɪzəd.”
Jo sat up, her hands dabbling in the air with genuine fright. “But Daddy, then he said about the other little animals run away!” Her hands skittered off, into the underbrush.	ʤəʊ sæt ʌp, hɜː hændz ˈdæblɪŋ ɪn ði eə wɪð ˈʤɛnjʊɪn fraɪt. “bʌt ˈdædi, ðɛn hiː sɛd əˈbaʊt ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz rʌnəˈweɪ!” hɜː hændz ˈskɪtəd ɒf, ˈɪntuː ði ˈʌndəbrʌʃ.
“All right. He said, ‘But Mommy, all the other little animals run away,’ and she said, ‘I don’t care. You smelled the way a little skunk should have and I’m going to take you right back to that wizard,’ and she took an umbrella and went back with Roger Skunk and hit that wizard right over the head.”	“ɔːl raɪt. hiː sɛd, bʌt ˈmɒmi, ɔːl ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz rʌnəˈweɪ,’ ænd ʃiː sɛd, aɪ dəʊnt keə. juː smɛld ðə weɪ ə ˈlɪtlskʌŋk ʃʊd hæv ænd aɪm ˈgəʊɪŋ tuː teɪk juː raɪt bæk tuː ðætˈwɪzəd,’ ænd ʃiː tʊk ən ʌmˈbrɛlə ænd wɛnt bæk wɪð ˈrəʊʤəskʌŋk ænd hɪt ðæt ˈwɪzəd raɪt ˈəʊvə ðə hɛd.”
“No,” Jo said, and put her hand out to touch his lips, yet even in her agitation did not quite dare to stop the source of truth. Inspiration came to her. “Then the wizard hit her on the head and did not change that little skunk back.”	“nəʊ,” ʤəʊ sɛd, ænd pʊt hɜː hænd aʊt tuː tʌʧ hɪz lɪps, jɛtˈiːvən ɪn hɜːr ˌæʤɪˈteɪʃ(ə)n dɪd nɒt kwaɪt deə tuː stɒp ðəsɔːs ɒv truːθ. ˌɪnspəˈreɪʃən keɪm tuː hɜː. “ðɛn ðə ˈwɪzəd hɪthɜːr ɒn ðə hɛd ænd dɪd nɒt ʧeɪnʤ ðæt ˈlɪtl skʌŋk bæk.”
“No,” he said. “The wizard said ‘O.K.’ and Roger Skunk did not smell of roses any more. He smelled very bad again.”	“nəʊ,” hiː sɛd. “ðə ˈwɪzəd sɛd əʊ.keɪ.’ ænd ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋkdɪd nɒt smɛl ɒv ˈrəʊzɪz ˈɛni mɔː. hiː smɛld ˈvɛri bæd əˈgɛn.”
“But the other little amum — oh! — amum — ”	“bʌt ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl amum — əʊ! — amum — ”
“Joanne. It’s Daddy’s story. Shall Daddy not tell you any more stories?” Her broad face looked at him through sifted light, astounded. “This is what happened, then. Roger Skunk and his mommy went home and they heard Woo-oo, woooo-oo and it was the choo-choo train bringing Daddy Skunk home from Boston. And they had lima beans, celery, liver, mashed potatoes, and Pie-Oh-My for dessert. And when Roger Skunk was in bed Mommy Skunk came up and hugged him and said he smelled like her little baby skunk again and she loved him very much. And that’s the end of the story.”	“ʤəʊˈæn. ɪts ˈdædiz ˈstɔːri. ʃæl ˈdædi nɒt tɛl juː ˈɛni mɔːˈstɔːriz?” hɜː brɔːd feɪs lʊkt æt hɪm θruː ˈsɪftɪdlaɪt, əsˈtaʊndɪd. “ðɪs ɪz wɒt ˈhæpənd, ðɛn. ˈrəʊʤə skʌŋkænd hɪz ˈmɒmi wɛnt həʊm ænd ðeɪ hɜːd wuː-oo, woooo-ooænd ɪt wɒz ðə choo-choo treɪn ˈbrɪŋɪŋ ˈdædi skʌŋk həʊmfrɒm ˈbɒstən. ænd ðeɪ hæd ˈliːmə biːnz, ˈsɛləri, ˈlɪvə, mæʃtpəˈteɪtəʊz, ænd paɪ-əʊ-maɪ fɔː dɪˈzɜːt. ænd wɛn ˈrəʊʤəskʌŋk wɒz ɪn bɛd ˈmɒmi skʌŋk keɪm ʌp ænd hʌgd hɪm ændsɛd hiː smɛld laɪk hɜː ˈlɪtl ˈbeɪbi skʌŋk əˈgɛn ænd ʃiː lʌvd hɪmˈvɛri mʌʧ. ænd ðæts ði ɛnd ɒv ðə ˈstɔːri.”
“But Daddy.”	“bʌt ˈdædi.”
“What?”	“wɒt?”
“Then did the other little animals	“ðɛn dɪd ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz
run away?”	rʌn əˈweɪ?”
“No, because eventually they got	“nəʊ, bɪˈkɒz ɪˈvɛnʧəli ðeɪ gɒt
used to the way he was and did not mind it at all.”	juːzd tuː ðə weɪ hiː wɒz ænd dɪd nɒt maɪnd ɪt æt ɔːl.”
“What’s evenshiladee?”	“wɒts evenshiladee?”
“In a little while.”	“ɪn ə ˈlɪtl waɪl.”
“That was a stupid mommy.”	“ðæt wɒz ə ˈstjuːpɪd ˈmɒmi.”
“It was not,” he said with rare emphasis, and believed,	“ɪt wɒz nɒt,” hiː sɛd wɪð reər ˈɛmfəsɪs, ænd bɪˈliːvd,
from her expression, that she realised he was defending his own mother to her, or something as odd. “Now I want you to put your big heavy head in the pillow and have a good long nap.” He adjusted the shade so not even a crack of day showed, and tiptoed to the door, in the pretense that she was already asleep. But when he turned, she was crouching on top of the covers and staring at him. “Hey. Get under the covers and fall faaast asleep. Bobby’s asleep.”	frɒm hɜːr ɪksˈprɛʃən, ðæt ʃiː ˈrɪəlaɪzd hiː wɒz dɪˈfɛndɪŋ hɪzəʊn ˈmʌðə tuː hɜː, ɔː ˈsʌmθɪŋ æz ɒd. “naʊ aɪ wɒnt juː tuːpʊt jɔː bɪg ˈhɛvi hɛd ɪn ðə ˈpɪləʊ ænd hæv ə gʊd lɒŋnæp.” hiː əˈʤʌstɪd ðə ʃeɪd səʊ nɒt ˈiːvən ə kræk ɒv deɪʃəʊd, ænd ˈtɪptəʊd tuː ðə dɔː, ɪn ðə prɪˈtɛns ðæt ʃiː wɒzɔːlˈrɛdi əˈsliːp. bʌt wɛn hiː tɜːnd, ʃiː wɒz ˈkraʊʧɪŋ ɒn tɒp ɒvðə ˈkʌvəz ænd ˈsteərɪŋ æt hɪm. “heɪ. gɛt ˈʌndə ðə ˈkʌvəz ændfɔːl faaast əˈsliːp. ˈbɒbiz əˈsliːp.”
She stood up and bounced gingerly on the springs. “Daddy.”	ʃiː stʊd ʌp ænd baʊnst ˈʤɪnʤəli ɒn ðə sprɪŋz. “ˈdædi.”
“What?”	“wɒt?”
“Tomorrow, I want you to tell me the story that that wizard took that magic wand and hit that mommy” — her plump arms chopped forcefully — “right over the head.”	“təˈmɒrəʊ, aɪ wɒnt juː tuː tɛl miː ðə ˈstɔːri ðæt ðæt ˈwɪzəd tʊkðæt ˈmæʤɪk wɒnd ænd hɪt ðæt ˈmɒmi” — hɜː plʌmp ɑːmzʧɒpt ˈfɔːsfʊli — “raɪt ˈəʊvə ðə hɛd.”
“No. That’s not the story. The point is that the little skunk loved his mommy more than he loved all the other little animals and she knew what was right.”	“nəʊ. ðæts nɒt ðə ˈstɔːri. ðə pɔɪnt ɪz ðæt ðə ˈlɪtl skʌŋk lʌvdhɪz ˈmɒmi mɔː ðæn hiː lʌvd ɔːl ði ˈʌðə ˈlɪtl ˈænɪməlz ænd ʃiːnjuː wɒt wɒz raɪt.”
“No. Tomorrow you say he hit that mommy. Do it.” She kicked her legs up and sat down on the bed with a great heave and complaint of springs, as she had done hundreds of times before, except that this time she did not laugh. “Say it, Daddy.”	“nəʊ. təˈmɒrəʊ juː seɪ hiː hɪt ðæt ˈmɒmi. duː ɪt.” ʃiː kɪkt hɜːlɛgz ʌp ænd sæt daʊn ɒn ðə bɛd wɪð ə greɪt hiːv ændkəmˈpleɪnt ɒv sprɪŋz, æz ʃiː hæd dʌn ˈhʌndrədz ɒv taɪmzbɪˈfɔː, ɪkˈsɛpt ðæt ðɪs taɪm ʃiː dɪd nɒt lɑːf. “seɪ ɪt, ˈdædi.”
“Well, we’ll see. Now at least have a rest. Stay on the bed. You’re a good girl.”	“wɛl, wiːl siː. naʊ æt liːst hæv ə rɛst. steɪ ɒn ðə bɛd. jʊər əgʊd gɜːl.”
He closed the door and went downstairs. Clare had spread the newspapers and opened the paint can and, wearing an old shirt of his on top of her maternity smock, was stroking the chair rail with a dipped brush. Above him footsteps vibrated and he called, “Joanne! Shall I come up there and spank you?” The footsteps hesitated.	hiː kləʊzd ðə dɔːr ænd wɛnt ˌdaʊnˈsteəz. kleə hæd sprɛd ðəˈnjuːzˌpeɪpəz ænd ˈəʊpənd ðə peɪnt kæn ænd, ˈweərɪŋ ənəʊld ʃɜːt ɒv hɪz ɒn tɒp ɒv hɜː məˈtɜːnɪti smɒk, wɒz ˈstrəʊkɪŋðə ʧeə reɪl wɪð ə dɪpt brʌʃ. əˈbʌv hɪm ˈfʊtstɛps vaɪˈbreɪtɪdænd hiː kɔːld, “ʤəʊˈæn! ʃæl aɪ kʌm ʌp ðeər ænd spæŋkjuː?” ðə ˈfʊtstɛps ˈhɛzɪteɪtɪd.
“That was a long story,” Clare said.	“ðæt wɒz ə lɒŋ ˈstɔːri,” kleə sɛd.
“The poor kid,” he answered, and with utter weariness watched his wife labour. The woodwork, a cage of moldings and rails and baseboards all around them, was half old tan and half new ivory and he felt caught in an ugly middle position, and though he as well felt his wife’s presence in the cage with him, he did not want to speak with her, work with her, touch her, anything.	“ðə pʊə kɪd,” hiː ˈɑːnsəd, ænd wɪð ˈʌtə ˈwɪərɪnɪs wɒʧt hɪzwaɪf ˈleɪbə. ðə ˈwʊdwɜːk, ə keɪʤ ɒv ˈməʊldɪŋz ænd reɪlzænd ˈbeɪsbɔːdz ɔːl əˈraʊnd ðɛm, wɒz hɑːf əʊld tæn ændhɑːf njuː ˈaɪvəri ænd hiː fɛlt kɔːt ɪn ən ˈʌgli ˈmɪdlpəˈzɪʃən, ænd ðəʊ hiː æz wɛl fɛlt hɪz waɪfs ˈprɛzns ɪn ðəkeɪʤ wɪð hɪm, hiː dɪd nɒt wɒnt tuː spiːk wɪð hɜː, wɜːk wɪðhɜː, tʌʧ hɜː, ˈɛnɪθɪŋ.