figure out whether I’m doing things because they’re good for him or because they make me feel better.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “Although I’m still wondering where she got all this fear stuff from. Like she’ll ask whether you can get your shoelaces caught in the escalator at the mall. They’ll be earthquakes or tornadoes on television and she wants to know where you could stand or how you could hide to get away.” She shielded her eyes and looked toward the school. “Our house got struck by lightning once, when Chelsea was three. All it did was char the side of the chimney, but who knows with kids what sticks in their minds? You have one of those real fearless boys?”
I shrugged. “He’s a boy. He keeps his fears inside.”
She nodded. “Boys,” she said, and I looked at her, at her glossy dark hair and painted nails, and wondered what she’d say if I replied, Yeah, that and the fact that his father used to beat the shit out of me and he figures he’d better be quiet and nice or the whole world will blow up. What would she say if I replied, Your kid wants to see a natural disaster, she should have seen my face after the last fight?
What if, I thought to myself, I’m talking to myself the rest of my life? What if I can never say what I’m thinking to anyone ever again? I looked back at the school building, and then grabbed Cindy by the arm. “What?” she said, and turned to see the two patrol cars, white and red and blue, pull up outside the school. Men in uniforms were stepping out of the cars, loping up the path and into the building, stopping just inside the door to talk with the man in the khaki shorts. Telling him, telling him. Next, one of thecops would pull a photograph from his breast pocket, the picture of Robert taken last year at St. Stannie’s, sitting on the steps beneath the statue of the Blessed Mother, wearing the same polo shirt he’d worn as we traveled from New York to Lake Plata. I’d given a copy of it to my mother-in-law; she kept it in a gilt frame on her bedside table, with the tissues and the Sominex. I could see her handing it to Bobby, see him taking it into the photo shop to have copies made, see him finger his big lower lip as he tried to figure how best to deal with me when he found us.
The men were moving inside; I could almost see the three of them bent over a sheaf of manila folders in the office. I imagined them looking through the files for new students, walking to the fifth grade classroom, seeing Robert, whispering to the teacher, taking him out of class. It all came to me, like one of those flip books Robert had gotten for Christmas, all the little pictures moving fast, making a story, the story of the beginning of the end of my life.
“What are those two cops doing going into the school?” I said. The only woman in America terrified at the sight.
“They always come here the first day,” Cindy said. “They talk to the kids about not talking to strangers, not taking a ride from anyone, only going with someone you know, the usual.” She squinted across the lot. “That one’s Officer Bryant, I think. I don’t know about you, but I hate knowing the police are younger than I am.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” she said. “He’s a good ten, twelve years younger than I am. The other one, I can never remember his name, buthe’s even younger than that.” She looked at me. “Are you okay? You want to have a cup of coffee?”
It sounds stupid, saying how I felt at that moment. Maybe it was the sheer chemical relief, the balloon deflating in my stomach, the buzz subsiding in my head. Maybe it was knowing that the police officer would see my boy as nothing more than another face in a crowd of children and that this woman saw me as nothing more remarkable than one of the moms. Maybe it was the way Cindy talked about her daughter, that combination of fear, ego, and love that oozes out of a good
“That’s it in a nutshell,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “Although I’m still wondering where she got all this fear stuff from. Like she’ll ask whether you can get your shoelaces caught in the escalator at the mall. They’ll be earthquakes or tornadoes on television and she wants to know where you could stand or how you could hide to get away.” She shielded her eyes and looked toward the school. “Our house got struck by lightning once, when Chelsea was three. All it did was char the side of the chimney, but who knows with kids what sticks in their minds? You have one of those real fearless boys?”
I shrugged. “He’s a boy. He keeps his fears inside.”
She nodded. “Boys,” she said, and I looked at her, at her glossy dark hair and painted nails, and wondered what she’d say if I replied, Yeah, that and the fact that his father used to beat the shit out of me and he figures he’d better be quiet and nice or the whole world will blow up. What would she say if I replied, Your kid wants to see a natural disaster, she should have seen my face after the last fight?
What if, I thought to myself, I’m talking to myself the rest of my life? What if I can never say what I’m thinking to anyone ever again? I looked back at the school building, and then grabbed Cindy by the arm. “What?” she said, and turned to see the two patrol cars, white and red and blue, pull up outside the school. Men in uniforms were stepping out of the cars, loping up the path and into the building, stopping just inside the door to talk with the man in the khaki shorts. Telling him, telling him. Next, one of thecops would pull a photograph from his breast pocket, the picture of Robert taken last year at St. Stannie’s, sitting on the steps beneath the statue of the Blessed Mother, wearing the same polo shirt he’d worn as we traveled from New York to Lake Plata. I’d given a copy of it to my mother-in-law; she kept it in a gilt frame on her bedside table, with the tissues and the Sominex. I could see her handing it to Bobby, see him taking it into the photo shop to have copies made, see him finger his big lower lip as he tried to figure how best to deal with me when he found us.
The men were moving inside; I could almost see the three of them bent over a sheaf of manila folders in the office. I imagined them looking through the files for new students, walking to the fifth grade classroom, seeing Robert, whispering to the teacher, taking him out of class. It all came to me, like one of those flip books Robert had gotten for Christmas, all the little pictures moving fast, making a story, the story of the beginning of the end of my life.
“What are those two cops doing going into the school?” I said. The only woman in America terrified at the sight.
“They always come here the first day,” Cindy said. “They talk to the kids about not talking to strangers, not taking a ride from anyone, only going with someone you know, the usual.” She squinted across the lot. “That one’s Officer Bryant, I think. I don’t know about you, but I hate knowing the police are younger than I am.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” she said. “He’s a good ten, twelve years younger than I am. The other one, I can never remember his name, buthe’s even younger than that.” She looked at me. “Are you okay? You want to have a cup of coffee?”
It sounds stupid, saying how I felt at that moment. Maybe it was the sheer chemical relief, the balloon deflating in my stomach, the buzz subsiding in my head. Maybe it was knowing that the police officer would see my boy as nothing more than another face in a crowd of children and that this woman saw me as nothing more remarkable than one of the moms. Maybe it was the way Cindy talked about her daughter, that combination of fear, ego, and love that oozes out of a good
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