Natural Order by Brian Francis Page B

memories belonging to someone else.
    “What do you think Benjamin would like?” I ask John as we make our way towards the toy section.
    “He plays cowboys and Indians a lot.”
    “Do you ever play with him? You’d make a good cowboy.”
    He shakes his head. “I don’t like playing that.”
    Charlie wanted to sign John up for baseball this past spring. He was excited about being a father, about making up for all the things he never experienced as a kid. The first time we took John out West to visit Charlie’s family, Charlie was so proud of his son. I’d never seen him so happy.
    “He’s got my ears,” he said to his mother. “Unfortunately.”
    “It’s a sign of intelligence,” Mrs. Sparks said.
    “It’s a sign of big ears,” Charlie laughed and lifted John high into the air.
    “Treat him right,” Mrs. Sparks said. “You be everything to him.” I heard the slightest quiver in her voice. It was the closest I’d seen her come to revealing the damage Charlie’s father had caused the family. When Charlie broached the idea of baseball with John, we both thought it was a good idea. Our boy needed more physical activity. But John crossed his arms against his chest and howled as though we’d just told him Santa Claus had died. I pleaded with him to give it a chance. Charlie even made him a wooden platform with a pipe to practise hitting the ball, but John would have none of it. I remember the hurt expression on Charlie’s face when he took the platform out to the curb for garbage collection. Later that afternoon, my son and I made a zucchini loaf. I told John to wrap a slice up and set it into his father’s lunch box.
    “It’ll be a nice surprise for Daddy when he’s at work.”
    John was so careful with the waxed paper that it broke my heart. My husband and son seemed frozen on parallel lines.
    The toy section is a whirl of reds and blues and yellows. “Now remember what I said, John. We’re here for Benjamin. Not you.”
    We go to the boys’ section and he surveys the shelves of trucks and war figurines. I take a bag of small plastic soldiers from the shelf. The price is reasonable.
    “Do you think Benjamin would like this?” I ask. He shrugs. There’s also a toy gun with a holster. “Or this?”
    Another shrug.
    “Bag of soldiers it is. Now we need to get a card. And wrapping paper. Did we pass that section on the way here?”
    I walk towards the end of the aisle to get my bearings. I’m still thinking about the perfume we passed. Why does Benjamin get to have all the fun? I’ll give myself a squirt or two of something. Just to test it out before we have our rec room party. Maybe I’ll stop by the dress department before we leave.
    When I turn around, my son is gone. I’d be more panicked if I didn’t know where to find him. He’s moved to the next aisle—the one filled with pink boxes, with plastic faces and eyes half-hidden behind black bangs.
    This is the real reason I didn’t invite Charlie.
    “John,” I whisper, standing at the threshold of the aisle. “Come away from there.”
    “But there she is!” he says. Without even explaining, I know the doll he’s referring to. Curly Q Sue. A girl brought one to school a couple of months ago. Ever since, John has pleaded for one non-stop.
    “What did I tell you?” I glance over my shoulder. “Let’s go.” My voice is an urgent hiss.
    “Please, Mommy,” he says. His arm stretches out towards the doll.
    “I don’t have time to fool around, John.”
    “Please.”
    “Come here.”
    He turns to me and I see his wide eyes. “Please.” He sounds like a wounded animal.
    “John.”
    “Mommy.”
    I sigh and look at the fluorescent lights overhead. I don’t know what’s worse—to deny him the things he wants or to allow him to have them. I march over and grab the doll box from the shelf and put it into the cart.
    “Come,” I say, louder than intended.
    “But I want to carry her.”
    “Oh no you won’t.” I grab his wrist