before he could continue. As she did, Max gave her a friendly pinch on the ass.
Simon emerged from the stairwell. He was wearing a different shirt and pants. It looked like he had shaved everything all over again. He said to her, “May I turn on the TV?”
Everyone looked at him, and there was a long silence.
Elena’s first thought was that this was an odd question for an American boy to ask, especially one like Simon, for whom the TV had often been his only friend. Simon had been a loner for years before he, rather unaccountably, blossomed. That pattern of middle-school life, where betrayal was routine and hurt feelings were intentional and you didn’t know what was going on most of the time, was simpler on television. Simon had always watched television because television was safe and predictable; even when he himself got handsome and graceful and attractive to women (he still didn’t have many male friends), he watched television automatically. But not now, not here.
Because there was the war. The prospect of opening the communications tap and letting the war flow over them made Elena feel tense and ill. She said, “I think we’re all talking, Simon, and the TV would interfere.”
Everyone else was silent, too. Simon said, “So okay. I won’t turn on the television.”
After a pause, Charlie said to Isabel, brightly, as if eager to be part of the conversation, “So—did you see
The Hours
? I was wondering why what’s-her-name got the Oscar. I didn’t see it myself.”
Isabel said, “Oh, I saw it.” She glanced at Elena in a friendly way. “The weirdest thing happened. Explain this to me. We got there kind of early, because they were showing it in a smallish theater in Cambridge, where my friend was living. We had to sit toward the back and off to the side. I was sitting next to Tara, and there was one seat between me and the wall. Behind Tara, all the seats were full except one seat over toward the aisle. About a minute or so before the lights went down, this couple walks in. They must be in their forties or early fifties. Perfectly normal couple, nice-looking and tall. She’s carrying the popcorn. No seats anywhere by this time, so he squeezes in past me and sits in the seat by the wall, and the wife sits up behind Tara. For some reason, everyone in this section is friendly, and these two are perfectly pleasant, just like everyone else. The movie starts, and we’re watching. About fifteen minutes into the movie, I realize that the guy next to me is making noise, so I shift over toward Tara an inch or so. The movie goes on, and he’s really bothering me. I mean, he’s not touching me or anything, but I can’t stop being distracted, so I turn and look at him. It must have been in one of the California scenes, because this man is all lit up from the reflection of the screen back into the audience, and he is leaning up against the wall on the other side of his seat and crying his eyes out. His eyes are open and I can see glints of light in them, and also in the tears running down his cheeks, and he’s resting his head against the wall like he can’t hold himself upright. So I poke Tara and she looks at him, and then we turn and glance at the wife. She’s just sitting there, eating popcorn and watching the movie with that movie-watching face you get. We look at the husband again. Floods of tears. We look at the wife again. She never looks over at him or seems to notice or have any sixth sense that there’s something wrong. I thought we should report him to the wife, but she was too far from Tara for her to poke her on the leg.”
“I would put that shot in a picture. Especially with the light from the screen glinting off the tears,” said Max.
“Are you sure they were married?” said Cassie.
“We couldn’t figure out if she even realized what was going on. Tara said, ‘Aren’t you so glad those aren’t your parents?’”
Cassie said, “Maybe they’d been fighting on the way to the
Simon emerged from the stairwell. He was wearing a different shirt and pants. It looked like he had shaved everything all over again. He said to her, “May I turn on the TV?”
Everyone looked at him, and there was a long silence.
Elena’s first thought was that this was an odd question for an American boy to ask, especially one like Simon, for whom the TV had often been his only friend. Simon had been a loner for years before he, rather unaccountably, blossomed. That pattern of middle-school life, where betrayal was routine and hurt feelings were intentional and you didn’t know what was going on most of the time, was simpler on television. Simon had always watched television because television was safe and predictable; even when he himself got handsome and graceful and attractive to women (he still didn’t have many male friends), he watched television automatically. But not now, not here.
Because there was the war. The prospect of opening the communications tap and letting the war flow over them made Elena feel tense and ill. She said, “I think we’re all talking, Simon, and the TV would interfere.”
Everyone else was silent, too. Simon said, “So okay. I won’t turn on the television.”
After a pause, Charlie said to Isabel, brightly, as if eager to be part of the conversation, “So—did you see
The Hours
? I was wondering why what’s-her-name got the Oscar. I didn’t see it myself.”
Isabel said, “Oh, I saw it.” She glanced at Elena in a friendly way. “The weirdest thing happened. Explain this to me. We got there kind of early, because they were showing it in a smallish theater in Cambridge, where my friend was living. We had to sit toward the back and off to the side. I was sitting next to Tara, and there was one seat between me and the wall. Behind Tara, all the seats were full except one seat over toward the aisle. About a minute or so before the lights went down, this couple walks in. They must be in their forties or early fifties. Perfectly normal couple, nice-looking and tall. She’s carrying the popcorn. No seats anywhere by this time, so he squeezes in past me and sits in the seat by the wall, and the wife sits up behind Tara. For some reason, everyone in this section is friendly, and these two are perfectly pleasant, just like everyone else. The movie starts, and we’re watching. About fifteen minutes into the movie, I realize that the guy next to me is making noise, so I shift over toward Tara an inch or so. The movie goes on, and he’s really bothering me. I mean, he’s not touching me or anything, but I can’t stop being distracted, so I turn and look at him. It must have been in one of the California scenes, because this man is all lit up from the reflection of the screen back into the audience, and he is leaning up against the wall on the other side of his seat and crying his eyes out. His eyes are open and I can see glints of light in them, and also in the tears running down his cheeks, and he’s resting his head against the wall like he can’t hold himself upright. So I poke Tara and she looks at him, and then we turn and glance at the wife. She’s just sitting there, eating popcorn and watching the movie with that movie-watching face you get. We look at the husband again. Floods of tears. We look at the wife again. She never looks over at him or seems to notice or have any sixth sense that there’s something wrong. I thought we should report him to the wife, but she was too far from Tara for her to poke her on the leg.”
“I would put that shot in a picture. Especially with the light from the screen glinting off the tears,” said Max.
“Are you sure they were married?” said Cassie.
“We couldn’t figure out if she even realized what was going on. Tara said, ‘Aren’t you so glad those aren’t your parents?’”
Cassie said, “Maybe they’d been fighting on the way to the
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