above the necessary minimum; a day bed, two sling chairs, two lamps, a bookcase, and a writing table in the living room; a small dining table and four metal folding chairs in the kitchen; and a double bunk, two bureaus, and a work table with benches in the single bedroom, where the boys slept. Because the walls and ceiling were white, the light pouring through the open Venetian blinds made the living room blindingly bright. I squinted; there was too much light in that room for me.
While we drank a glass of beer, the children went into the bedroom, undressed themselves, and actually bathed themselves without help in the water that Joe had already drawn for them. I expressed surprise at such independence at ages three and four: Rennie shrugged indifferently.
“We make pretty heavy demands on them for physical efficiency,” Joe admitted. “What the hell, in New Guinea the kids are swimming before they walk, and paddling bamboo logs out in the ocean at Joey’s age. We figured the less they’re in our hair the better we’ll get along with each other.”
“Don’t think we drive them,” Rennie said. “We don’t really give a damn. But I guess we demand a lot tacitly.”
Joe listened to this remark with casual interest.
“Why do you say you don’t give a damn?” he asked her.
Rennie was a little startled at the question, which she had not expected.
“Well—I mean ultimately. Ultimately it wouldn’t matter one way or the other, would it? But immediately it matters because if they weren’t independent we’d have to go through the same rigmarole most people go through, and the kids would be depending on all kinds of crutches.”
“Nothing matters one way or the other ultimately,” Joe pointed out. “The other importance is all there is to anything.”
“That’s what I meant, Joe.”
“What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t consider a value less real just because, it isn’t absolute, since less-than-absolutes are all we’ve got. That’s what’s implied when you say you don’t really give a damn.”
Well, it was Rennie’s ball—I watched them over my beer much as I’d watched them out on the lawn—but the game was interrupted by the timer bell on the kitchen stove. Rennie went out to serve up the dinner while Joe dried the two boys and assisted them into their pajamas: their physical efficiency apparently didn’t extend to fastening their own snaps in the back.
“Why don’t you have them snap each other up in the back?” I suggested politely, observing this. Rennie flashed me an uncertain look from the kitchen, where she was awkwardly dishing out rice with a spoon too small for the job, but Joe laughed easily and immediately unsnapped both boys’ pajama shirts so that they could try it. It worked.
Since there were only four chairs in the kitchen, Rennie and the two boys and I ate at the table while Joe ate standing up at the stove. There would have been no room at the table for one of the sling chairs, and anyhow it did not take long to eat the meal, which consisted of steamed shrimp, boiled rice, and beer for all hands. The boys—husky, well-mannered youngsters—were allowed to dominate the conversation during dinner; they were as lively and loud as any other bright kids their age, but a great deal more physically coordinated and self-controlled than most. As soon as we finished eating they went to bed, and though it was still quite light outside, I heard no more from them.
The Morgans had an arrangement with their first-floor neighbor whereby they could leave open a door connecting the two apartments and listen for each other’s children if one couple wished to go out for the evening. Taking advantage of this, we went walking through a clover field and a small stand of pines behind the house after the supper dishes were washed. The Morgans tended to walk vigorously, and this did not fit well with my quiescent mood, but neither did refusing to accompany them. Rennie,
While we drank a glass of beer, the children went into the bedroom, undressed themselves, and actually bathed themselves without help in the water that Joe had already drawn for them. I expressed surprise at such independence at ages three and four: Rennie shrugged indifferently.
“We make pretty heavy demands on them for physical efficiency,” Joe admitted. “What the hell, in New Guinea the kids are swimming before they walk, and paddling bamboo logs out in the ocean at Joey’s age. We figured the less they’re in our hair the better we’ll get along with each other.”
“Don’t think we drive them,” Rennie said. “We don’t really give a damn. But I guess we demand a lot tacitly.”
Joe listened to this remark with casual interest.
“Why do you say you don’t give a damn?” he asked her.
Rennie was a little startled at the question, which she had not expected.
“Well—I mean ultimately. Ultimately it wouldn’t matter one way or the other, would it? But immediately it matters because if they weren’t independent we’d have to go through the same rigmarole most people go through, and the kids would be depending on all kinds of crutches.”
“Nothing matters one way or the other ultimately,” Joe pointed out. “The other importance is all there is to anything.”
“That’s what I meant, Joe.”
“What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t consider a value less real just because, it isn’t absolute, since less-than-absolutes are all we’ve got. That’s what’s implied when you say you don’t really give a damn.”
Well, it was Rennie’s ball—I watched them over my beer much as I’d watched them out on the lawn—but the game was interrupted by the timer bell on the kitchen stove. Rennie went out to serve up the dinner while Joe dried the two boys and assisted them into their pajamas: their physical efficiency apparently didn’t extend to fastening their own snaps in the back.
“Why don’t you have them snap each other up in the back?” I suggested politely, observing this. Rennie flashed me an uncertain look from the kitchen, where she was awkwardly dishing out rice with a spoon too small for the job, but Joe laughed easily and immediately unsnapped both boys’ pajama shirts so that they could try it. It worked.
Since there were only four chairs in the kitchen, Rennie and the two boys and I ate at the table while Joe ate standing up at the stove. There would have been no room at the table for one of the sling chairs, and anyhow it did not take long to eat the meal, which consisted of steamed shrimp, boiled rice, and beer for all hands. The boys—husky, well-mannered youngsters—were allowed to dominate the conversation during dinner; they were as lively and loud as any other bright kids their age, but a great deal more physically coordinated and self-controlled than most. As soon as we finished eating they went to bed, and though it was still quite light outside, I heard no more from them.
The Morgans had an arrangement with their first-floor neighbor whereby they could leave open a door connecting the two apartments and listen for each other’s children if one couple wished to go out for the evening. Taking advantage of this, we went walking through a clover field and a small stand of pines behind the house after the supper dishes were washed. The Morgans tended to walk vigorously, and this did not fit well with my quiescent mood, but neither did refusing to accompany them. Rennie,
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