to show her is the letter in my messenger bag threatening eviction if we don’t come up with the $31,200 forebearance payment next week.
I tell myself that I’m like the kindly oncologist who lays out the severe treatment the patient faces without depressing her with the long-odds prognosis. And even without the scariest details, Lisa agrees with most of the draconian steps Richard and I discussed: cashing in our retirement and my pension, seeking another grace period on the house (during which time I will find a job, I swear), selling my car to get out from under the payment, combining the rest of our debt into one loan, which we’ll then chip away at, buying health insurance only for the kids, and cutting back on all extravagances (cell phones, restaurants, vacations, Christmas presents). But there’s one obvious measure that she simply can’t seem to get her mind around.
“Public school?” She frowns again at our bank statement. “Are we there already?”
“I know,” I say. And I do know. We’d just moved into this neighborhood four years ago—finally getting the big old house we wanted—when I drove past the neighborhood elementary, smiling as I always do whenever I pass a school. I watched as four boys, eight, maybe nine years old, walked away from the recess pack toward the tree-lined fence; I thought, that school doesn’t look as bad as the realtor made it sound (ninety-two percent free-and-reduced lunch, he’d said, the liberal in me bristling at the disturbing equation he was proposing: poverty=bad school). That was when one of the walking boys pivoted and took up a sentry post while the other two began beating on the fourth at the edge of the playground. It was like watching a prison documentary. I was stunned at first, and kept driving, but finally stopped my car and jumped out. I ran back along the fence line, yelling something like, “Hey, stop that!” and one of the nine-year-olds yelled, “Fuck off, faggot,” and I was struck dumb. Thankfully, a playground aide heard the yelling and ran over and I hoped she was going to break up the fight, but the kid getting beaten (the kid I thought I’d saved) jumped up and told the playground aide that I was “a perv” who’d asked them to get in my car. It was ingenious, and I saw that I actually had saved the kid—not by yelling, but by giving him and his bullies a new, common enemy, so that he could be aligned with the thugs and show himself to not be a snitch, but a stand-up guy. I stood there as the playground aide gave me a sharp look and I thought: do I really want my kids to go here? Do I want to explain the politics of prison beatings and snitch avoidance to my fucking six-year-old? And I hurried off, Mr. Public School admitting to himself that I’d teach my kids at home before I’d send them to Alcatraz Elementary.
Parenthood makes such sweet hypocrites of us all.
“Public school,” Lisa says again. She sighs and stares at that bank statement like it’s in some code. “I just don’t know if I can do that, Matt.”—As if I’m suggesting we sell the children for medical experiments.
“We could try moving to a neighborhood with a better school,” I say lamely.
Lisa points out the obvious, that it would be insane to sell now, when “we owe thirty percent more than we could get” in this market. (Try fifty, I think.)
There is a scholarship program at the school, Lisa says, but she doubts we’d have much of a shot because we aren’t parish members…aren’t, in fact, even Catholic.
“I’ll join,” I say.
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” she says. “I think there are classes. Rituals.”
“I’ll take a blood oath. A spanking.”
But no matter what I say, I can’t seem to get her to look up at me. Those eyes move from bill to window to bank notice to bill, but won’t rise to meet mine. “It’s a religion, Matt, not a fraternity. You have to go to class, get baptized, that kind of thing.”
“I’ll get
I tell myself that I’m like the kindly oncologist who lays out the severe treatment the patient faces without depressing her with the long-odds prognosis. And even without the scariest details, Lisa agrees with most of the draconian steps Richard and I discussed: cashing in our retirement and my pension, seeking another grace period on the house (during which time I will find a job, I swear), selling my car to get out from under the payment, combining the rest of our debt into one loan, which we’ll then chip away at, buying health insurance only for the kids, and cutting back on all extravagances (cell phones, restaurants, vacations, Christmas presents). But there’s one obvious measure that she simply can’t seem to get her mind around.
“Public school?” She frowns again at our bank statement. “Are we there already?”
“I know,” I say. And I do know. We’d just moved into this neighborhood four years ago—finally getting the big old house we wanted—when I drove past the neighborhood elementary, smiling as I always do whenever I pass a school. I watched as four boys, eight, maybe nine years old, walked away from the recess pack toward the tree-lined fence; I thought, that school doesn’t look as bad as the realtor made it sound (ninety-two percent free-and-reduced lunch, he’d said, the liberal in me bristling at the disturbing equation he was proposing: poverty=bad school). That was when one of the walking boys pivoted and took up a sentry post while the other two began beating on the fourth at the edge of the playground. It was like watching a prison documentary. I was stunned at first, and kept driving, but finally stopped my car and jumped out. I ran back along the fence line, yelling something like, “Hey, stop that!” and one of the nine-year-olds yelled, “Fuck off, faggot,” and I was struck dumb. Thankfully, a playground aide heard the yelling and ran over and I hoped she was going to break up the fight, but the kid getting beaten (the kid I thought I’d saved) jumped up and told the playground aide that I was “a perv” who’d asked them to get in my car. It was ingenious, and I saw that I actually had saved the kid—not by yelling, but by giving him and his bullies a new, common enemy, so that he could be aligned with the thugs and show himself to not be a snitch, but a stand-up guy. I stood there as the playground aide gave me a sharp look and I thought: do I really want my kids to go here? Do I want to explain the politics of prison beatings and snitch avoidance to my fucking six-year-old? And I hurried off, Mr. Public School admitting to himself that I’d teach my kids at home before I’d send them to Alcatraz Elementary.
Parenthood makes such sweet hypocrites of us all.
“Public school,” Lisa says again. She sighs and stares at that bank statement like it’s in some code. “I just don’t know if I can do that, Matt.”—As if I’m suggesting we sell the children for medical experiments.
“We could try moving to a neighborhood with a better school,” I say lamely.
Lisa points out the obvious, that it would be insane to sell now, when “we owe thirty percent more than we could get” in this market. (Try fifty, I think.)
There is a scholarship program at the school, Lisa says, but she doubts we’d have much of a shot because we aren’t parish members…aren’t, in fact, even Catholic.
“I’ll join,” I say.
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” she says. “I think there are classes. Rituals.”
“I’ll take a blood oath. A spanking.”
But no matter what I say, I can’t seem to get her to look up at me. Those eyes move from bill to window to bank notice to bill, but won’t rise to meet mine. “It’s a religion, Matt, not a fraternity. You have to go to class, get baptized, that kind of thing.”
“I’ll get
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