that.”
“No,” she conceded. “I guess not.” They sat quietly for a moment. “Anything happening at school today?” she asked.
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
He was an intelligent and focused and sometimes thoughtful boy, but he rarely told her much that went on at school, unless it was something that had particularly upset or excited him. For all she knew, the boys wore Mardi Gras masks and fornicated with the teachers. But while nothing momentous usually happened to Amy during the course of a day, she could have spoken a monologue about all the quotidian details that filled her hours, if anyone wanted her to.
“Mason, do you ever wonder about what I do when you’re in school?” she suddenly asked him as he bent over his waffle.
He looked at her, confused. “Is this a trick?”
“No. No trick.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Stuff, I guess. Different things.”
He looked decidedly uninterested in the question, and she knew, from his answer, that she was a mystery to her child and perhaps to her husband—an unmysterious mystery—as perhaps many women were, everywhere.
B IP. BOOP. BEEP , went the alarms around the city and in the disparate suburbs and towns across the breadth of the entire country. COO COO COO COOOOO. AND LET’S CHECK ON THE WEATHER —They continued to rouse the sleeping women into a sometimes stinging memory of who they were and what, in the middle of their lives, they’d become.
“You’ve got your Vocab Ventures workbook, bud?” Amy asked Mason now as they walked toward the door of the apartment. More than once each week they turned back at this juncture, searching for some forgotten item of his. Amy was aggravated by Mason’s forgetfulness, but he was a boy, and some of her friends said that their sons were exactly like this.
“Thank God we’re here,” Karen Yip, the mother of twin sons, had said recently when they were all discussing the inefficiency of boys over breakfast at the Golden Horn. “If we weren’t, they’d be found dead in an alley.”
“Yes, without their homework,” another mother had added.
Today Mason had the Vocab Ventures workbook but had left his clarinet behind. He went and searched, and came up empty-handed. “Can’t find it,” he said. “So Mr. Livio will mark me unprepared. It’s not a big deal, Mom.”
“What kind of an attitude is that? Find it, please. Now. ” Her own words struck her as hateful. She was irritable lately, as though it were his fault that she felt a little aimless. “Go on, honey,” she added.
Mason poked around, then suddenly he remembered something, and he dug into his backpack and retrieved the electronic object-finder that had been programmed for moments such as this one. He punched in a few numbers, and then they waited. A small voice began to speak elsewhere in the apartment, and Mason and Amy followed the muffled sound until they were standing in the doorway of his bedroom, where an android voice was repeatedly intoning Your-cla-ri-net-is-o-ver-here from the dark cavern beneath the bed. Technology had rescued him yet again, as it always would.
While her son gathered his things together, Amy walked to the window and hauled up the shade, so that the dim morning light became yellow, white, optimistic, spreading. She and Mason headed into the hall and rang for the elevator. When it arrived, the doors opened to reveal two women dressed for work, both in suits. “Morning,” one said.
“Morning,” said Amy.
They smelled of shampoo and a light creeping of scent, and they both seemed highly alert. Stepping into the elevator with Mason, Amy felt as though she must seem to them like a rumpled bed, or a sweet old farm animal. She endured the ride with her eyes closed. Down in the large lobby there was a small crowd standing around the doorman’s counter. On duty was Hector, a slender young man whose peaked hat was too big for his head, giving him the appearance of a child playing
“No,” she conceded. “I guess not.” They sat quietly for a moment. “Anything happening at school today?” she asked.
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
He was an intelligent and focused and sometimes thoughtful boy, but he rarely told her much that went on at school, unless it was something that had particularly upset or excited him. For all she knew, the boys wore Mardi Gras masks and fornicated with the teachers. But while nothing momentous usually happened to Amy during the course of a day, she could have spoken a monologue about all the quotidian details that filled her hours, if anyone wanted her to.
“Mason, do you ever wonder about what I do when you’re in school?” she suddenly asked him as he bent over his waffle.
He looked at her, confused. “Is this a trick?”
“No. No trick.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Stuff, I guess. Different things.”
He looked decidedly uninterested in the question, and she knew, from his answer, that she was a mystery to her child and perhaps to her husband—an unmysterious mystery—as perhaps many women were, everywhere.
B IP. BOOP. BEEP , went the alarms around the city and in the disparate suburbs and towns across the breadth of the entire country. COO COO COO COOOOO. AND LET’S CHECK ON THE WEATHER —They continued to rouse the sleeping women into a sometimes stinging memory of who they were and what, in the middle of their lives, they’d become.
“You’ve got your Vocab Ventures workbook, bud?” Amy asked Mason now as they walked toward the door of the apartment. More than once each week they turned back at this juncture, searching for some forgotten item of his. Amy was aggravated by Mason’s forgetfulness, but he was a boy, and some of her friends said that their sons were exactly like this.
“Thank God we’re here,” Karen Yip, the mother of twin sons, had said recently when they were all discussing the inefficiency of boys over breakfast at the Golden Horn. “If we weren’t, they’d be found dead in an alley.”
“Yes, without their homework,” another mother had added.
Today Mason had the Vocab Ventures workbook but had left his clarinet behind. He went and searched, and came up empty-handed. “Can’t find it,” he said. “So Mr. Livio will mark me unprepared. It’s not a big deal, Mom.”
“What kind of an attitude is that? Find it, please. Now. ” Her own words struck her as hateful. She was irritable lately, as though it were his fault that she felt a little aimless. “Go on, honey,” she added.
Mason poked around, then suddenly he remembered something, and he dug into his backpack and retrieved the electronic object-finder that had been programmed for moments such as this one. He punched in a few numbers, and then they waited. A small voice began to speak elsewhere in the apartment, and Mason and Amy followed the muffled sound until they were standing in the doorway of his bedroom, where an android voice was repeatedly intoning Your-cla-ri-net-is-o-ver-here from the dark cavern beneath the bed. Technology had rescued him yet again, as it always would.
While her son gathered his things together, Amy walked to the window and hauled up the shade, so that the dim morning light became yellow, white, optimistic, spreading. She and Mason headed into the hall and rang for the elevator. When it arrived, the doors opened to reveal two women dressed for work, both in suits. “Morning,” one said.
“Morning,” said Amy.
They smelled of shampoo and a light creeping of scent, and they both seemed highly alert. Stepping into the elevator with Mason, Amy felt as though she must seem to them like a rumpled bed, or a sweet old farm animal. She endured the ride with her eyes closed. Down in the large lobby there was a small crowd standing around the doorman’s counter. On duty was Hector, a slender young man whose peaked hat was too big for his head, giving him the appearance of a child playing
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