The Wisdom of Perversity by Rafael Yglesias

through
Modern Farmer
and
Sunrise Semester
until the relief of
The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show.
Mr. Peabody was especially funny this morning. But that was an hour ago. Practically the whole day was gone. “Harriet’s up and Jeff’s on the phone right now. Okay? Can I go?”
    â€œWhy don’t you invite him here? I’ll make you boys French toast.”
    â€œHe can’t. Okay? Can I go?”
    â€œWhy can’t he come down?”
    Brian leaned his head against the wall and groaned. “Mom,” he complained.
    â€œJust tell me why he can’t come down.”
    â€œJeff needs me to help him with something.”
    â€œHelp him with what?”
    Brian stared at the embossed gold letters on the cover of the book in her lap, calculating whether it might help to mention the tape recorder. He could omit that it was portable so going upstairs would seem unavoidable. A better idea struck: “Jeff’s doing a really great thing today, Mom, and he says if I hurry he’ll let me help him.”
    She squinted skeptically. “Help with what?”
    â€œHe’s gonna allow me to paint his fence white,” Brian said, making a dopey face.
    She frowned while figuring out his joke. Finally her downturned mouth lifted. “I can’t believe you got me to fall for that,” she said, laughing.
    He pressed: “His mom wants him to stay home today. ’Cause it’s almost his birthday or something like that. He’s on the phone. Can I go?”
    Still chuckling, she nodded.
    Jeff was waiting for him at his front door, proudly cradling the tape recorder in his arms. It was the size of a large spiral notebook, housed in beige plastic, a row of shiny black buttons below two translucent reels.
    As soon as the door shut behind them, Harriet’s voice carried down the long hall from her bedroom, demanding, “Jeff? Is that Brian?”
    Jeff ignored his mother’s question. He pointed at the full reel of tape on the left side. “It’ll record an hour on Long Play.”
    â€œWhat’s Long Play?”
    â€œI’ll show you,” Jeff said, and he walked down the hall toward the bedrooms.
    â€œJeffrey? Who is it?” Harriet called. Jeff continued to ignore her, carrying the tape recorder before him, power cord trailing in his wake. Brian picked up the plug to prevent it from being damaged by bumping on the floor, and that’s how they appeared to Harriet when Jeff paused outside her room, friends tethered like mountain climbers. “Hi, Brian,” Harriet said as faintly as if she were about to expire. She lay above the covers of her bed wearing a pale pink slip, a heating pad on her meaty right arm and shoulder, her torso and left leg under a red and black knit afghan, the right leg and its varicose veins exposed. This pose was unvarying, except for the location of afghan and heating pad. They were shifted daily, according to new and recurring maladies.
    It felt to Brian as if he had never seen Harriet on her feet for longer than a few seconds. She worked for New York City’s Parks Department, not implausibly as a ranger but as a safety inspector, a job suited to her critical nature. She reviewed the equipment and condition of the more than one hundred playgrounds in Queens. When exactly she rose from her bed and went outside to check on them was a mystery to Brian. Sometimes she wasn’t in the apartment, so she was up and about somewhere, but those occasions were unusual. While Harriet was at home, Brian occasionally caught her moving a few steps from the bed to fetch an errant section of the Sunday
Times,
but no greater a jaunt than a few feet. If Brian stayed for supper they ate in Jeff’s room, usually TV dinners they prepared themselves. Sometimes they ordered pizza and Harriet ate her slices in bed off a tray. When Harriet’s physical complaints migrated to her stomach they went out with Saul, Jeff’s father, to