She is here. So there’s no way to know.
“I’m just a little concerned.” Eye flick. “Because of what happened today.”
Sebastian shrugs. “They’re children. They’re boys.”
“Yes, but . . .” She gives Jennifer a smile that’s not quite a smile, a potent cocktail of anger and apology. “What happened today was more than the usual roughhousing.”
“Megan,” Sebastian said, “they’re fine. You have to relax. You have to let this go.”
“I’m just being careful. I don’t want . . . I’m just being careful.”
“They’re fine,” Sebastian says. “Boys will be boys.”
“Boys will be boys,” Megan repeats. Jennifer knows that Megan is thinking about the little hole in her son’s face. That she wants to protect him, not only from that but from boys will be boys: the abuse you’re supposed to take without flinching, the abuse you’re supposed to dole out. If Milo were not her child, it’s possible she’d agree with Megan that Ben shouldn’t play with him. But because he is, she’s grateful to Sebastian for his efforts to make the whole thing go away. Shake it off. Get back in the game. How easily opinions shift from vantage point to vantage point. Of course we’re all hypocrites. Without hypocrisy there’s no survival.
Jennifer has not said a word. She can’t think of a word to say. Jennifer knows now, with the intuitive certainty she feels in massage, that if Megan hears her story their friendship won’t survive. It’s not, and never has been, Megan who might understand her.
“If you’re so worried about it,” Sebastian says, “why are you here talking to us? Go monitor them.”
Megan nods. “Fine.” She heads off toward the playground, calling out, “Ben?”
The boys whoop with startled glee in response, dashing around the jungle gym in Megan’s direction, then abruptly changing course as they get close to her. They run away screaming, and Megan obliges them by running after, making monster sounds.
Maybe Jennifer should follow, join in, apologize, plead her case. But she doesn’t.
“She didn’t even notice,” Sebastian says. “So at least I didn’t have to lie.”
“I almost wish Ben would do something to Milo,” Jennifer says. “In front of Megan. Nothing too bad, of course. Just push him down or smack him upside the head. Just so they’d be even.”
“You almost wish that?” Sebastian asks.
“I wish it,” she says.
Later, when they part, Megan says, “Let’s get together,” but not as if she means it.
Like Apologies
We were set up across from a POW camp, living in a dirty building full of straw. I remember watching the POWs pick lice from their clothing. The night we arrived some of the buildings were still burning. After living in a blackout for so long it was scary to see lights at night. A German physician came to us in a German jeep under a white flag, and what he wanted was medicine so that he could carry on his experiments. We gave him nothing. We let him drive away. I remember windmills, an airfield with German planes smashed up on the ground, roads full of refugees. Houses crowded together, winding cobbled streets, church spires dominating the town. Trees and flowers in bloom. We were with a division and an armored outfit, and there’d been push after push, most of the casualties caused by twelve-or thirteen-year-old boys, all that was left to fight in Germany.
“It’s such a beautiful country,” I said to Kay. “I can’t understand why the Krauts won’t stay home and enjoy it.”
Kay didn’t answer. She was lying in her cot. By then, she was always lying in her cot, every chance she could get. Things were pretty slow right then, so she got a lot of chances. I was pacing between the two windows in our room, half-watching the POWs. I was restless. I felt compelled to keep Kay company, though she didn’t seem to want me to. I thought her back was worse. She had so little energy. She struggled to get up in the mornings. When I could get them, I brought her morphine syrettes. Even when she didn’t ask. Like they were flowers. Like they were apologies. She said very little now, so either we were silent together, or when I couldn’t bear that I chattered like a ninny.
“It’s almost lunchtime,” I said. “At least the army’s gotten wise to itself and made some decent C rations. Frankfurters and beans are a long way from that stinking meat and vegetable stew.”
“I can’t eat,” she said.
“I talked to some boys yesterday who were prisoners for seven and ten months. Just liberated. After they were captured they were marched for two days and nights, loaded on boxcars without food for five days. They were fed on turnip soup with meat sometimes but the meat was green, it was so old.”
Kay groaned. “Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”