“My mom asked me to.”
“Oh, okay. You’ve heard from Marion, then? Well, I guess that’s okay. You can sit there. I’m very busy, so you’ll need to stay quiet and not disturb me. I have some phone calls to make. It’s actually very difficult that Marion—your mother—isn’t here right now. It’s incredibly busy. I mean, it’s always busy, but now especially.” Daniel has a few odd tics, and Marion is good at imitating them. He has the habit of standing suddenly, and then sitting again, but as he does, he braces himself on the chair arms and thrusts his pelvis out. His son, Ezra, is nine, and Daniel is clear about never wanting Ezra. Ezra was Daniel’s wife’s idea.
“So do you know where Marion is?” Daniel sits down carefully at his desk. “I mean, of course you do, but more her actual locality?”
“My grandmother is sick. My mom’s with her or something.”
“Oh, your father didn’t mention that.”
“It just happened.”
“How old is your grandmother? Because it is complicated as the generation above you, responsible for you, deteriorates, ‘declines.’ My wife’s mother, my mother-in-law, is not a monster but she has glaucoma, and my wife, she does what she can.”
“My grandmother had a stroke. She can’t read anymore.”
“That’s terrible. My mother-in-law can’t see very well either and—”
“I mean she doesn’t know how. We’re going to ‘need’ flash cards.”
“Flash cards.”
“You know—‘dog,’ ‘cat,’ ‘their.’ I’ve got algebra.”
Daniel doesn’t register that a thirteen-year-old is mocking him with air quotes and rises again, thrusts out his pelvis, sits, and adjusts his tie.
“Of course, yes, yes, go ahead. If you’re late, tell your teacher you were speaking to me. And please give your mother my deepest condolences. And also ask her when she is coming back to work. Because there is an extraordinary amount of things that we need to do. I’m very busy.”
Ginny is late for algebra and receives another tardy. Daniel sends multiple texts about Ginny’s grandmother to Anna Fisher. Anna texts back, Who is this? Daniel replies, Daniel. He adds, I would have emailed, but you forbade it.
The School Bus
Jane at eight doesn’t have many friends. She used to have a lot, was very popular, always the first request for playdates. Now the requests are fewer and more secretive. Girls ask their mothers to make a playdate with Jane when they want to really get down and play. Jane is still the best at play. But this kind of play isn’t cool anymore, and Jane doesn’t understand. She sits by herself on the bus. She doesn’t mind; she makes up stories. She does mind when the kids on the bus chant things at her. Then she cries or yells or presses her forehead against the cool window and huffs. They are now chanting, “Jane fart-ed! Jane fart-ed! Jane fart-ed!” The bus driver is trying to make them stop, but she’s also navigating Flatbush Avenue. The children go on.
Atticus kneels on his seat backward in order to peer down at Jane; he wants to announce to the bus when she officially starts to cry. Atticus is the initiator of the chant, has claimed to have smelled the offense. Jane stands to face Atticus, draws her arm back, lets it spring forward, and slaps him across the face, and the sound, the crack, reverberates. The bus driver asks, “What happened, what happened?” while Jane watches Atticus’s eyes go glassy with tears. Jane says, “Nothing, Phyllis,” and Atticus twists away. He can’t admit that he is crying.
Jane feels good until she feels terrible. Atticus has a hand print on his cheek. He will inevitably tell, and she will get in trouble. She says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Atticus mumbles back from his seat that it’s fine. His words are damp.
Jane at thirty will feel two ways about this memory. First she’ll feel pride. The little shit deserved it, and no one helped her, no one cared that she was being tormented every day. Jane at eight doesn’t even know the torment is happening, that is how young and naive she is. She is helplessly herself, unable to mask one part of her personality in order to go under the radar. But Jane at thirty will also feel shame. It is the beginning of a certain kind of knowledge about herself. For an eight-year-old girl, Jane is strong. She’s been kicking, but the girls and boys dodge that, and she ends up looking foolish. Hitting is more effective. And while Jane feels bad that Atticus is crying and scared that she will be punished, it felt wonderful to hit him. She’s satisfied. Jane at thirty will still want to hit and kick.
Days Inn
Marion sits in bed, watches a sitcom, and eats the best black beans and rice she’s ever tasted. She can’t concentrate on the show, the beans and rice are so good. She’s eating out of a Styrofoam container with a plastic fork, and the fork scrapes the Styrofoam and Marion doesn’t care. This is the food she returns to. It’s what she lived on when she was first on her own; it’s the food she could eat when she was pregnant. It’s what she ate when she learned about Denise and the others. It settles her stomach.
She bought it from a taqueria a few blocks away. She was careful to buy it when the teachers were still in meetings, around 3:30 p.m. As soon as she is able, she must find a new neighborhood, because this is not tenable in the long run. The teachers will soon trudge back to their tiny grim apartments, and Marion will need to hide from them. Also, she can hear fucking next door and the carpet is dirty. Still, she’s not having a bad time. Marion feels as if she is repairing herself. Her sleep is heavy and sensual. She wakes gradually. Her skin feels good. She administers carefully to her own needs.
Fueled by the black beans and rice, the perfect protein, Marion decides she’s headed deeper into Brooklyn. Sunset Park is a helpful indicator of what she needs in a hideout, even if it’s not safe. She’ll go deeper into Brooklyn, back to where she came from, where no one will notice she’s back. Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn Heights, and Park Slope: she couldn’t walk a block without an inane conversation with someone she hardly knew. Where Marion’s from, neighbors give a halfhearted wave to each other and then go back to minding their own business. They may complain to each other about a shared inconvenience but never the faux but chic suburban small talk with yoga mats and canvas grocery bags and flaxen-haired children. So proud to be acting neighborly in a city. That type of exchange belongs to the delusional rich, Marion believes.
As a precaution, she will change her appearance. Dye her hair, buy some new clothes. It’s most likely unnecessary; two children, Nathan, and a decade have altered Marion on a molecular level. However, she needs confidence. Then she will look for a room. Marion closes her eyes to chew and taste the last bite of her dinner.
Ginny’s Detention