“Soon. November or December, maybe.”
Madeleine nods. She glances at the floor, then back up. “How well do you know this person?”
Camille looks at her friend, the pleasingly regular features, smooth skin, thick auburn hair. There is nothing shadowed in her face, no canyon or concavity that speaks of pain or regret.
“How well do any of us know anyone?”
Madeleine is quiet. She smiles in a sad way, as if thinking of something private. She almost never talks about her own husband. When Camille brings him up, asks for details about his eccentric behavior, Madeleine changes the subject.
“What about Avis’s school?” Madeleine asks. “Aren’t you going to let her finish the year?”
Camille laughs. “It’s nursery school. And she’ll learn more from a nanny in Paris than she will here, don’t you think? She’ll become bilingual. Not to mention there’s a healthier balance in Europe, for mothers. Women don’t have to apologize for having lives, you know? They aren’t expected to spend every minute of the day in the playground. Kids play with kids, like they’re supposed to, and adults play with adults. That’s the way it used to be here, too, until the mommy police came into power.”
“Huh,” says Madeleine. “Well, I’ve never been to France.”
Camille sits straight up in her beanbag. “You should come! Well, not right away, of course. But after we get settled, if we decide to stay, you and David should come visit. We could show you around, and then who knows? Maybe you’ll want to stay, too. We can be our own little expatriate community.”
Madeleine smiles wistfully. “If we hadn’t just bought the house, maybe I’d consider it.”
“Oh, I could totally see you in Paris.” Camille nods. “You’d fit right in. You’d flourish.”
Again, a class mother stands sentinel at the preschool entrance, holding a clipboard with papers, an alert, searching smile on her face. Camille puts on a rushed, apologetic look and manages to duck past with Avis. But on her way back out of the building, the woman ambushes her.
“Please, would you sign? Here’s a flyer.”
As many of you are aware, many citizens of Old Cranbury are unhappy with the nature of the “art installation” that is currently being displayed on the property of our neighbors on Minuteman Road. Please sign this petition if you would like to see this inconsiderate eyesore removed and the property values of our town restored. Thank you!!!
Camille reads the flyer again, unable to decipher its meaning. She looks at the woman. “What art installation?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen it. That big new house on the corner of Minuteman and Edgeware, all covered with rubber? Do you know what that is? It’s thousands of foam insects. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It looks like the Swamp Thing.”
“That’s what this petition is about?”
“You bet. Here’s a pen.”
Camille studies the woman. She is petite and redheaded, with a bob cut and gray raincoat, like a little Joan of Arc. Her pretty, pointed chin is infuriating.
“I can’t believe you people are serious.”
The woman tilts her head and smiles, as if Camille has said something sweet. “Well, obviously when this kind of thing happens, it’s very bad for property values. Not to mention that it’s against town zoning. There’s a standard of appropriateness that homeowners have to abide by, otherwise people could construct gas stations on their properties, or raise pigs in the front yard.”
“God forbid,” Camille says, rounding her eyes. She can only imagine what the neighbors must say about her own, unmolested property. They would probably bring her to court, if they could, for the bald patches in her grass.
It occurs to her that she is in a unique position, with one foot already out of this place. Before she leaves, perhaps it is her duty to provoke a little self-reflection. She meets the woman’s sparkling gaze and smiles. Then, with one motion, she reaches out and plucks the papers from her hand. They make a rude, guttural sound as she rips them in half.