Long Bright River(64)

I hesitate. I want to ask them what they do, but there’s a part of me that imagines they might not work—that they might have the resources to send their children to nursery school for its enriching qualities, not because their livelihoods depend upon it.

I am still struggling with how to phrase this question when Georgia says, What’s going on with those murders in Kensington?

—Oh, I say, surprised. Well, there’s a lead. But nothing definite.

—Are they connected? says Georgia.

—Looks like it, I say.

—I hope you guys figure it out, says Georgia. I don’t like how close that whole business is to the kids’ school.

I pause.

—Well, I say. I don’t think preschoolers are what this person is after.

Both women look at me.

—I mean, yes, me too, I say. I think we’re getting close to apprehending him. Don’t worry.

More false comfort dispensed. More silence. I cross my arms around my middle, shift my weight from leg to leg.

—I hope everyone’s okay, says Georgia, looking at her watch.

—Who? I say. Confused.

—I mean I hope everyone can find this place okay. I got turned around a little bit myself.

—Oh, I say, suddenly realizing. Oh, this is it.

—Keeping it small, says Lauren. Smart.

—This is it? Georgia says, making a circle in the air with her hand.

Thomas comes over, ready with a list of things he wants to order. A shake and chicken nuggets and a hamburger and french fries and another shake. Lila and Carlotta are behind him, ready with their own orders. Clearly they’ve been plotting.

But Georgia kneels down and places her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Carlotta, she says, we talked about this. We brought lunch, remember?

Carlotta’s eyes get wide. She begins shaking her head back and forth, incredulous at the injustice that’s about to transpire.

—No, she says. No, I need a hambirder. I need a hambirder and fries.

Georgia glances up at us quickly before standing and steering her daughter, now crying, ten feet away, where she crouches down again and speaks to her lowly, urgently.

I turn away, pretending not to watch, or care. But I can imagine what Georgia is telling Carlotta: This food is not for us, honey. This is not food that is healthy enough or nourishing enough for me to allow you to eat.

I imagine that she thought it would be a large party. That they could slip away unnoticed to eat their healthful, nourishing food.

—What’s wrong with Carlotta? Thomas asks, and I say, I’m not sure. Let’s give her some space.

Georgia is now leading a wailing Carlotta out of the restaurant by her arm. She looks back at the rest of us and holds up a finger stiffly: one minute.

—But will she come back? Thomas says to me, placing both hands on my folded arms, hanging there, uncertain.

—I think so, I say, but the mistake I made, inviting them here, is settling onto me.

It is Lauren, finally, who claps her hands together, breaking the spell.

—I don’t know about you guys, she says, but I’m hungry for a Big Mac.

I look at her.

—I freaking love Big Macs. My guilty pleasure, she says to me seriously, and I want to say to her thank you, thank you.

—I love Big Macs too, says Thomas. My guilty pleasure, too.



* * *



—

After we order, the four of us—Lauren, Lila, Thomas, and me—find a table for six and sit down to eat together. Georgia and Carlotta return and Georgia furtively hustles her daughter back to the indoor playground, where she will play by herself until the meal is over.

Lauren is sitting across from me, and at first I’m not certain what to say to her. I’ve never been good at making conversation, and especially not with someone like Lauren, who, I imagine, must not know anyone on earth like me or my family. I have always suspected that people like Lauren consider people like me and my family trashy, or scary, or too much trouble and burden to deal with. All of us with our many, many problems, a line with no beginning and no end.

But Lauren is nonchalant, holding her soda lightly and loosely, teasing her daughter when she spills ketchup on her shirt.

—This shit happens constantly, right? she says, rolling her eyes at me. I hadn’t expected the curse.

Another way I misjudged her: Lauren has a real job, one that requires her to get up and go to work every day. She’s a producer for Philadelphia’s public radio station. She majored in broadcast communications, she says. Thought she’d go into television reporting. (She’s certainly pretty enough.) Ended up, instead, constructing segments for the radio.

—I like it better, she says. Don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to spackle makeup on my face.

For fifteen minutes, we make conversation with remarkable ease, our children next to us, eating contentedly the food that Carlotta’s mother has deemed unfit for her daughter. Thomas’s little face is lit up with pleasure and excitement, his hands moving quickly over the table to touch his Big Mac, and then his french fries, and then his shake. He is counting his winnings. He is having a happy birthday.





It is only a short time later that I see my son’s expression change.

—Thomas? I say.

Before I can stop him, he leaps up and runs across the space between our table and the cash registers.