The Leavers(20)

On the first day of fifth grade at P.S. 33, Mama and Vivian had walked Deming and Michael out the door of their building. All along the block were kids streaming out of their own buildings, big kids, little kids, sisters and brothers, and at the light was a crossing guard, a Puerto Rican lady who always said, “Good morning, sweethearts” in a sugary alto. Ridgeborough Middle School seemed miles away from Kay and Peter’s house.

HE HEARD THEM TALKING on the other side of his bedroom wall.

“It sounds horrible, but maybe a younger child would’ve been easier,” Kay said. “More of a blank slate.”

“We waited years for a younger child,” Peter said. “Even when we were still thinking about China.”

“I know. But I can’t figure out how to act around him sometimes.”

“Be yourself. Aren’t children supposed to know if you’re not being natural?”

“You’re at school all day. Are you sure you can’t work here at least part of the time? We have a study, you can write there.”

“Let’s not go through all this again,” Peter said. “You know this is an important semester for me.”

“It’s not like they’re going to decide to not make you department chair because you come home early once in a while. Work-life balance. You’ve been there forever, they know you and your work. That’s not about to change.”

“Not with Valerie in the running. She has no kids to worry about and one more book than I do. I have to work more right now, not less.”

“Honey. Really.”

“There’s no work-life balance when it comes to academia. You of all people should know that. But it could be different for women. There aren’t the same expectations, the same drive.”

“Right.” Kay laughed. “We don’t have drive! We’re expected to do all of the childcare and all of the cooking and go to work and teach and do research and write our own books. We’re expected to support our husbands, make sure they’re taken care of so they can do their very important work. And lucky me, I get to be an adjunct forever.”

“Well, you wanted this. And now you have it.”

“Oh, that is not fair. You wanted it, too.”

It was quiet. If Kay left Peter for another man, would Deming have to go back to the city?

“You did want it,” Kay said. “Right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think we’re going to be okay at this?”

“Of course,” Peter said. “That’s the advantage of fostering. We can try it on for size, see what happens.”

“I’m afraid to get too attached. The aunt or the mother, they could come back for him anytime.”

“We’ll take it day by day.”

“And not that I think that success in parenting is biological, but it’s hard. It doesn’t come naturally, though I hate to use such an essentialist term.”

“It takes time. It’ll be better once he goes to school. He’ll make friends. You’ll see.”

“I want him to open up to me. Tell me about his mother or the city or anything.”

“He’s been through a lot. Don’t push it.”

There was another silence, and Deming was backing away from the wall when he heard Peter say, “Maybe it’s cultural, why he’s more reserved?”

“Maybe. Maybe. Oh, are we crazy? Having him live in a town with no other Asian kids? I wouldn’t blame him if he hated us.”

“I’m not going to say it’ll be easy,” said Peter. “But white, black, purple, green, kids of all races have struggles with belonging. They’re fat, or their parents don’t have a lot of money.”

“That’s true,” Kay said. “I was a bookworm with glasses. I never belonged in my hometown.”

“Issues are colorblind.”

“If things work out, we’ll have to make sure we connect him with his culture. I’ll talk to Elaine about that summer camp.”

“We’ll take care of him. That’s all that matters, and he knows that.”

Deming pressed his ear against the wall, but Peter’s words faded into mush.

He slipped into bed. His mother was short and round and nothing like Kay. Don’t think about her. His mother talked with her hands and let him watch as much TV as he wanted. Don’t think about that. Kay and Peter only allowed three hours of TV per week. They preferred PBS.

THE KITCHEN SMELLED LIKE milk farts and meat. Kay heaped Deming’s plate with meatloaf, gravy, and brussels sprouts and filled his glass with cold skim milk. Milk gave Deming stomachaches but Peter said it was good for him, so he drank a glass at every meal.

He made sure to set the dinner table the way Kay taught him, forks and knives in the right order, no spoons, napkins and placemats centered, glasses in their proper corners. The other night, he saw Kay move the glass he’d placed in front of her placemat from the left corner to the right. Right, not left! Don’t screw up again.

“One more day of summer and it’s back to school for all of us,” Peter said. Classes started tomorrow at Ridgeborough Middle and Carlough College, where Peter taught economics and Kay taught political science.

Deming wedged meatloaf against the side of his cheek. If he gave in to the Wilkinsons he would be stuck here with them, his real family forever lost.