Vox(30)

“Use your words, Sonia.”

She sat up and pressed her lips together. At first, I thought she was playing the tough girl—as tough as a six-year-old can be when she’s swathed in pink sheets and surrounded by stuffed bunnies and unicorns. She was only getting ready.

“I was going to win tomorrow!” she said, and her mouth clamped shut again. I could almost hear the click of a steel key turning in its lock while she looked longingly at her naked wrist.

Finally, Leo poked his head in the doorway. “Sauce is bubbling, Mom. A lot.”

“How about turning off the gas?” I said, wondering how I was going to work, teach Sonia, and deal with a household of incompetent males over the next several months. Then, turning back to Sonia, I said, “We’ll work on a different kind of prize tomorrow, okay? Let’s go eat.”

She only shook her head and grabbed hold of Floppy the Bunny.

At the table, it’s Steven who puts words to my worries. “How’re you going to teach Sonia and work and take care of the house, Mom?” he says around a mouthful of pasta. “We still don’t have any milk.”

In my mind, I take hold of him by the collar and shake him until he’s dizzy. In reality, I say, “You could ride your bike over to Rodman’s and buy it yourself. Or you could walk to the 7-Eleven.”

“Not my job, Mom.”

Sam and Leo bury their noses in bowls of pasta.

Patrick goes red. “Steven, one more word like that and you can leave the table.”

“You need to get with the program, Dad,” Steven says. He takes another bite—a shovelful, really—and leans forward on his elbows. One finger pokes the air. “See, this is why we need the new rules. So everything can run like it’s supposed to.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m staring at him as if he’s from outer space. “Take me and Julia—”

“Julia and me,” I say.

“Whatevs. Me and Julia have it planned out. When we get married and have kids, she’ll take care of that house stuff while I’m at work. She loves it. I’ll make the decisions, and Julia will go along. Easy-peasy.”

I put my fork down, and it clangs against the rim of the plate. “You’re too young to get married. Patrick, talk to him.”

“What your mother said,” Patrick says. “Way too young.”

“We’ve talked about it.”

“You’ve talked about it,” I say, still not eating. “How exactly do you do that on Julia’s one hundred words a day? I’m curious.”

Steven sits back, done with his second bowl. “I haven’t talked about it with Julia,” he drawls. “I’ve talked about it with Evan.”

My blood is beginning to boil. “Does Julia get a say?”

There’s no response from my son, only a bewildered look, as if I’ve suddenly begun speaking in tongues. We stare at each other across the table like strangers until Patrick interrupts.

“Let it go, Jean. No sense in fighting about it. He’s too young, anyway.” Then he looks over at Steven. “Way too young.”

“Wrong again, Dad. A guy from the Department of Health and Welfare came to our school today. Major assembly. He talked about how next year they’re rolling out a new program. Get this: ten thousand bucks, full college tuition, and a guaranteed government job for anyone who’s married by eighteen. Boys, of course. And another ten thousand for each kid you have. Pretty sweet, huh?”

Sweet as snake venom, I think. “You’re not getting married at eighteen, kiddo.”

A smile works its way onto Steven’s face, only a touch of a smile that isn’t joined by his eyes. It’s really not a smile at all. “You don’t have anything to do with it, Mom. It’s Dad’s decision.”

Maybe this is how it happened in Germany with the Nazis, in Bosnia with the Serbs, in Rwanda with the Hutus. I’ve often wondered about that, about how kids can turn into monsters, how they learn that killing is right and oppression is just, how in one single generation the world can change on its axis into a place that’s unrecognizable.

Easily, I think, and push out my chair. “I’m going to call my parents,” I say. I tried yesterday and got no answer. This morning, no answer. Before dinner, no answer. It will be late over there, nearly midnight, but I want to talk to my mother.

It’s been way too long.





TWENTY-THREE




On Thursday morning, I put on a suit for the first time in more than a year. I had to climb up into the attic for it, forage through the boxes I’d stuffed with my better clothing in the days after Sonia and I were fitted with our counters. I hardly remember what I was doing, only that I had to keep my hands busy at trivial tasks. Otherwise, they would have found their way into walls or windows.

The outfit I choose is beige linen, for the heat. There’s barely time to press out a year’s worth of wrinkles and get my act together before the doorbell rings. Patrick lets the man in, and I recognize him instantly.

It’s Morgan LeBron, from my old department, the all-too-young and completely incapable little shit who took over Lin’s position. No wonder the president agreed so quickly to my conditions; Morgan is an idiot who doesn’t know he’s an idiot. The worst kind.