Little Children (6 page)

Kathy was still awake, hiding behind a fat biography of Eisenhower when Todd entered the bedroom. Aaron was asleep beside his mother.

“Where were you?” she asked, striking a tone of profound indifference.

For an instant, Todd actually considered telling her the truth—i.e., that instead of studying he’d spent the night playing tackle football with a bunch of cops—but then he saw a better way.

“I joined the Committee of Concerned Parents,” he told her. “We’re distributing the flyers about that creep on Blueberry Court.”

It was not technically a lie, at least not the second part. They
had
distributed flyers—Larry had taped about a dozen on the pervert’s front door, and then he and Todd had tossed handfuls out of the car windows as they drove away, littering the neighborhood with warnings. It was actually kind of fun, letting the wind pull the papers out of his hand, watching the individual sheets flutter and dive to the ground.

Kathy put down her book and studied him with a quality of attention he rarely received from her these days. He was delighted to see that she was wearing her black camisole, the semisheer one that offered a shadowy glimpse of her nipples, but his pleasure was diluted somewhat by the thought—not the first time it had passed through his head—that she was a lot more likely to wear something sexy to bed on nights when she was home alone with Aaron. When Todd was around she favored extra-large sweatpants in weird colors and T-shirts that hung to her knees.

“You remember Larry Moon?” he continued. “That retired cop from the sprinkler park?”

“The guy with the twins?”

“Yeah, it’s his organization.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I can take him or leave him. But this committee makes a lot of sense. It’s pretty scary having a guy like that living right in town.”

Kathy glanced at Aaron, who was sprawled out on his back, one arm bent at a right angle, the other sticking out straight. There were bunnies and carrots on his pajamas.

“I know,” she said, touching him tenderly on the forehead. “I hate to even think about it.”

Todd showered with the efficiency of a man who believes he has a fairly decent chance of getting laid if he hurries. All the stars were in alignment—Kathy was awake and wearing black underwear; Aaron was far away in dreamland. What was there to stop them, aside from a little soreness in his ribs?

This is what we need,
he thought, brushing his teeth at twice the normal speed.
Something to take my mind off that kiss.

Todd was painfully aware of the fact that he and Kathy had not made love for over three weeks. First, she’d had her period, then she’d been stressed out at work. One or the other of them was usually too tired at night, and Aaron was always hanging around in the morning, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of physical contact that didn’t involve him. About six months earlier, they’d somehow managed to plop him in front of the TV by himself while they shared a precious—if somewhat distracted—half hour upstairs. Todd still remembered how good it felt afterward, lounging around like royalty in his bathrobe, sipping coffee and exchanging significant glances with his wife, but it was a one-shot deal. Now, whenever Todd—it was always Todd—suggested that Aaron go downstairs and watch PBS while he and Mommy “rested” for a little while longer, their little chaperone immediately smelled a rat and insisted that one of them join him on the living room couch.

Deciding that this was no time for subtlety, Todd emerged from the bathroom wearing only a towel, his manly intentions on full display. All he had to do was successfully transfer Aaron to his own bed without waking him, and they’d be home free. But when he pulled back the covers and slipped his hands under his son’s knees and shoulders, Kathy released a barely audible whimper of protest.

“Please don’t.”

Todd straightened up, his high hopes already wilting.

“Come on, Kathy. How many times do we have to argue about this? He’s three years old. He needs to start sleeping by himself.”

“I know,” she said, in the melancholy tone of someone fighting a battle she knew she’d someday have to lose. “But he just looks so comfy.”

“He’ll be just as comfy in his own bed.”

“I just like to have him next to me.” She gazed down at her son with a look of profound adoration and shook her head, as if to say that she knew Todd was right but was helpless in the face of her own feelings. “Don’t you love his warm little body?”

What about me?
Todd wanted to ask.
What about my big warm body?

“Look, Kathy, I’m just getting a little tired of waking up with his foot in my face.”

“But isn’t he just so perfect? Was there ever a more perfect face in the entire history of the world?”

There was only one right answer to a question like that. And besides, for the most part Todd did like having Aaron in bed with them, especially when he was all warm and soapy-smelling from his bath. He’d wake up happy at the first light of morning and beg his parents to tickle him until he couldn’t take it anymore, at which point he’d beg them to stop.

“He is a handsome devil,” Todd had to admit.

“I know,” said Kathy. “He’s my perfect little man.”

So Todd cast off his towel, put on a pair of boxers, and climbed into bed with his wife and sleeping child. Just before she turned off the light, Kathy leaned over Aaron to give Todd a kiss. He pushed himself up on his elbows, just high enough to get a quick peek at her breasts. Even after five years of marriage, it still gave him a little thrill.

“Night, night,” she told him.

“Night, night,” he said.

RONNIE WASN’T COOPERATING.

“Okay,” he said. “How about this? Overweight ex-con with receding hairline, bites nails and smokes like chimney. Likes kiddie porn and quiet nights in front of the television.”

“That’s not funny,” said May.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Come on, Ronnie. This isn’t going to work if you don’t try. We’ve got to look on the bright side.”

“The bright side? Why didn’t you say so? Let’s see…I have no job, no friends, and everyone hates me. I think that about covers it.”

“You have friends,” May insisted, but she regretted the remark as soon as it came out of her mouth.

“Yeah? Like who?”

She thought it over. “What about Eddie Colonna?”

“That was tenth grade, Ma. If Eddie saw me now, he’d probably spit in my face.”

“You must have had friends in…in…” May’s voice trailed off. She had a hard time saying the word
prison
out loud. “You lived there for three years.”

“Oh yeah,” said Ronnie. “I was extremely popular.”

“Dr. Linton liked you,” she continued, not knowing why she felt a need to press on with such an upsetting subject.

“She was paid to like me. If the state stopped sending her checks, I don’t think we’d have been hanging out together too much.”

“Didn’t she say you were highly intelligent?”

“She also said I was unusually devious and not to be trusted around children.”

“Well, I know Bertha likes you.” This wasn’t precisely true, but May was determined not to come up empty-handed. “She said so the other day.”

“Oh, that makes me feel much better. It’s nice to have a nasty old wino in my corner.”

“Bertha’s my best friend. And I won’t have you talking about her like that.”

“You know why she likes you, Ma?” Ronnie was giving her that hard, pitiless look, the one that scared her sometimes. Like he saw right through everything and everyone, to the worst truths you could imagine. “Did you ever think about that?”

“Don’t,” said May. “Don’t do this to me.”

Ronnie let out a long, weary breath and buried his face in his hands. Then he smiled meekly, doing his best to be a good boy.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I know you’re trying. But sometimes that just makes it worse.”

May couldn’t really blame him for being discouraged. It was bad enough that his own sister refused to talk to him or let him anywhere near her kids, and even worse that he couldn’t find a job, not even collecting garbage, or delivering pizza, or bagging groceries. All the applications had a question about your criminal record; you got in trouble with your parole officer if you lied, and nobody would hire you if you told the truth. And then those posters started showing up with his picture on them, spreading the ugly rumor that he’d been involved in that poor girl’s disappearance five years ago. But the police had looked into all that. He’d been called in for questioning three times—once by the FBI—and nothing had happened. If Ronnie had had something to do with that, they would have arrested him, wouldn’t they?

“Come on,” said May. She held up the personal ads page of
The Bellington Register
. “There are two whole columns of lonely women here, and only a handful of men. The odds are on your side.”

Ronnie lit a cigarette and gave May the same incredulous look he’d been giving her since he was a teenager, as though she were some sort of fantastical creature never before seen on earth.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Why wouldn’t one of these women want to meet a nice person like you?”

“I’m not a nice person,” Ronnie said. “I’m the scum of the earth.”

“You did a bad thing,” May admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”

“I have a psychosexual disorder, Ma.”

“You’re better now,” said May. “They wouldn’t have let you out if you weren’t.”

“They let me out because they had to.”

Ronnie lit a fresh cigarette, sucking on it like a kid drinking out of a straw. May felt panicky, like maybe one of her breathing attacks was coming on. Her inhaler was upstairs by her bed, next to her denture glass. She wished she’d thought to bring it down.

“Well, maybe if you found a girlfriend”—she paused for breath—“closer to your own age, you wouldn’t have the bad urges so often.”

“I don’t want a girlfriend my own age,” said Ronnie. “I wish I did.”

“Look at this one,” said May, choosing an ad at random. Even with her reading glasses on, the print was painfully small. “‘
Lovely green eyes. Kindhearted DWF, 33, looking for friendship and maybe more. Nonsmoker preferred
.’ Whoops, forget her. How about this one? ‘
Full-figured mama, midforties. Likes swing dancing,
Everybody Loves Raymond,
and lazy Sunday mornings.
’”

“Full-figured,” chuckled Ronnie. “She’s probably three hundred pounds. The black guys in jail would go for her.”

“So what if she is? Maybe she’s a nice person inside. Maybe she’d appreciate it if someone gave her a chance and didn’t make her feel bad about the way she looked. Maybe she’d be willing to overlook another person’s faults as well.”

Ronnie took another drag and exhaled two neat jets of smoke from his nose, just the way his father used to do. If Pete had been kinder and more reliable, May had a feeling Ronnie would have been a happier child. Maybe the other boys wouldn’t have picked on him so much, or maybe he’d have known how to defend himself when they did. But her ex-husband was a liar, and a cheater, and a mean drunk who enjoyed making other people feel small and stupid, and Ronnie was always his favorite target. When he finally left it had seemed like the end of the world to May, but now she saw that it was for the best. Ronnie gave a small shrug of surrender.

“All right, Ma. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll give it a shot. But just one date, all right? I’m not gonna make a career of it.”

He was humoring her, but that was better than nothing. It wasn’t natural for a grown man to be living with his mother, no hobbies and diversions, just reading the paper and watching TV all day. It was almost like he was still in prison, except for the long rides he took on his old bike, which made her nervous, since he refused to tell her where he went or what he was doing. But a bike was better than a car, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t want him going around in a car, or in a van, God forbid. Plus, he could use the exercise. He was always complaining about the prison food, but he’d come home fifteen pounds heavier than when he’d gone in.

What he needed was a girlfriend, and May intended to help him find one. If he had a nice girl in his life, maybe he wouldn’t spend so much time alone in his room, spying on the neighborhood kids through his binoculars. He always denied it, but she knew what he was up to. And if he got married someday—Why not? Didn’t all sorts of people get married: midgets, retarded people, people with missing limbs, whatever?—then she could die in peace, without worrying about what would become of her boy if she wasn’t around to keep him out of trouble. Because she got so tired sometimes and just wanted a little rest, some time to put her feet up. Didn’t she deserve that much, after a long life with so much trouble in it, and so little happiness? She often found herself thinking about the cemetery as she drifted off to sleep at night, and it seemed like a nice, welcoming place, all that grass and those beautiful trees, and neighbors who didn’t make you feel like you had some sort of disease. She flipped open her steno pad and started writing.

“You have a nice smile,” she said. “Why don’t we start with that?”

As usual, Bertha arrived just in time for lunch, carrying a small brown grocery bag.

“Here’s the fruit juice,” she said in a loud voice, winking slyly as she handed the bag to May. “I brought the fruit juice like you told me, Mrs. McGorvey.”

For some reason or other, Bertha insisted on calling the wine coolers “fruit juice.” At first, May had assumed that she did it for the benefit of any neighbors who might be within earshot—not that it was any of their damn business—but it turned out just to be another of Bertha’s private jokes. She had a whole storehouse of them—most were tiresome rather than funny—but May accepted them as the price of her company. God knows she’d put up with worse in her day.

“Where’s the Prince?” Bertha asked, peering into the living room. “Out gallivanting on his tricycle?”

Almost as soon as Ronnie had come home, Bertha had nicknamed him “the Prince” in honor of his alleged freeloading tendencies, even though May had explained repeatedly that her son was not unemployed by choice. Bertha scoffed at this claim. In her view, Ronnie had an enviable setup: a grown man with no responsibilities whatsoever, boarding at his mother’s expense, eating chips and watching cable all day, and generally carrying on like a member of the royal family.

“He’s getting some exercise,” said May, though both women understood that Ronnie despised Bertha and timed his bike rides to coincide with her visits.

“Something smells delicious.” Bertha sniffed the air as though it were a flower. “What’s on the grill?”

“Nothing,” said May. “We’re having tuna sandwiches.”

“And fruit juice,” said Bertha. “Don’t forget the fruit juice.”

Until she’d struck up her friendship with Bertha, May hadn’t been in the habit of drinking in the daytime hours—in fact, she rarely drank at all—but she’d learned to make an exception for her wine cooler at lunch. Partly she did it to be sociable—Bertha didn’t like to drink alone—but she’d come to rely on the pleasantly fuzzy mental state induced by the beverage, even if it sometimes left her headachy and tired later in the afternoon. It was a small indulgence, and May felt like she’d earned the right.

May had first seen Bertha four years earlier in the visiting area of the county jail, where they each had a son awaiting trial. It was hard for them not to notice each other, two old white women in a sea of mostly younger, mostly darker faces. May would offer a shy smile of commiseration whenever they made eye contact, but she was reluctant to introduce herself or otherwise invite conversation. Ronnie’s case had attracted a fair amount of lurid publicity—the Girl Scout cookie angle made it irresistible to the newspapers—and May had felt a distinct chill fall over most of her encounters with other people. Friends stopped calling. Neighbors no longer smiled and waved hello. Her own daughter said terrible things about Ronnie that were probably true, but that May didn’t think should be spoken out loud by members of his own family. Father Ortega even suggested that she take a short break from volunteering on bingo night until “things settled down.” May was in no hurry to meet anyone new, or put herself in any kind of situation where she’d have to explain who she was and what she was doing at the county jail.

It was Bertha who finally broke the ice. She followed May out to the parking lot one breezy spring afternoon and began chatting as naturally as if they were old friends, making a series of statements to which May could only say
Amen
, about how mortifying it was to see your own child under lock and key, and how he was still your little boy, no matter what he’d done, and how you had no choice but to keep loving him, no matter what he’d done, and how impossible it was for other people who hadn’t had this experience to understand the strength of the bond between a mother and her child, no matter what he’d done. Then she started moaning about the long and difficult trip from the courthouse back home to Bellington on Sunday, when the buses ran so infrequently, and before May had a chance to think it through, she blurted out that she lived in Bellington, too, and would be happy to give her a ride home.

For the next few weeks May shuttled her new friend back and forth on visiting days, until Bertha’s son, Allen, was sentenced to six months—it was not his first offense—for stealing a welding machine from a construction site and trying to sell it to a man who turned out to be a cousin of the original owner. By that point, though, Bertha had already begun stopping by May’s house at lunchtime, first by invitation, then on impulse, and finally, on a more or less daily basis. During the school year, Bertha worked as a crossing guard outside the Rayburn School, and she had a couple of hours to kill between lunchtime and dismissal, so why not spend them with May?

And the truth was, May appreciated the company. Not because she liked Bertha, exactly—Bertha was hard to like in any simple way—but because a person needed company. Something went sour inside if you didn’t have someone to talk to every day. So what if Bertha dyed her hair a brassy red and drank too much (though May couldn’t say she approved of her drinking on school days), or made mean jokes, and rarely had a good word to say about anyone? No one else was visiting May these days, except her daughter, Carol, who came by maybe once a month to complain about Ronnie and insist that May acknowledge what a repulsive person he was. Diane Thuringer from down the street, whom May had once considered a good friend, pretended not to notice her even after their carts almost collided in the supermarket. So that was May’s choice: not between Bertha and family, or between Bertha and someone nicer, but between Bertha and no one.

It wasn’t that hard to choose.

“He knows where the body is,” Bertha insisted. “You can tell by the way he blinks those shifty little eyes.”

May didn’t even like thinking about Gary Condit, let alone talking about him. The missing girl, the grieving parents, the murderer walking around unpunished—it was just too horrible. Bertha, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough.

“He might as well have had the word
guilty
stamped across his forehead. And sweet little wifey standing by his side.”

What else can she do?
May wanted to ask.
What else can she do if she loves him?

“I got news for Congressman Howdy Doody.” Bertha twisted off the cap on wine cooler number two. She could polish off three or four during the average lunch. “His shit stinks like everyone else’s.”

“Please,” said May. “Language.”

“I hope she gets to visit him in prison. I’m sure he’ll look very distinguished in his jumpsuit.” Bertha cackled at the thought. “So who spray-painted your driveway?”