The Morels (25 page)

Remember. It’s okay, right, Angie? You said I wasn’t in trouble.

You’re not in trouble, Will.

What exactly do you remember, honey?

I was just showing him how. I asked him to.

Him who?

Art.

Art. You were showing Art how to what?

To you know.

I don’t know, Will honey. You have to tell me.

Penelope. I think it might be best if—

Are you
joking
? Are you
messing
with me?

I guess not. You’re mad, though.

Will, I’m not mad, but I need you to tell me—exactly—what you mean when you say that you
remember
.

Will, your mother and I will be back in a moment—you work on that puzzle.

Angie took Penelope out into the corridor and said, We have to be very careful here. If I can make a suggestion? I think before we jump to conclusions, Will should speak with someone about this.

Someone? Penelope couldn’t think; she was aware that her mouth was open, aware of the thought,
Close your mouth
. She closed her mouth. She thought,
This is it
, though she wasn’t sure what
it
was just yet. She needed to call Arthur, yet she was afraid to. She was, in fact, trembling, though her forehead was perspiring. Her mouth had gone dry, she could barely swallow, she could still taste the toothpaste, its grit coating the roof of her mouth. This woman, the teacher, was still talking. She was handing Penelope a card. She wanted Will to talk to this person, a child psychologist. She was waiting for Penelope to respond, but Penelope couldn’t respond. She was done talking; she needed to go now. She needed to get her son and go.

They left out the side exit into an alley off York Avenue. She hustled Will along (Where are we going, Mom?), pulling him by the hand, Will’s backpack jiggling on his back like an excited monkey. (I’m in trouble, aren’t I? You’re not in trouble, honey.) She had the urge to pick him up and carry him in her arms.

Where were they headed? What was she supposed to do?

Arthur was teaching. He turned off his cell phone when he was in class. She could call the office, and the work-study girl who answered the phones could go to Arthur’s classroom, get him to come speak with her. Or. She could go up there with Will now, in person, pull him out of class. But what would she say?

Not with Will. She should have let Will finish the day, as Angie had suggested. Anyway, what was there to say to Arthur? Plenty, although she couldn’t think, she couldn’t think—she needed to think! (Mom, the light’s green!)

No. She couldn’t talk to Arthur now.

Besides, there was nothing Arthur could say that would make this better. The psychologist. Maybe the psychologist could help.

Joyce Mandelbaum, Ph.D. Did Dr. Joyce take walk-ins? It was worth a shot.

Dr. Mandelbaum explained over the phone that her next free appointment for new clients wasn’t until the end of February, but when Penelope explained why she was calling, she found herself an hour later sitting in a waiting room, arranging a wicker nest of
Condé Nast Travelers
at her side by country. Italy was overrepresented. There were several closed doors and a small dim window across from her that let in the cooing of pigeons and the occasional groaning of a passing truck. A side table by the entrance held a dried-flower arrangement that gave the place a mentholated smell.

When Dr. Mandelbaum emerged, she did so without Will, ushering Penelope through one of the closed doors and into an empty office. Dr. Mandelbaum told her to sit.

“Will is angry,” she said, taking a seat herself, “that much is clear. Most of which seems directed toward his father.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s not so much what he said as what he did. You see, in my practice, unstructured play speaks louder than words.” Dr. Mandelbaum was holding a stack of Polaroids that she now handed to Penelope. “Working with children is different than working with adults. The tools one uses are different. With adults you have a couch and a box of tissues. With children, tissues won’t cut it. You need things, a closetful of things. Dolls and toy trucks and water pistols. You need clothing for dress-up, hats and scarves, pocket mirrors and long cigarette holders. You need kitchen utensils and buckets and mops and a full porcelain tea service for eight. I often
say very little. I’ll just open the closet and watch them play. Today, a stuffed dummy, a plastic knife, and a Polaroid camera. As you see, this can be very revealing.”

What Penelope was holding were “crime scene” photos. Will had set up the scene, Dr. Mandelbaum said, and then took the pictures as if he were an investigator. Various angles on a stuffed human-sized dummy sitting in an armchair. The dummy is wearing a dinner jacket, gloves, no pants. His head lolls back, and out of his lower abdomen protrudes a plastic knife, the dummy’s mitt of a hand touching the hilt. Several closeups of the wound. “I asked who did this to the man, and Will told me the man did it to himself.”

Penelope must have looked alarmed because Dr. Mandelbaum said, “Don’t worry. This kind of play is perfectly normal. Healthy, well-adjusted kids at one time or another will fantasize about offing their parents.”

“Do you think Will is telling the truth?”

“I put the question to him directly, and he answered quite straightforwardly. Yes, he insists. It’s true. And while he showed no obvious signs that he was trying to deceive me, neither did he exhibit the sorts of signals I’m used to seeing that help to confirm such abuse.”

“What kind of signals?”

“Oh, embarrassment, for one. Usually, a child will not readily admit to something like this, and if they do, it is a deeply cathartic experience, bringing about great shame. But Will seems—nonplussed by it. A little nervous maybe. This doesn’t mean he’s lying, however. It’s a tricky business. I would be very wary of contacting the police at this point—before I’ve spent more time with him. Their default position I’m afraid is to take the testimony of the child at face value—admirable, I’m sure, but one which unfortunately leads to a miscarriage of justice in too many cases. Not denigrating the important work they do. They’re heroes, many of them. I happen to be married to one, and he has put away some very bad people and saved countless children from some pretty awful
situations. It’s just that the bureaucracy of the Justice Department has no use for the subtleties of the adolescent heart. It takes time to get to the bottom of these things, to piece together what’s really going on. The memory plays tricks. And there are any number of reasons for Will to make something like this up.”

“Because he’s angry.”

“Perhaps. ‘I hate Daddy, he makes Mommy cry all the time, he’s the reason they’re getting the divorce.’ And so forth. If you can think of a reason, there it is. The mind is a very complicated place. I have to say, however, as concerning as this is, I’m just as concerned about your husband. So he’s written about this in a book?”

“It’s a work of fiction, he says.”

“Still—it’s quite disturbing. Quite disturbing. Well, maybe Will’s getting back at your husband for writing lies—in a book that pretends to be the truth. But it’s not the truth. So he decides to tell the lie right back at him. To get even.”

After struggling unsuccessfully with a broken seat belt (This is totally illegal, you know!), Penelope ordered the driver to take them across town.

Will was concerned. When they arrived at the apartment, he followed her around asking what he could do to help. God, he was so much like Arthur! When Penelope was angry or upset, Arthur would always ask, What can I do to help? Even though usually it was something Arthur had done to piss her off in the first place. What can I do? What can I do to help?

She said to Will, You know what would help tremendously? If you’d empty the dishwasher and load up what’s in the sink.

Will needed a specific task; his eyes, wide and wet and overblinking, were asking her for help. Will seemed relieved. He went through the swinging door of the kitchen and, soon after, the clatter of plates, the rushing of the sink, the knocking of cabinet doors.

Penelope paced. She sat down. Will’s colored pencils were strewn on the dining room table, sheets of paper with half-finished drawings inspired by the book he was reading in school,
an abridged version of
The Odyssey
: Telemachus with a machine gun, Zeus in a helicopter—the world of ancient Greece processed through the mind of a twentieth-century child. She was reminded of the craft works she’d seen recently from a street vendor near work: traditional baskets and jewelry done by women in tribal Africa—using electrical cord and Coke cans.

Penelope took a pencil and on the blank sheet of drawing paper in front of her drew a question mark, filled it out, gave it shape, until it became a long curved road, the point at the bottom the final destination.

She had to talk to Arthur. She needed—she hated herself for having this thought—she needed him to tell her what to do. If this were television, she would be disgusted with her character’s weakness.
Grow some balls!
she might yell at the screen.

She took her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Arthur. He would be out of class now—he might have turned his phone back on. She got halfway through the automated instructions before she realized she wasn’t listening to Arthur’s voice mail but rather customer service for Avis rental car.

She looked at her phone’s faceplate. Strange wrong number to have gotten—then saw that it was an adjacent entry in her contact list.

She was about to hang up when an operator came on to ask how she could help. This was a sign. This was what to do.

I’d like to reserve a car, she said.

For which dates?

For right now.

She went into the bedroom and pulled open dresser drawers at random. She counted out one, two, three balled sock pairs—a fistful of underwear, stockings. She upended the drawers onto the bed. She added to it an entire hugged armful of clothes on hangers from her closet. This activity developed a momentum, the physical act of doing it brought on a kind of desperation. She lugged a suitcase from under the bed.

Will was standing in the doorway.

Penelope said, We’re taking a little trip.

Mom?

I need you to do me another favor, honey.

Mom?

Get down your suitcase for me and pack like you were going to Magic Mountain.

We’re going to Magic Mountain?

We’re not going to Magic Mountain.

Will said, I take it back.

Honey, it’s going to be okay. Listen to me. Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re just going on a little trip.

But I take it back! I take it back, I said.

It’s not something you can take back, Will.

But I don’t remember anymore. I forgot, okay?

That’s not the same as it not happening.

Why not? Before I remembered, it hadn’t happened. So I’ll just forget. We can go to a doctor, and he can hypnotize me. I don’t want to go on a trip.

Penelope walked over to Will and gathered him into her, pressed his head to her belly. It’s just a little vacation, a little break. You like it when we stay at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s. We’ll talk about what you do or don’t remember later.

Will relented, packed a bag, but they became mired in the practical problems with leaving: What about piano—he had a lesson tomorrow afternoon—and the Harry Potter party Azucena was throwing—Will had campaigned for weeks to be invited to it—he was the only one in his grade who was going—and he was supposed to dog sit for a neighbor over the weekend—what about that? Penelope made the calls while Will gathered his books, his handheld video game. What about—and what about—and what about?

That was when I arrived, an encounter she was in no mood for.

Eventually, Penelope just ushered him out the door. He insisted on “helping” her with one of the suitcases, the results of which on any other day would have been endearing to watch: each crack in the
sidewalk caused the thing to tip sideways and take Will with it. He tried pushing it in front of him like a wheelbarrow, tried facing forward and pulling it behind him like a rickshaw. It was crowded on the subway. Penelope lost sight of him for a moment and screamed his name, and the subway car went still. People looked up from their papers. But Will was standing right behind her.

She grabbed his wrist.

Ow!

Don’t do that again! she cried.

They walked to the rental-car lot in silence. It was bitter cold, and the wind out here in this neighborhood of low industrial buildings and parking lots and wide unprotected avenues was fierce. Though it was only three avenue blocks from the subway station to the rental lot, it took half an hour. Will stumbling over the suitcase on the cracked slabs of sidewalk, Penelope refusing to let go of his wrist.

It was dark when they arrived. The sign was a beacon of safety.

The woman behind the counter reported, without looking up from her screen, that there was no record of the reservation. But now there was no choice. She had to go, get out of town. You don’t understand, Penelope said, this is an emergency!

The clerk was unmoved.

What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t go back to the apartment, not now. She had to get out of this place, to get away. From Arthur. What am I supposed to do now, she said, to nobody in particular.

A man with a southern accent asked her where she was headed.

Thanks, Penelope said, but I’ll figure it out.

The man had a sunburn and no chin. He was wearing a yellow windbreaker. I’m headed to Atlantic City, so if you’re headed to points south along the Garden State Parkway, I can get you partway there at least.

Penelope stared at him for a moment before saying, You’ve got to be kidding me—I’m not getting into a fucking car with you. What do you think this is, the sixties? Come on, Will. Let’s go.