We Need to Talk About Kevin

  Ceha wasn't used to seeing you manhandle her brother, and she'd started to wail. I hustled her from the foyer back to her h o m e w o r k at the dining table, soothing that the policemen were our friends and just wanted to make sure we were safe, while you rustled our stoic son d o w n the hall to his room.

  In such an excitable state, I had difficulty concentrating as I coaxed Celia back to her primer about farm animals. T h e yelling subsided surprisingly soon; you sure didn't b u r n out that fast w h e n you were mad at me. Presumably you'd switched to the somber disappointment that for many children is more devastating than a lost temper, though I'd tried stern gravity ad nauseam with o u r firstborn, and this was one more impotence I was glad for you to sample. Why, it was all I could do to stop myself from creeping d o w n the hall and listening at the crack of the door.

  — 3 0 9 —

  W h e n you emerged at last, you closed Kevin's door behind you with ministerial solemnity, and your expression as you entered the dining area was curiously at peace. I reasoned that getting all that shame and disgust out of your system must have been cleansing, and w h e n you motioned me over to the kitchen, I assumed that you were going to explain what kind of punishment you'd levied so that we could exact it as a team. I hoped that you'd come up with some novel, readily enforceable penalty that would get to our son in a place—I'd never found it—where it hurt. I doubted he was n o w remorseful about the brick-throwing itself, but maybe you had convinced him that outright juvenile delinquency was a tactical error.

  "Listen," you whispered. " T h e whole caper was Lenny's idea, and Kevin went along because Lenny was only proposing water babies at first. He thought the balloons would just make a splash—and you k n o w h o w kids think that kind of thing is funny.

  I told him even a little balloon exploding might have startled a driver and been dangerous, and he says he realizes that now."

  "What," I said. " W h a t — a b o u t — t h e bricks."

  "Well—they ran out of water babies. So Kevin says that before he k n e w it, Lenny had pitched a stone—maybe it was a piece of b r i c k — w h e n a car was coming. Kevin says he immediately told Lenny not to do that, since somebody could get hurt."

  "Yeah," I said thickly. "That sure sounds hke Kevin."

  "I guess Lenny managed to get a few m o r e bits of brick over the side before Kevin leaned on him hard enough that he cut it out. That must have been w h e n somebody with a mobile called the cops. Apparently they were still up there, you know, just hanging out, w h e n the police pulled up on the shoulder. It was spectacularly d u m b — h e admits that, t o o — b u t for a kid who's never had trouble with the law before those blinking blue lights must be pretty scary, and without thinking—"

  "Kevin's a very bright boy, you always say." Everything that came out of my m o u t h was heavy and slurred. "I sense he's done plenty of thinking"

  — 3 1 0 —

  " M o m m y — ? "

  "Sweetheart," I said, "go back and do your homework, okay?

  Daddy's telling M o m m y a really good story, and M o m m y can hardly wait to hear h o w it ends."

  "Anyway," you resumed, "they ran. Didn't get very far, since he realized that running was crazy, and he grabbed Lenny's jacket to p u t the brakes on. And here's the thing: It seems our friend Lenny P u g h already has something on his record—the old sugar-in-the-gas-tank trick, or some such. Lenny had been told that if he was caught at anything else they'd press charges. Kev reckoned that with his o w n clean record, they'd probably let h i m off with a warning. So Kevin told the cops that he was the ringleader, and he was the only one w h o threw rocks. I have to say, once the whole thing was on the table, I felt kind of sheepish for laying into h i m like that."

  I looked up at you with dumbstruck admiration. " D i d you apologize?"

  "Sure."You shrugged. "Any parent's got to admit w h e n he's made a mistake."

  I groped my way to a chair at the kitchen table; I had to sit down.You poured yourself a glass of apple juice, while I declined one (what was w r o n g with you that you couldn't tell I needed a stiff drink?). You pulled up a chair yourself, leaning forward chummily as if this whole misunderstanding was going to make us an even m o r e closely knit, supportive, remember-that-daft-business-about-the-overpass family.

  "I'll tell you," you said, and took a gulp of juice, "we just had this terrific conversation, all about the complexities of loyalty, you know? W h e n to stick by your friends, w h e r e to draw the line w h e n they're doing something you think is out of bounds, h o w m u c h you should personally sacrifice for a buddy. Because I warned him, he could have miscalculated by taking the fall. He could have been booked. I admired the gesture, but I told him, I said I wasn't exacdy sure that Lenny P u g h was w o r t h it."

  "Boy," I said. " N o holds barred."

  — 311 —

  Your head whipped around. "Was that sarcastic?"

  Okay, if you weren't going to attend to a medical emergency, I would p o u r a glass of wine myself. I resumed my seat and finished o f f h a l f of it in two slugs. "That was a very detailed story. So you won't m i n d my clarifying a few things."

  "Shoot."

  "Lenny," I began. "Lenny is a w o r m . Lenny's actually kind of stupid. It took me a while to figure out what the appeal is—for Kevin, I m e a n . T h e n I got it:That's the appeal.That he's a stupid, pliant, self-abasing worm."

  " H o l d on, I don't like him much either, but self-abasing—?"

  " D i d I tell you that I caught them out back, and Lenny had his pants down?"

  "Eva,you should k n o w about pubescent boys. It may make you uncomfortable, but sometimes they're going to e x p e r i m e n t — "

  "Kevin didn't have his pants down. Kevin was fully clothed."

  "Well, what's that supposed to mean?"

  " T h a t Lenny isn't his friend, Franklin! Lenny is his slave! Lenny does anything Kevin tells him to, the m o r e degrading the better!

  So the prospect of that miserable, sniggering, brownnosing dirtbird having an idea to do anything—much less being the 'ringleader'

  of some nasty, dangerous prank, dragging p o o r virtuous Kevin unwillingly along—well, it's perfecdy preposterous!"

  "Would you keep it down? And I don't think you need another glass of wine."

  "You're right. W h a t I really need is a fifth of gin, but Merlot will have to do."

  "Look. He may have made a dubious call, and he and I discussed that. But taking the rap still took guts, and I ' m pretty damned p r o u d — "

  "Bricks," I interrupted. "They're heavy. They're big. Builders don't store bricks on pedestrian overpasses. H o w did they get there?"

  "Piece of brick. I said piece."

  — 312 —

  "Yes," my shoulders slumped, " I ' m sure that's w h a t Kevin said,

  , 55

  too.

  "He's our son, Eva. That should mean having a little faith."

  "But the police said—" I left the thought dangling, having lost my enthusiasm for this project. I felt like a dogged attorney w h o knows that the sympathy of the j u r y is already lost but w h o still has to do the job.

  "Most parents," you said, "apply themselves to understanding their kids, and not to picking apart every little—"

  "I am trying to understand him. " M y ferocity must have carried; on the other side of the partition, Ceha started to whimper. "I wish you would!"

  "That's right, go tend to Celia," you muttered as I got up to leave. " G o dry Celia's eyes and pat Celia's pretty gold hair and do Celia's h o m e w o r k for her, since G o d forbid she should learn to do one miserable assignment by herself. O u r son was just picked up by the cops for something he didn't do, and he's pretty shaken up, but never mind, because Celia needs her milk and cookies."

  "That's right," I returned. "Because one of our children is spelling farm animals, while another of our children is pitching bricks at oncoming headlights. It's about time you learned to tell the differenc
e."

  I was really angry about that night, and I wasted most of my subsequent workday at AWAP mumbling to myself about h o w I could have married a complete fool. I ' m sorry. And this was despicable of me, but I never told you w h a t I stumbled across late that afternoon. Maybe I was just embarrassed, or too proud.

  So beside myself with fury and frustration that I was getting nothing done, I took the CEO's prerogative of cutting out early.

  W h e n I got back and relieved Celia's baby-sitter R o b e r t , I heard voices d o w n the hall. It seems that the stupid, pliant, self-abasing worm didn't even have the g o o d sense to make himself scarce for a few days after showing up at our d o o r with the police, because I recognized the nasal, querulous pule emitting from Kevin's nightmarishly tidy bedroom. Unusually, the door was ajar; but then I wasn't expected h o m e for another two hours. W h e n I headed toward the bathroom I wasn't exacdy eavesdropping, b u t — o h , I guess I was eavesdropping. T h e urge to listen at that door had been upon me the night before and had lingered.

  "Hey, you see that cop's fat butt hanging out his pants?" Lenny was reminiscing. "Working man's smile grinning ear-to-ear! I bet if that guy'd taken a d u m p while he was running, it would've cleared his belt!"

  Kevin did not seem to be joining in with Lenny's cackle.

  "Yeah, well," he said. "Lucky for you I got Mr. Plastic off my back.

  But you should have heard the scene in here, Pugh. Straight out of Dawson's Creek. Fucking nauseating. T h o u g h t I'd burst into tears before a commercial break from our sponsors."

  "Hey, I hear you! Like, with those cops dude, you were so smooth dude, I thought that fat fuck was going to take you to some little r o o m and kick the shit out of you, 'cause you were driving him like, fucking insane! Sir, I really must terribly protest, sir, that it was me— "

  "It was I, you grammatical retard. And just remember, chump, you owe m e one."

  "Sure, bro. I owe you big-time. You took the heat like some superhero, like—like you was Jesus!"

  " I ' m serious, pal. This one's gonna cost you," said Kevin.

  "'Cause your low-rent stunt could do my reputation some serious damage. I got standards. Everybody knows I got standards. I saved your ass this time, but don't expect a sequel, like, 'Ass-Save II.' I don't like associating myself with this shit. Rocks over an overpass.

  It's fucking trite, man. It's got no class at all, it's fucking trite!'

  M A R C H 3 , 2 0 0 1

  Dear Franklin,

  You've put it together: I felt ashamed of my false accusations, and that's the real reason I decided to ask Kevin on that mother-son outing, just the two of us. You thought it was a weird idea, and, w h e n you c o m m e n d e d so heartily that Kevin and I should do that sort of thing more often, I k n e w you didn't like it—especially once you added that barb about h o w we'd better avoid any pedestrian overpasses, "Since, you know, Kev would have an uncontrollable urge to throw whole Barcaloungers onto the road."

  I was nervous about approaching h i m but pushed myself, thinking, there's no point in moaning about h o w your adolescent never talks to you if you never talk to him. A n d I reasoned that the trip to Vietnam the summer before last had backfired for being overkill, three solid weeks of close familial quarters w h e n at thirteen no kid can bear to be seen with his parents, even by communists. Surely one day at a time would be easier to take.

  Besides, I had forced my o w n enthusiasm for travel d o w n his throat, instead of making an effort to do w h a t he wanted to d o —whatever that was.

  My dithering beforehand over h o w to p o p the question made me feel like a bashful schoolgirl gearing up to invite our son to a rock c o n c e r t . W h e n I finally cornered h i m — o r myself, really—in the kitchen, I went with the sensation, saying, "By the way, I'd like to ask you out on a date."

  — 315 —

  Kevin looked mistrustful. " W h a t for."

  "Just to do something together. For fun."

  "Like, do what."

  This was the part that made me nervous. Thinking of something " f u n " to do with our son was like trying to think of a really great trip to take with your pet rock. He hated sports and was indifferent to most movies; food was chaff, and nature an annoyance, merely the agent of heat or cold or flies. So I shrugged. "Maybe do a little Christmas shopping. Take you to d i n n e r ? " T h e n I pulled out my ace in the hole, playing perfectly to Kevin's absurdist strong suit. "And play a round or two of miniature golJ'

  He cracked that sour half smile, and I'd secured a companion for Saturday. I worried about what to wear.

  In a switch-off reminiscent of The Prince and the Pauper, I would assume the role of Kevin's caring, engaged parent, while you would b e c o m e Celia s protector for the day."Gosh," you quipped lightly,"going have to come up with something to do that doesn't terrify her. Guess that rules out vacuuming."

  To say that I wanted, truly desired, to spend all afternoon and evening with my prickly fourteen-year-old son w o u l d be a stretch, but I did powerfully desire to desire it—if that makes any sense. K n o w i n g h o w time went slack around that boy, I had scheduled our day: miniature golf, shopping on Main Street in Nyack, and then I would treat him to a nice dinner out. T h e fact he didn't care about Christmas presents or fine dining seemed no reason to skip the lesson that this is simply what people do. As for our sporting escapade, no one is meant to care about miniature golf, w h i c h must be why it felt so apt.

  Kevin reported for duty in the foyer with an expression of glum forbearance, like a convict being hauled off to serve his sentence (though in that very circumstance not two years later, his face would instead appear cool and cocky). His ridiculous child-sized Izod knit was the loud orange of prison jumpsuits—not, as

  — 316 —

  I would have m u c h opportunity to estabhsh, a very becoming color on h i m — a n d with the tight shirt pulling his shoulders back, he might have been handcuffed. His low-slung khaki slacks from seventh grade were at fashion's cutting edge: Extending to mid-calf, they presaged the renaissance of pedal pushers.

  We climbed into my new metallic double-yellow VW Luna.

  "You know, in my day," I chattered, "these VW bugs were everywhere. Rattletrap and usually beaten up, full of destitute longhairs smoking dope and blasting T h r e e D o g Night on tinny eight-tracks. I think they cost something like $2,500. N o w this reissue is ten times that; it still fits two adults and a cat, but it's a luxury automobde. I don't k n o w what that is—ironic, funny."

  Sdence.At last, laboriously:"It means you'll spend twenty-five grand to kid yourself you're still nineteen, and still not get any trunk space."

  "Well, I guess I do tire of all this retro-boomer stuff," I said.

  " T h e f d m remakes of The Brady Bunch and The Flintstones. But the first time I saw it, I fell in love with this design. T h e Luna doesn't copy the original, it alludes to the original. And the old Beetle was poky. T h e Luna is still a little b u m p on the road, but it's a surprisingly beautiful car."

  "Yeah," said Kevin. "You've said all that before."

  I colored. It was true. I had.

  I pulled into that funky little course in Sparkhill called " 9 W

  G o l f " and finally noticed that Kevin hadn't w o r n a jacket. It was chilly, too, and overcast. " W h y didn't you wear a coat?" I exploded.

  "You just can't get uncomfortable enough, can you?"

  "Uncomfortable?" he said. " W i t h my o w n mother?"

  I slammed the door, but with that G e r m a n engineering it only made a muffled clump.

  Heaven knows what I'd b e e n thinking. Miniature golf being fundamentally ludicrous, maybe I'd h o p e d that it w o u l d lend o u r afternoon a leavening element of whimsy. Or maybe I'd h o p e d instead for some emotional inversion, whereby because everything that meant something to me m e a n t n o t h i n g to Kevin,

  — 317 —

  something that meant n o t h i n g to me might mean something to Kevin.
In any case, it was wrongheaded. We paid the attendant and marched to the first hole—a bathtub sprouting dead weeds, guarded by a plaster giraffe that looked like a p o n y w i t h a w r u n g neck. In fact, all the course's models were gimcrack and careless, lending the place an ambiance of, as Kevin w o u l d say, who-gives-a-rat's-ass.The traffic on 9W was loud and relentless, and meanwhile, stiff goose bumps rose on Kevin's arms. He was freezing and I was making h i m do this anyway, because I had this w o n k y n o t i o n of having a m o t h e r - s o n " o u t i n g " and we would, goddamn it, have fun.

  Naturally, anybody could roll a golf ball between the claw feet of that bathtub, since the feet were a yard apart. B u t once the course grew harder—under the missile, over to the lighthouse, d o w n the suspension bridge, around the milk churns, through the doors of the model Sparkhill-Palisades Fire D e p a r t m e n t —

  Kevin set aside the studied ineptitude of curling a Frisbee on its side in the backyard, displaying instead the striking hand-eye coordination that his archery instructor had remarked u p o n more than once. But somehow the very fact that he was so good at this made it all the more poindess, and I couldn't help but be reminded of our first "game" w h e n he was two, rolling the ball back and forth on the floor exacdy three times. For my part, the rank silliness of this exercise had b e c o m e so glaring that I grew apathetic and muffed the holes. We said nothing, and the course took very litde time to complete, if only by the clock; I glanced constantly at my watch.This is what it's like to be Kevin, I thought. T h e leaden passage of minute by minute: This is what it's hke to be Kevin all the time.