We Need to Talk About Kevin

  Granted, I'd begun in a childishly inept way, asking how's school, while he was the one who'd conducted our talk like a competent adult, drawing out his companion. But as a consequence I was proud of him. I was just fashioning a remark along these lines, w h e n Kevin, w h o had been scribbling intently on the tablecloth with that crayon, finished whatever he was drawing, looked up, and nodded at the scrawl.

  "Wow," he said. "That's a whole lot of adjectives."

  Attention deficit disorder in a pig's eye. Kevin was an able student w h e n he bothered, and he hadn't been doodling; he'd been taking notes.

  "Let's see," he said, and proceeded to check off successive elements of his list with his red crayon. "Spoiled. You're rich.

  I ' m n o t too sure w h a t you think you're doing without, b u t I bet you could afford it. Imperious. Pretty good description of that speech just now; if I was you, I wouldn't order dessert,

  'cause you can bet the waiter's gonna h a w k a loogie in your raspberry sauce. Inarticulate? L e m m e s e e . . . " He searched the tablecloth, and read aloud, "It's not that easy, or maybe it is easy, I don't know. I don't call that Shakespeare myself. Also, seems to me I ' m sitting across from the lady w h o goes on these long rants about 'reality T V ' w h e n she's never watched a single show.

  A n d t h a t — o n e of your favorite words, Mumsey—is ignorant.

  N e x t : boasting. W h a t was all that these-dumb-fucks-suck-dead-m o o s e - d i c k - a n d - I ' m - s o - m u c h - c o o l e r - t h a n - t h e m if it wasn't showing off ? Like somebody w h o thinks she's got it right and n o b o d y else does. Trusting.. .with no idea other people can't stand them." He underscored this one and t h e n looked me in the eye with naked dislike. "Well. Far as I can tell, about the only thing that keeps you and the other dumb-ass Americans f r o m being peas in a p o d is you're not fat. And just because you're skinny you act self-righteous—condescending—and superior. Maybe I'd rather have a big cow of a m o t h e r w h o at least didn't think she was better than everybody else in the fucking country."

  I paid the bill. We wouldn't conduct another mother-son outing until Claverack.

  Discouraged from getting her the scooter, I went to considerable trouble to locate a "small-eared elephant shrew" as a Christmas present for Celia. W h e n we'd visited the Small Mammals exhibit in the Bronx Zoo, she'd been enchanted by this incongruous httle fellow, w h o looked as if an elephant crossed with a kangaroo had interbred with several generations of mice. T h e importation was probably illegal—if not outright endangered, this tiny creature from southern Africa was identified at the zoo as "threatened, due to habitat loss"—which didn't help my case w h e n you grew impatient with the time it took to find one. At length we struck a deal. You'd look the other way as I located a pet shop that

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  specialized in "unusual" animals on the Internet, I the other way as you bought Kevin that crossbow

  I never told you what Celia's present cost, and I don't think I'll tell you now, either. Suffice it to say that once in a while it was nice to be wealthy. The short-eared elephant shrew—inaptly named; neither elephant nor shrew, it has flanged, cupped ears that are proportionately enormous—was, bar none, the most successful present I've ever given. Ceha would have been bowled over by a roll of Lifesavers, but even our agreeable daughter expressed degrees of exhilaration, and w h e n she unwrapped the big glass cage her eyes bulged. Then she flew into my arms with a torrent of thanks. She kept getting up from Christmas dinner to check that the cage was warm enough or to feed him a raw cranberry. I was already worried. Animals don't always flourish in alien climates, and giving such a perishable present to a sensitive child was probably rash.

  Then, I may have purchased"Snuffles," as Celia christened him, as much for myself as for her, if only because his delicate, wide-eyed vulnerability reminded me so of Ceha herself. With long, downy fur reminiscent of our daughter's fine hair, this five-ounce fluff ball looked as if, with one good puff, he would scatter to the winds like a dandelion. Balanced on haunches that narrowed to slender stilts, Snuffles looked precarious when upright. His signature snout, trumpet-shaped and prehensile, routed about the dirt-lined cage, both touching and comic. T h e animal didn't run so much as hop, and his bounding within the confines of his hemmed-in world exuded the cheerful make-the-best-of-it optimism with which Celia would soon face her own limitations.

  Although elephant shrews are not stricdy vegetarian—they eat worms and insects—massive brown eyes gave Snuffles an awed, frightened appearance, anything but predatory. Constitutionally, Snuffles, like Celia, was quarry.

  Appreciating that her pet mustn't be overhandled, she would poke a nervous finger through the cage door to stroke the tips of his tawny fur. W h e n she had friends over to play, she kept her

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  bedroom door shut while she decoyed playmates to more durable toys. Maybe that means she's learning, I prayed, about other people. (Celia was popular partly for being indiscriminate, since she brought home the playmates that other children despised—hke that spoiled, strident creature Tia, whose mother had the gall to advise me quietly that it was "really better ifTia is allowed to win board games." Celia deduced as much without being told, as she asked me pensively after her bossy companion had left,

  "Is it okay to cheat to lose?") Contemplating our daughter as she defended Snuffles, I searched for a firmness, a resolve in her expression that might indicate an incipient capacity to defend herself.

  Yet unwillingly, I considered the possibility that, while lovely to my own eye, Celia was fetching in a way that outsiders might be apt to overlook. She was only six, but I already feared that she would never be beautiful—that she was unlikely to carry herself with that much authority. She had your mouth, too wide for her small head; her lips were thin and bloodless. Her tremulous countenance encouraged a carefulness around her that was wearing. That hair, so silken and wispy, was destined to grow lank, its gold to give way to a dingier blond by her teens. Besides, isn't true beauty a tad enigmatic? And Celia was too ardess to imply concealment. She had an available face, and there is something implicitly uninteresting about the look of a person w h o will tell you whatever you want to know. Why, already I could see it: She would grow into the kind of adolescent w h o conceives a doomed crush on the president of the student council, w h o doesn't know she's alive. Celia would always give herself away cheaply. Later, she would move in— too young—with an older man w h o would abuse her generous nature, w h o would leave her for a more buxom woman who knows how to dress. But at least she would always come home to us for Christmas, and had she opportunity, she would make a far finer mother than I ever was.

  Kevin shunned Snuffles, its very name an indignity to a teenage boy. He was more than willing to catch spiders or crickets and

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  dangle the live morsels into the cage—standard boy-stuff and the perfect j o b for him, since Celia was too squeamish. But the cool, deadpan teasing was merciless.You couldn't have forgotten the night I served quad, and he convinced her that the scrawny carcass on her plate was y o u - k n o w - w h o .

  I know, Snuffles was just a pet, an expensive pet, and some kind of unhappy ending was inevitable. I should have thought of that before I gave her the little beast, though surely to avoid attachments for fear of loss is to avoid life. I had hoped he'd last longer, but that wouldn't have made it any easier for Celia w h e n calamity hit.

  T h a t night in February 1998 is the only instance I can remember of Ceha s dissembling. She kept darting around the house, crawling on the floor, picking up the couch skirting and peering under the sofa, but w h e n I asked her what she was looking for she chirped, "Nothing!" She continued scuffling around on all fours past her bedtime, refusing to explain the game she was playing, but begging to play it longer. Finally, enough was enough, and I hauled her off to bed as she struggled. It wasn't like her to be such a brat.

  "How's Snuffles?" I asked, trying to dis
tract her w h e n I turned on the light.

  H e r body stiffened, and she didn't look at the cage w h e n I bounced her onto the mattress. After a pause, she whispered,

  "He's fine."

  "I can't see h i m from here," I said. "Is he hiding?"

  "He's hiding," she said, in an even smaller voice.

  " W h y don't you go find him for me?"

  "He's hiding'' she said again, still not looking at the cage.

  T h e elephant shrew did sometimes sleep in a corner or under a branch, but w h e n I searched the cage myself, I couldn't spot any tufts. "You didn't let Kevin play with Snuffles, did you?" I asked sharply, in the same tone of voice I might have asked, You didn't put Snuffles in a blender, did you?

  "It's all my fault!" she gasped, and began to sob."I th-thought I closed the cage door, but I guess I d-d-d-didn't! 'Cause w h e n I came in after supper it was open and he was gone! I've looked everywhere!" Shsh, now there, we'll find him, I cooed, but she would n o t be quieted. " I ' m stupid! Kevin says so and he's right.

  I ' m stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!" She hit herself so hard on the temple with her balled up fist that I had to grab her wrist.

  I was hopeful that her crying jag would b u r n itself out, but a little girl's grief has astonishing staying power, and the strength of her self-loathing tempted me to make false promises. I assured her that SnufHes could not have got very far and that he would definitely be right back in his cozy cage by morning. Grasping at my perfidious straw, Celia shuddered and lay still.

  I don't think we gave up until about 3 A.M.—and thanks, again, for your help. You had another scouting j o b the next day, and we would both miss sleep. I can't think of a cranny we didn't check; you moved the dryer, I combed the trash. M u m b l i n g g o o d -

  naturedly, " W h e r e is that bad boy?" you pulled all the books out of the lower shelves while I steeled myself to check for hair in the disposal.

  "I don't want to make this worse with an I-told-you-so," you said w h e n we b o t h collapsed in the living r o o m with dust balls in our hair. "And I did think it was cute. B u t that's a rare, delicate animal, and she's in first grade."

  "But she's been so conscientious. Never out of water, careful about overfeeding.Then to just, leave the door open?"

  "She is absent-minded, Eva."

  "True. I suppose I could order another o n e . . . "

  "Fugeddaboutit. O n e lesson in mortality is enough for the year."

  "You think maybe he got outside?"

  "In which case he's already frozen to death," you said cheerfully.

  "Thanks."

  "Better than dogs..."

  That was the story I put together for Celia the next day: that

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  Snuffles had gone to play outdoors, w h e r e he was m u c h happier with lots of nice fresh air, and where he'd make lots of animal friends. Hey, why not turn it to my advantage? Ceha would believe anything.

  All things being equal, I'd expect to recollect our daughter's ashen m o p e of the following week, but n o t ordinary housekeeping chores. But under the circumstances, I have good reason to recall that the kids' bathroom sink backed up that weekend. Janis wouldn't be in until Monday, and I'd never spurned a little upkeep of my o w n h o m e n o w and again. So I smote the clog with a few glugs of Liquid-Plumr, poured in one cup of cold water, and left it to sit, according to the directions.Then I put the Liquid-Plumr away. D i d you seriously imagine that after all this time I would change my story? I put it away.

  M A R C H 8 , 2 0 0 1

  Dear Franklin,

  My G o d , there's been another one. I should have k n o w n on M o n d a y afternoon w h e n all my coworkers suddenly started to avoid me.

  Standard issue. In a suburb outside San Diego, fifteen-year-old Charles "Andy"Williams—a scrawny, unassuming-looking white kid with thin hps and matted hair like well-trod carpet—brought a .22 to Santana High School in his backpack. He hid out in the boys' bathroom, where he shot two, proceeding to the hallway to fire at anything that moved. Two students were killed, thirteen injured. O n c e he had retreated to the bathroom again, the police found him cowering on the floor with the gun to his head. He whimpered incongruously, "It's only m e " ; they arrested the boy without a struggle. It almost goes without saying by n o w that he'd just broken up with his girlfriend—who was twelve.

  Curiously, on the news Monday night, some of his fellow students characterized the shooter, as usual, as "picked on,"

  persecuted as a "freak, a dork, and a loser." Yet a whole other set of kids attested that Andy had plenty of friends, wouldn't remotely qualify as unpopular or especially ragged on, and was to the contrary "well-liked." These latter descriptions must have confused our audience, since w h e n J i m Lehrer revisited the story tonight for another inquiry into why, why, why, all depictions along the lines of "well-liked" had been expunged. If Andy Williams

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  hadn't been "bullied," he failed to support the now fashionable revenge-of-the-nerds interpretation of these incidents, which were now meant to teach us not stricter gun control but concern for the agonies of the underage outcast.

  Accordingly, while "Andy"Williams is n o w nearly as famous as his crooner counterpart, I doubt there's a news consumer in the country w h o could tell you the name of either of the two students he shot dead—teenagers w h o never did anything wrong outside of heading to the bathroom on a morning that their more fortunate classmates resolved to hold their bladders through Geometry:Brian Zuckor and R a n d y Gordon.Exercising what I can only regard as a civic duty, I have committed their names to heart.

  I've heard parents throughout my life allude to horrifying incidents in which something happened to their children: a full-immersion baptism by a boiling pot of turkey stew or the retrieval of a wayward cat via an open third-story window. Prior to 1998, I had casually assumed that I knew what they were talking about—or what they avoided talking about, since there's often a private fence around such stories, full access to which, like intensive care units, only immediate family is allowed. I'd always respected those fences. Other people's personal disasters of any sort are exclusionary, and I'd be grateful for that Don't Enter sign, behind which I might shelter a secret offensive relief that my own loved ones were safe. Still I imagined that I knew roughly what lay on the other side. Be it a daughter or a grandfather, anguish is anguish. Well, I apologize for my presumption. I had no idea.

  W h e n you're the parent, no matter what the accident, no matter how far away you were at the time and how seemingly powerless to avert it, a child's misfortune feels like your fault.

  You're all your kids have, and their own conviction that you will protect them is contagious. So in case you expect, Franklin, that I'm simply setting about one more time to deny culpability, to

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  the contrary. Broadly, it still feels like my fault, and broadly, it felt hke my fault at the time.

  At the very least, I wish I'd stuck to my guns on our chdd-care arrangements. We'd hired R o b e r t , that seismology student from Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory, to pick up Celia from school and stick around the house untd one of us got home, and that's the way the rules should have stayed. Against all odds, we managed to keep R o b e r t , t o o — though he threatened to quit—once we assured him that Kevin was n o w old enough to look after himself and he need only look after Celia. But you were on this responsibility kick. Kevin was fourteen, as old as many sitters in our neighborhood. If Kevin was to b e c o m e trustworthy, he had first to be trusted; sure, it sounded good. So you told our chdd-minder that as long as Kevin had returned from ninth grade and had been apprised that he was n o w to keep an eye on Celia, R o b e r t could go.That solved the problem that kept cropping up, that you would get stuck in traffic and I would work a bit late, and (however well-compensated for his time) R o b e r t would get stranded, chafing, on Palisades Parade w h e n he had research at Lamont to which he needed to return.

/>   W h e n I try to remember that Monday, my m i n d shies, hke ducking a hurtling tether ball. T h e n the m e m o r y curves centrifugally back around again, so that w h e n I stand back up it hits me in the head.

  I was once more working a little late. T h e new arrangement with R o b e r t made me feel less guilty for putting in an extra hour, and AWAP's preeminence in the budget-travel niche had started to slide. We had so m u c h more competition than w h e n I started o u t — T h e Lonely Planet and The Rough Guide had sprung up; meanwhile, with the whole country aslosh in cash from a buoyant stock market, demand for the really dirt-cheap travel in which we specialized had dropped. So against my better judgment, I was working up a proposal for a whole new series, A Wing and a Prayer for Boomers—whose target audience would be dush with Internet start-up stock, probably overweight, nostalgic about their first seat-of-the-pants trip to Europe with a beat-up copy of W&P

  in the sixties, convinced they were still college students if not in fact then in spirit, accustomed to $30 cabernets but, by conceit, still adventurous, that is, eager for comfort so long as that's not what it was called and by all means in horror of resorting to the stodgy Blue Guide hke their parents—when the phone rang.

  You said to drive carefully.You said that she was already in the hospital and there was nothing I could do now.You said that her life was not endangered. You said that m o r e than once. All this was true.Then you said that she was going to be "all right," which was not true, though for most messengers of dismal tidings the urge to issue this groundless reassurance seems to be irresistible.

  I had no choice but to drive carefully, because the traffic on the George Washington Bridge was barely moving. W h e n at last I laid eyes on your collapsed expression in the waiting room, I realized that you loved her after all, which I castigated myself for ever having doubted. Kevin wasn't with you, to my relief, because I might have clawed his eyes out.