Little Children

  “Thank you, Jesus!” she’d gasped, as the two tiny infants were placed upon her breast. She sounded ecstatic, like a gospel singer from Alabama. “Thank you, Lord!”

  Even at that sublime moment, Larry could barely hide his irritation. What happened? he wanted to ask her. Did God change His mind? Did He suddenly decide it was okay for us to have children?

  At the same time, his heart was so full of joy—the boys were healthy and beautiful, and he was going to teach them how to play football and baseball, and take them camping—that Larry almost wished that he shared his wife’s faith. He would have been more than happy to turn his gaze toward heaven and give thanks and praise to the all-knowing, all-powerful, sternly loving God of his childhood, if only he could have done so with a straight face.

  He figured Joanie’s religious fervor would subside once she’d gotten her babies, but it only intensified. She turned into a fanatically regular churchgoer, and started badgering him to attend mass with her and take communion, partly for his own good, and partly because she wanted to present a united front to the twins. Figuring that an hour of hypocrisy a week was a small price to pay for domestic harmony, Larry went along with the program for about a year, until the fall of 1998, when his life got turned upside down and shaken hard.

  In the winter of that year, his father was diagnosed with lung cancer. The cancer spread quickly, but killed him slowly—he died a miserable death, spared no pain and no humiliation, a hell-on-earth ending fit for a Hitler or a Jeffrey Dahmer, not for a good-humored guy who’d worked his ass off in his father-in-law’s auto parts store for thirty-seven years and got to enjoy maybe three months of retirement before the doctor read him his death sentence. Then, barely a month after they laid his father in the ground, Larry found himself standing in the food court of the Bellington Commons Mall, breathing hard and looking down at the gun-wielding criminal he’d just shot through the neck in a moment of adrenaline-filled terror, trying to absorb the fact that the “criminal” was a sweet-looking kid, and the gun in his hand a cheap toy, so fake-looking it was almost like some kind of cosmic joke.

  The twin tragedies that blasted through his life in such quick succession—in his memory it was like they’d happened on the same day, like he’d gone straight from the cemetery to the mall—only confirmed the dark suspicions he’d been harboring for a long time: i.e., that the world was a cruel and senseless place where horrific things happened to good and bad people alike with no regard whatsoever for their goodness or badness. They just happened. And if some kind of God was in control of it all in the service of some inscrutable divine purpose, as Joanie liked to insist, then God was an asshole or at best an incompetent, and in either case was of absolutely no use to Larry Moon or any other human being who simply wanted to live a decent life and protect his or her loved ones from misery, injury, or death.

  “Are you kidding me?” Joanie asked him, when he tried to explain this to her. “You think God is an asshole?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I got news for you,” she told him. “He probably doesn’t think too highly of Larry Moon, either.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, God can burn in hell,” Larry said. “Soon as He’s finished kissing my ass.”

  “I swear,” she told him. “If I ever hear you talking like that in front of the boys—”

  “What? What’re you gonna do?”

  She started to say something, then stopped. Larry walked away feeling like he’d won the argument. But later, when he felt like being honest with himself, he understood that from that moment on, things were never the same between them again.

  With an adorably guilty expression on her tomboy face, Sandra Bullock removed a chocolate-covered donut from the bodice of her evening gown and surrendered it to what’s-his-name, the British actor, who was not a very convincing homosexual. May chuckled, casting a hopeful sidelong glance at Ronnie.

  “That was cute,” she observed.

  Ronnie turned slowly, appraising her with that lofty look of his, like he was some kind of Harvard professor instead of an out-of-work custodian with a criminal record.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he told her.

  “She’s hungry,” May explained. “She’s trying to sneak some goodies behind his back.”

  “I understand that, Ma. But it’s the middle of the night.”

  “So?”

  “Why’s there a tray of donuts sitting out in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s a beauty pageant. They leave the food for the girls.”

  “The girls are supposed to be asleep.”

  “Someone must have put it there and forgot all about it.”

  “What planet do you live on? Nobody forgets a tray of donuts.”

  “Don’t be such a pill.”

  “What do you want from me? It’s a stupid movie.”

  A familiar feeling of failure, the sludge of deflated hope, spread through May’s body like an illness. All she’d wanted was a pleasant Saturday evening at home, a movie and a bowl of microwave popcorn to take her son’s mind off his troubles. Because something was eating at him, making him more depressed and discouraged every day.

  When he first came home, Ronnie had at least made an effort to look for work, to imagine a future for himself, to address his mother in a pleasant tone of voice every once in a while. But ever since that blind date a couple of weeks ago, the optimism had leaked out of him. He had given up. He wasn’t even pretending to read the Help Wanteds, and flatly refused to contact any more of the women who’d responded to his personal ad. All he did was mope around the house and complain that nothing was on TV. Tonight he seemed particularly agitated. He kept jiggling his leg and rocking his upper body back and forth, sighing like he was stuck in traffic and late for an important meeting.

  “I can’t believe it,” he grumbled. “A whole store full of movies, and this is the crap we end up with.”

  Sandra Bullock was talking to the handsome guy, telling him she was going to quit the beauty pageant. You could see how much the handsome guy liked her, even if he did bite into a candy bar right when you thought he was going to kiss her.

  “She looks pretty in that dress,” said May. “She seemed so drab at the beginning, but now you can see how attractive she is.”

  “She’s the ugly duckling,” said Ronnie. “A retard could have written this movie.”

  “Well, I like it.”

  She’d chosen Miss Congeniality because it seemed like nice, light entertainment, nothing too serious or depressing, without the sex and bad language you found in so many of the movies these days. She and Bertha had rented it a couple of months ago and laughed themselves silly. Maybe that was it, May realized. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Bertha’s name. Anything that came with her seal of approval was immediately poisoned for Ronnie. He’d make himself hate it out of spite.

  “This part’s funny,” May said, as the talent competition began. “You’re gonna love this.”

  Sandra Bullock was dressed in some kind of crazy getup, pigtails and a ruffled dress. She made music by rubbing her fingertip on the rims of partially filled water glasses, and it actually sounded pretty good. The crowd loved her. But then some creepy guy in a cowboy hat started moving toward the stage. When his coat fluttered open, you could see that he was carrying a gun.

  “I hope he shoots her,” Ronnie muttered. “Put us all out of our misery.”

  “If you don’t like it, go read a book or something. And stop fidgeting already. You’re driving me crazy with that leg.”

  Ronnie made an effort to sit still, but she could see that he was jumping out of his skin. He was like a restless teenager, one eye on the door, body in constant motion. May didn’t like it; he’d been antsy just like this the morning he exposed himself to that poor little Girl Scout.

  “I don’t know what it is,” he said. “I can’t read anymore. It’s like I forgot how to concentrate or something.”

  She gave him a taste of his
own medicine, turning back to the movie. The British guy was tucking falsies into Sandra Bullock’s bathing suit, jamming his hand right down her top. Ronnie laughed, but there was something in the laugh that bothered her, that reminded her of things she didn’t like to think about.

  “I wish you’d been nicer to that girl,” May said. “The one you took out to dinner.”

  “Would you forget about her? I told you, she wasn’t my type.”

  “I know all about your type,” said May.

  “You don’t understand, Ma. She’s a wacko.”

  May bit her tongue. Ronnie didn’t know it, but she had called Sheila a few days after the blind date. She hadn’t wanted to pry, but she was curious, and Ronnie refused to tell her anything, not even what they’d eaten for dinner. The girl hadn’t been too clear on the details—Ronnie was right on that count; she was a bit loopy—but it was clear to May that her son had not conducted himself like a gentleman.

  “You need to give people the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “It’s not like there’s some perfect woman out there, just waiting for your call.”

  “You know what we need?” Ronnie said suddenly. “A computer.”

  “What would we do with a computer?”

  Ronnie gave the matter some consideration.

  “E-mail,” he said.

  “Who are you gonna e-mail?” May wondered.

  “Not just that.” Ronnie counted on his fingers. “You can pay your bills on-line, play games, make plane reservations, all kinds of stuff. Everybody has one.”

  “They’re too expensive.”

  “If I learned to use a computer,” Ronnie told her, “I’d have a much better chance of finding a job. You see it in all the ads. If you’re not computer literate in this day and age, you’re operating at a severe disadvantage. We could probably get something used for about five hundred dollars.”

  May got scared. She knew how Ronnie’s mind worked. When he started talking like this, so smooth and reasonable, producing clever arguments like they’d just popped into his head, he was probably up to no good.

  “I know what you want a computer for,” she said. “You think I don’t read the papers?”

  “What?” Ronnie played Mr. Innocent, one of his favorite roles. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You want to look at those pictures.”

  “What pictures?”

  May didn’t answer. She had found some of Ronnie’s pictures a few years ago, after he’d gone to jail. He had a whole library of them packed inside an old suitcase in his closet. She’d burned them in the bathtub, crying the whole time, admitting to herself for the first time that her son really was sick, that he might actually be some kind of monster.

  “I don’t want to look at pictures, Ma. I swear to God. I’m done with all that.”

  Ronnie was such a good actor, May almost let herself believe he was telling the truth. But she knew him too well.

  “You stay away from computers,” she told him sternly. “And I’ll tell you what else, I want you to come to church with me tomorrow morning.”

  “No way,” Ronnie said. “I’m not going to church.”

  “Come,” May told him. “You need something positive in your life.”

  “That’s why I want a computer.”

  “Would you stop it with the computer?”

  “I’m gonna get one sooner or later,” Ronnie told her. “Whether you like it or not.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I hate to say this, Ma, but you’re not gonna be around forever to say no.”

  “That’s right,” she told him. “I might be gone sooner than you think.”

  Something cracked inside May when she said that. Because it was true: Something was wrong with her. The headaches that the aspirin couldn’t fix. The dizzy spells when she stood up. Twice in the past week she’d woken up on her bedroom floor, without a clue as to how she’d gotten there.

  “What are you gonna do when I’m gone?” she demanded in a quivering voice. “Who’s gonna take care of you?”

  Ronnie slid closer on the couch. He put his hand on her shoulder and gave a little squeeze, the first time he’d touched her in weeks. Tears spilled out of her eyes as if she were a big wet sponge.

  “What’s the matter, Ma?”

  “I don’t feel good, Ronnie.”

  “Why don’t you go to the doctor?”

  “What are they gonna do? I’m old. Maybe it’s my time.”

  May placed her hand on her son’s cheek. She could see how scared he was.

  “Come to church tomorrow. Say a prayer for your old sick mother.”

  “All right,” he said. “But I don’t think God’s gonna pay too much attention.”

  “He listens to everyone,” she insisted. “We’re all His children. Every last one of us.”

  Ronnie squeezed her shoulder again.

  “You’ll be okay, Ma. I know it.”

  May sniffled and gave him a smile.

  “Watch the movie,” she said. “This is the best part.”

  The only thing Larry really liked about going to church was how confused and upset Joanie got when she saw him there. He caught it in her expression the very first Sunday, when he’d gone up to take communion—he’d skipped confession, but as an atheist he felt free to ignore the finer points of Catholic doctrine—and passed her pew on the way back to his own. The boys’ faces lit up with joy at the sight of him; they tugged on their mother’s arm, whispering and pointing in his direction, forcing her to abandon her strategy of staring straight ahead and pretending not to notice him. She glanced at him in feigned surprise, squeezing out a tight little smile that wasn’t quite enough to cancel out the suspicion and hostility in her eyes.

  She was a little more composed by the time he “bumped into” her after mass, an encounter he pretty much assured by stationing himself on the sidewalk that led from the main exit to the parking lot. He had to wait there for nearly fifteen minutes while she mingled with friends and acquaintances in front of the church, eventually becoming entangled in what seemed like a much-too-chummy conversation with the Nigerian priest, a skinny, bug-eyed guy with a snooty accent and an unpronounceable name, Nagoobi or Ganoobi, something like that. Larry had figured him for gay—it was the accent, plus something swish and theatrical in his gestures—but he revised that opinion in light of the close attention Father Ubangi was paying to Joanie, who, as usual, had dressed for church as if Dirty Dancing were the Eighth Sacrament—short skirt, sheer black hose, tottery high heels, and a tight red top that made it quite clear why she had once been a plausible contender for the title of “Miss Nipples.” She and Larry had clashed over her Sunday wardrobe in the past; the unfortunate “fucking whore” comment that had led to their separation was inspired by a cleavage-baring dress she’d worn to mass during the July heat wave. Her excuse was always the same: As a nurse, she spent most of her time trapped inside an ugly uniform; didn’t she deserve to look nice one day a week?

  Father Banoogi certainly seemed to think so. He kept touching her arm and nodding with such an emphatic downward motion that you would have thought it was her tits talking to him instead of her mouth. Then they started laughing about something, their mirth so prolonged and exaggerated Larry could hear it clearly from thirty yards away. He couldn’t help getting irritated. What could be so goddam funny at nine-thirty on a Sunday morning? Weren’t there millions of kids starving in Africa? He was all set to walk over there and break up the little lovefest when they did it themselves. Joanie and Father Nooganbi hugged on the sidewalk with such uncalled for intensity that Larry flashed on the scandal from his own distant past.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, she’s the next Mrs. Michalek. In a day or two, they’ll be opening a video store.

  This whole time the twins had been standing obediently at their mother’s side, somber little angels in short-sleeved white shirts and clip-on ties, but as soon as the priest turned his back they starte
d shoving each other and airing some sort of grievance that Joanie refused to acknowledge. With her usual unflappable efficiency, she took each of the boys by a hand and tugged them along with her as she started down the path that led smack into Larry.

  The boys whooped when they saw him, breaking free of their mother and charging into his arms. Only a day had gone by since he’d seen them—Joanie was letting him take the kids on Saturday—but Larry still felt starved for their company, the mere sight of them. It had been like this ever since they’d started preschool last September, and he’d been forced to muddle through the empty weekdays without their raucous company. He gathered them up, one twin under each arm, and calmly walked toward Joanie. It felt good, the whole family together on a sunny morning in a wholesome environment. If it hadn’t been for the worshiping God part, he would have happily attended church on a regular basis.

  “Well, well,” said Joanie. “If it isn’t the prodigal son.”

  Larry presented his cheek for a hello kiss, but she just brushed right past him and continued toward the parking lot, forcing him to pivot and hurry after her, which wasn’t that easy, given that she was a fast walker, even in high heels, and he was weighed down by an unbalanced seventy-pound load of squirming twin boys. By the time he caught up, she had already popped the automatic locks on her Camry.

  “Aren’t people supposed to be happy to see the prodigal son?” he asked, loosening his arms so his sons could escape.

  Joanie opened the back door.

  “Inside, guys.”

  The boys clambered in, but not before Gregory asked if Daddy was joining them for lunch. Larry shrugged hopefully.

  “Not today,” said Joanie.

  She shut the door on the twins’ disappointed groans, shaking her head in mock admiration.

  “Not bad,” she told him. “Communion and everything.”

  “You look great,” he told her. “Why don’t we go out for a drink some night, talk things over?”