Karen Bender - Refund - Stories

DRIVING HOME, I NOTICED POLICE CARS EVERYWHERE. I WAS NOW aware of them, floating in their calm and menacing way, down the street. I saw the bulky cars, their metal bodies, the officers inside in their buggy sunglasses. There were no apparent crimes in the city, but they were following me. They were. I gripped the wheel, feeling guilty. I was not young anymore, yet I had many desires, one of which was my yearning to nurse the cat. What did this mean, besides the fact that the gynecologist wanted to diagnose it? The police cruised by, circling.

I got home and resumed normal activities. The cat pretended he had no part in this. He trotted around, arrogant and tiny. I followed him. I waited for the phone. I wanted to hear some good news. But no. There was a call from the school principal, who wanted to talk about our son.

— Something good? I asked, hopeful. — Is he doing well in math? Silence.

— Then what?

— There have been accusations, he said.

— Of what?

— Thievery.

Was this a word?

— Come in tomorrow.

I hung up the phone. The cat coughed and leapt upstairs, two stairs at a time.

THE NEXT STOP WAS THE BREAST SURGEON. THOSE WERE TWO WORDS I did not want to hear in the same breath. She decorated her office with a poster that said, horrifyingly: Courage . I did not want to have courage. Who needed it? I wanted Shallowness. Materialism. Sloth. I did not want to be dignified. The surgeon sauntered in. She was young, wearing a ponytail, and looked glossy and trim, as though she had just come from aerobics.

— A droplet? she said. — Can you show me?

I squeezed. There was another. Now I did not look at it so fondly.

— We just got a kitten, I said.

— What type? she asked.

— A very cute one.

— I see.

— Do you have children? I asked, wanting to bond in that way.

— No.

She was kneading my breast as though she were a baker.

— Do you have a pet? I asked.

— I have an iguana, she said.

What kind of emotion can that elicit? I thought. An iguana seemed a cold, silent thing.

— I made mistakes raising them, I said.

— Oh, she said.

— I ignored them when they wanted things. I didn’t set limits. They hit each other, sometimes with objects. Now there are calls from the principal.

She had an expression on her face. It could have been admiration, or it could have been concern.

— Does your iguana do any tricks? I asked, trying to be cordial.

— We need a biopsy, she said.

NOW THERE WAS FEAR. IT WAS A COLD, SOUR FEAR, INVADING MY skin. I could not get it out. I opened the car windows, which did not help. That fucking cat. What had it wrought? Why this, now? When I got home, I picked it up, gripped its small, thin body. I was afraid to hold him for too long. What would happen next? Where would this embarrassment stop?

The cat was following me, I told my husband, that night.

I did not tell him about the droplets. It would be a stupid secret between the medical personnel and me. The news would not go over well, anyway; he was busy at work. Perhaps he was having an affair. It would make him more understandable if he were having an affair. It would clarify everything. As it was, there was a general gray haze of distraction. He wanted to get away from us. He was in a hurry, to get out of the house, to go to the gym, to flee. He wanted, at midlife, hey, at early life, as we all do, to be somewhere else.

— He’s hungry, he said. — Just give him more kibble.

We fell into each other with a kind of relief, that we could find each other through the blind, sweaty maze that made up our days — we were startling, an oasis. The children slept in the other room, moral and forceful as parents; they could not discover us. I locked the door and put a chair against it, for good measure. We had invited them into the world with this act, and now we wanted to keep them out. His hands felt my breasts; he detected nothing; with the deepest gratitude, we held each other down.

I did not tell him the news about the call until we were finished.

— The principal called, I said. — There was thieving.

— Thieving? Of what?

— He didn’t say.

I wanted to just lie there beside him, pretending we had only this to deal with. I rubbed his arm; it was hard as an apple; it looked no different than it had when we met fifteen years before, but its ability for combat would soon reach its limits.

— It’s nothing, my husband said, reaching and lifting a piece of hair from my forehead with an unwarranted tenderness.

— Don’t worry about it, he said. — It’s nothing.

THE GRIM WALK INTO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. I SMILED AT OTHER parents in the hallway, as though we had been invited here for another sort of conference. Invited. We all wanted to be invited to hear a beautiful future. We wanted the school principal to know more than we did. He would tell us that our child had been identified as supremely gifted and would be shot through a funnel to glorious success. Your child is particularly admired by his/her classmates. Your child. . but no. We were here for the other conference. The bright fluorescent bars in the ceiling spat and buzzed. My husband’s hand was a knot in mine.

We said hello to the principal. He was worn out as a piece of flannel. Our son sat in a chair, not wearing his cleanest shirt. Was that his fault or mine? Hi, our son said, his eyes travelling the ceiling; he pretended not to know who we were.

— Well, said the principal. — I am sorry to say that your son has been thieving. Here’s a list. A donut, a pen, $2.25. And the crowning glory, the teacher’s diamond bracelet. Wanda Jenkins found it in his desk.

I wondered if the principal could run the school effectively because he used this word: thieving .

— Could this Wanda have slipped it into his desk by accident? I asked.

— No. She saw it in there. Other kids did, too.

The principal clasped his hands as though he were trying to hold himself from some other frenzied movement. We all did; we were the epitome of politeness.

— So. Do you understand the seriousness of this?

Our son was frozen. His head barely moved. He was this other thing now, a defendant, and he took to it like a character in a movie. We all sat there, perched on our chairs in this moment of history. We were barely real.

— What do you say? asked the principal.

— I didn’t do it, said our son.

— But you did, said the principal. — We have proof.

— What did you want? I asked our son.

He assumed a blank expression, as though he did not understand this question.

— I don’t know, he said.

This was not the right answer, for the principal said, — He has to go home.

— You mean we have to take him home? Now?

— For two days.

— But we have to work—

— Sorry. You have to figure that out.

— We’ll replace everything, said my husband. — Even the donut.

THE DRIVE HOME WAS NOT FUN. SILENCE EXCEPT FOR OUR OCCASIONAL outbursts. Why? And why the donut? Don’t we feed you enough?

We got home and sent our son to his room. It was a dumb solution, but what else could we do? He ambled there, shoulders drooping. He was so obedient I was somewhat touched. My husband and I stood, startled to find ourselves here at midday with our boy in the house.

— You call in sick at work, I asked my husband.

— No. You.

He did not know that he was being insensitive.

— I want Mom, our son called.

— Me? Why me?

— I just do.

I called into work. I lied, said I had a sore throat. If only. My supervisor sounded envious. A sore throat. Why did I get to stay home?

— You can get sick next, I told her, and then I felt guilty for saying this.