J. Lennon - See You in Paradise

A child comes to her, a tiny white boy. “Fow me dis!” he says, “fow it to me!” He thrusts a frisbee at her. She draws back, horrified, and it tumbles to the ground. The child picks it up and hands it to her again.

“Oh! I don’t know …” It’s a test! she thinks, taking the frisbee. It’s a test and I’m flunking!

The child runs away to a small group of older boys. They are grinning with apparent mischief. “All right!” she calls out. “Get ready! Here it comes!”

She throws the frisbee, and it wallows in the air and falls ten feet short. “No!” the child says. “Wike dis! Wike dis!” He grabs the frisbee and flings it away, over the heads of the other children, and they chase it and are gone.

She wanders, watching Edward out of the corner of her eye. He is talking to exactly the wrong kid. She’s done research. Adolescents and teens may already have developed beyond your ability to control them. Sometimes she suspects that Edward doesn’t really want a child at all, and that this secret truth has rendered them infertile. She’s not sure of the mechanics of the thing, but it is as easy to believe as what the doctor has told them.

At first their desire for children was as passionate and straightforward as a Labrador retriever, and as thoughtless. They liked each other and wanted to make more of themselves. They screwed with delightful abandon. Once it was clear things weren’t working, though, sex became perfunctory. It seemed absurd and implausible, like Twister. They still have it, of course. Sex. They call it “it.” “We should do it.” Neither ever refuses, no matter how unappealing the prospect, because then there would be somebody to blame for their never doing it anymore.

They are most successful at it when he wears a condom.

Alison has been thinking these thoughts for a while before she realizes how she must look: slumped, agape, alone. She looks up, startled, at the scene around her. Predatory adults kneeling, touching, telling jokes. I don’t know any jokes! she thinks.

Then she sees her child.

Really. He looks like her. He has her long fingers (curled around a plastic bat), her high forehead (sweating, like hers!), her coarse, raccoon-colored hair (though on him, tousled, gently curled, it looks charming). He is so obviously the one that it takes her several seconds to realize that he is already talking to some adults, older adults. Mature adults. The man wears boots and a bolo tie; narrow and bent, he looks like a hick. A rich hick. The woman is freckled and tan. It’s over; the child has been claimed.

Still, her legs carry her toward the three of them.

“I don’t want parents,” Nate tells Edward. “I’m fine without them. Pretty soon I’ll get out of high school and I’ll take the money they give me at the home and buy a bus ticket.”

The speech sounds rehearsed. “Where to?” Edward says.

“Vegas.”

“What’s there?”

“Everything, man. Girls. Money. I want to deal poker. You ever seen those guys? They’re smooth.”

“I agree.”

Nate looks off across the park, squinting at the bright hills and water. It would be a piece of cake to live with this kid, Edward thinks. He’d be like a roommate. Because Edward doesn’t want a baby anymore, really, the same way he doesn’t want a sport-utility vehicle or a handheld computer. All the years of fertility brochures and pregnancy books, all the babies who pitch for mutual funds and radial tires and insurance policies and of course diapers and powders and creams: all of it has driven Edward to conclude that babies are a brand name, they are a product. They are conventional. They are what other people want you to have. To hell with them, with their big round heads and skinny asses and button noses. He’ll take this: this guy.

All he has to do is find Al and introduce her to the kid. He scans the crowd. There she is, standing in the sunlight with a skinny sort of ersatz Texan and his wife. He stands up and brushes his butt off.

“Sit tight, Nate,” he says.

“Whatever.”

But as he draws closer to Alison and the Texans, he realizes it isn’t going to work this way. In fact, it isn’t going to work at all. That’s because a child is there, among the three of them, a child of about five with the long, asking-for-it face of a chronic sinus sufferer. The child is holding a busted wiffle ball bat, whitened and creased in the middle, where it’s been pounded against a tree. When Alison turns, her eyes are chaotically glittering, as if full of broken glass. She’s in love.

Dammit, things ought to be simple. Nate fades away behind him like a Coke can tossed out a car window.

“Hi!” he says to the four of them and presses his palm against Alison’s humid back. Nobody says anything except the doomed child.

“Hello.”

Edward thinks he should probably introduce himself to the adults, but he has a feeling he’s not going to like them. He bends over and says, “Who’s in charge here? You, sir?”

The child says, “No, Mrs. Scott is,” and points across the park to the tall woman, the one who looked like she might fall over. Great. Great Scott! Perfect! The boy is cowering, so Edward stifles his laugh. Raymond is his name. It’s markered on his name tag in that new kind of printing they teach now, with little curlicues after all the letters, so that the children will find it easier to connect them someday, when cursive is taught.

Edward feels a willful hand on his shoulder. He allows it to pull him up into a standing position.

“Harlan Breece,” says the Texan, “Linda Breece.” Edward shakes the man’s hand and gives Linda a little bow. Then Harlan Breece shakes Alison’s hand, too. Edward tries goofily to shake Alison’s hand, but she rejects him with a nervous smile. Everyone, actually, is smiling. Meanwhile Harlan is sizing them up, and after a moment he turns back to the boy, his face confident and calm. Edward sees that Harlan has deemed them not worth worrying about. His wife, seeing this too, relaxes, and a blush blooms briefly. Edward understands that a competition has begun. He turns to Alison.

“You ought to get into the shade,” he says, for she is deep red and illuminated by sweat.

“I’m fine,” she tells him brightly. “Raymond likes baseball. His favorite player is … who is it?”

“Sammy Sosa,” says Raymond.

“Son,” says Harlan Breece, “you ever been to a real baseball game?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, somebody ought to do something about that.”

“I want him,” Alison says. They are in the car with the windows shut tight, the AC pumping hot air into their faces. The children are climbing into a bus while someone with a clipboard checks off their names. The event is over. The two couples talked to the boy Raymond for a good twenty minutes, not moving an inch, despite the blazing sun: a contest for which the heat-toving Breeces (genuine Texans, as it happens) were genetically predisposed. The Breeces revealed that they lived on the lake, that Harlan was a judge. They’d acquired a child once before, a foster child, as Linda had suffered a “female problem” that left her unable to conceive. The boy had gone back home after a year. The implication was that the separation had crushed poor Linda, and indeed, Linda looked the part, with her moist eyes and weak chin, and the heavy upper arms Alison tends to associate with deep sadness. The Breeces had sold their ranch to a developer and moved here, of all places, to the Finger Lakes.

All of this was spoken in code, of course, with occasional frank asides to Edward and Alison, whenever a nugget of information seemed like it might break their spirit. Judge. Money. Experience with foster children.