A. Homes: In A Country Of Mothers

“Did you do your homework?”

Jake shrugged. He was in the sixth grade, at the beginning of real homework. He absolutely failed to understand that the amount and difficulty of the assignments would increase for the next fifteen years, until finally he would be expected to write a thesis. Without that he would be abandoned by his school, parents, and friends, and left to fend for himself in a world where people actually worked for a living.

“Get your book and bring it here, right now.”

Jake just looked at her, eyes thick as if covered by a strange film. She imagined that the news would arrive in tomorrow’s paper: TELEVISION FOUND TO CAUSE BLINDNESS AND RETARDATION. LONG-TERM EFFECTS SIMILAR TO PROGRESSIVE LEAD POISONING.

“You,” she said to Adam, “are going to sleep.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

Jake pulled his textbook out of the sofa cushions. “Here,” he said, handing it to Claire.

“It’s not for me, sweetie. Open it and get to work.”

Claire lifted Adam off the sofa and carried him to the boys’ room. Just inside their door, toys crunched under her feet. She flipped the light switch. Every goddamned piece of molded plastic her sons owned was spread out across the floor.

“What happened in here?” Claire demanded.

“Playing,” Adam said innocently. His sweetness saved him.

She kicked a clear path to the bed, laid Adam down, read him a quick story, and turned out the light. Tomorrow she would remind Frecia to remind the children to put their toys away.

“I feel sick,” Adam said, as she reached the door.

“Go to sleep,” Claire whispered.

“But I feel sick.”

“Close your eyes and think about what a wonderful day tomorrow will be.”

She gently pulled the door closed. Adam began to cry. What would happen if she opened the door? Adam would be forty years old and still living at home. If she left it shut, he’d become a mass murderer.

She stood at the door listening. The crying stopped and there was a horrible sound, the rumble and roar of a child throwing up. She opened the door and flicked on the light. Adam was sitting up in bed — his blanket, pajamas, and stuffed rabbit covered in vomit.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, running to get a cold washcloth from the bathroom. She lifted his pajama top off and carefully took it and the blanket into the bathroom and put them in a plastic trash bag. She put the stuffed rabbit into the sink and turned on the water. “Frecia?” Claire called.

Frecia came into the room, already in her coat.

“Can you do me a favor on your way out? Put these clothes in the machine downstairs — there’re some quarters on my dresser.”

“We used them today for the bus.”

“Then check my purse.”

Frecia took the bag from Claire. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“What happened?” Jake asked, rushing to the scene five minutes after the fact, reinforcing Claire’s idea that he was growing slower and stupider as he got older. “Oh, stinko,” he said. “I’m not sleeping in here.” Adam started crying.

“Is your homework finished?” Claire asked.

Jake nodded.

“Then go take a bath.”

“Shit,” Jake said.

“What?”

It wasn’t like Jake to swear. The beginning of the end: in the morning he’d come to breakfast with an unfiltered Camel hanging out the corner of his eleven-year-old mouth.

“I’m pretending I didn’t hear that,” she said. “Why did you throw up?” she asked Adam, as if he’d be able to explain.

“Cookie dough,” Jake said. “He ate cookie dough before Frecia baked it. I had some too. Oh my God,” he said, clutching his stomach, scaring Claire for a second, “I’m going to be sick too.” Jake imitated throwing up all over Adam, who loved it.

“I want my rabbit,” Adam said.

“I have to clean him first,” Claire said, and Adam started crying again.

She changed Adam’s sheets, then went into the bathroom to wash Woozy Rabbit. She heard Sam’s key in the lock and then him in the hall taking off his shoes so his step would be light and the children wouldn’t be awakened.

“We’re in here,” Claire yelled.

Sam stomped flat-footed down the hall and into the room. “What’s going on?”

“I threw up,” Adam said.

“You did? What a wonderful boy. God, I wish I could throw up,” Sam said. He sat down on Adam’s bed and took off his shirt and tie, which Adam immediately put on.

“God, I’m happy,” Sam said, running his fingers through the thick hair on his chest. He unbuckled his belt, pulled it out through the loops, and dropped it on the floor. Adam stood up on the bed, posing in his father’s shirt. Sam reached up for him.

“Don’t start or he’ll throw up again,” Claire said. She hated it when Sam came home excessively cheerful after a long day. The worse things got, the more Sam glowed. Originally, it was something she’d liked about him, and she still did on occasion, but on a regular basis all the smiling, the jokes, could bring a person down.

“You mean, if I play with you, you’ll throw up again?” Sam asked Adam. “If I touch you even just for a second, to give you a hug, you’ll throw up?”

Adam nodded, grinned, laughed.

Claire was sure that if she hadn’t been standing there, Sam would have started tickling him. She gave Sam the evil eye and went back into the bathroom, washed the rabbit, and hung it from its ears, where Adam could see it from his bed. “Tomorrow he’ll be ready for you. Now, let’s put on some fresh p.j.’s.”

Adam shook his head and pulled at his father’s shirt, which came down to his ankles. “This is my nightgown,” he said.

“Not the tie,” Sam said, slipping it. over Adam’s head.

Claire kissed Adam goodnight. “I’m sorry I didn’t pay attention when you said you felt sick.”

“I told you,” he said, looking at his father for confirmation.

“Yeah, he told you,” Sam said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

She knew Sam was kidding, but it made her feel like they were ganging up on her. After all, there were three of them and just one of her. Besides, she was their mother, Sam’s wife, she took care of them. They should be nicer to her.

“I know you did, sweetie,” Claire said. “And I’m sorry. Sleep well.” She went out of the room and left Sam to tuck them in.

In the master bedroom, even though she wanted to collapse onto the bed, she first flipped through the closet and thought about her schedule for the next day. A new patient. The former patient of an old friend, a colleague. She’d better look good in case the girl reported back.

Claire used to believe that looking good inspired trust, gave the impression that the shrink could actually do something for her patients — if not rid them of their angst, at least upgrade their sense of style. All the same, she’d given up on it, deciding that a flawless costume caused patients to feel competitive with the therapist. Her current theory was that a well-dressed shrink seemed superior and therefore served as a depressant. These days, Claire dressed as though she were going to lunch with a girlfriend: nice, but relaxed — approachable, was how she liked to think of it. She picked out a very short black skirt and a silk blouse, hung them on the doorknob, and went looking for pantyhose. She knew the outfit might be considered unacceptable, sexually provocative; but her legs were long — why not show off? — and besides, it was late, she was exhausted, and, more importantly, nothing else was clean.

A t noon the next day, while Harry was immersed in a debate with the special-effects guy about the fine art of splattering fake blood, Jody sneaked off the set.