Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

“Is it chicken pox?” I ask, as I take a bite.

“No,” she says. “He has a reptile dysfunction.”

I nearly spit out the pizza. Immediately I drop Violet to her feet. As she runs back to the table to continue coloring, I raise a brow. “What were you watching?” I calmly ask my mother.

She knows that the only television we let Violet watch is Sesame Street or Disney Junior. But from the studied wash of innocence on my mother’s face I know she’s hiding something. “Nothing.”

I pivot, staring at the blank TV screen. On a hunch, I pick the remote up from the couch and turn it on.

Wallace Mercy is grandstanding in all his glory, outside City Hall in Manhattan. His wild white hair stands on end, like he’s been electrocuted. His fist is raised in solidarity with whatever apparent injustice he’s currently championing. “My brothers and sisters! I ask you: when did the word misunderstanding become synonymous with racial profiling ? We demand an apology from the New York City police commissioner, for the shame and inconvenience suffered by this celebrated athlete-” The Fox news logo runs beneath the slightly familiar face of a handsome dark-skinned man.

Fox News. A channel that Micah and I do not generally watch. A channel that would easily be the home of multiple ads about erectile dysfunction.

“You let Violet watch this?”

“Of course not,” my mother says. “I just turned it on during her naptime.”

Violet looks up from her coloring. “The Five-o-Meter!”

I shoot my mother the Look of Death. “You’re watching The Five with my four-year-old daughter.”

She throws up her hands. “All right, fine, yes, sometimes I do. It’s the news, for goodness’ sake. It’s not like I’m putting on P-O-R-N. Besides, did you even hear about this? It’s a simple misunderstanding and that ridiculous fake reverend is shooting his mouth off again all because the police were trying to do their job.”

I look at Violet. “Honey,” I say, “why don’t you go pick out the pajamas you want to wear, and two books for bedtime?”

She runs upstairs and I turn back to the television. “If you want to watch Wallace Mercy, at least put on MSNBC,” I say.

“I don’t want to watch Wallace. In fact I don’t think he’s doing Malik Thaddon any good by taking on his cause.”

Malik Thaddon, that’s why he looks familiar. He won the U.S. Open a few years back. “What happened?”

“He walked out of his hotel and was grabbed by four policemen. Apparently it was a case of mistaken identity.”

Ava settles beside me on the couch as the camera zooms in on Wallace Mercy’s verbal tantrum. The cords in his neck stand out and there is a throbbing vein at his temple; this man is a heart attack waiting to happen. “You know,” my mother says. “If they weren’t so angry all the time, maybe more people would listen to them.”

I don’t have to ask who they are.

I take another bite of my dinosaur pizza. “How about we go back to only turning the television on to a channel that doesn’t have commercials with side effects?”

My mother folds her arms. “I would think of all people you’d want your child to be a student of the world, Kennedy.”

“She’s a baby, Mom. Violet doesn’t need to think that the police might grab her one day.”

“Oh, please. Violet was coloring. All that went right over her head. The only thing she even remarked on was Wallace Mercy’s extremely poor choice of hairdo.”

I press my fingers to the corners of my eyes. “Okay. I’m tired. Let’s just table this conversation.”

My mother takes my empty plate and stands up, clearly miffed. “Far be it from me to see myself as more than just the hired help.”

She disappears into the kitchen, and I go to put Vi to bed. She has picked a book about a mouse with a mouthful of a name none of her friends can pronounce, and Go, Dog. Go! which is the title I hate more than anything else in her library. I climb into bed with her and drop a kiss on the crown of her head. She smells like strawberry bubble bath and Johnson’s shampoo, exactly like my own childhood. As I start to read aloud, I make a mental note to thank my mother for bathing Violet and feeding her and loving her as fiercely as I do, even if she did expose her to Wallace Mercy’s righteous wrath.

In that moment, my mind drifts to Ruth. Violet doesn’t need to think that the police might grab her one day, I had said to my mother.

But honestly, the odds of my child being a victim of mistaken identity are considerably smaller than, say, Ruth’s.

“Mommy!” Violet demands, and I realize I’ve inadvertently stopped reading, lost in thought.

“ ‘Do you like my hat?’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘I do not.’ ”

ADISA SAYS I NEED TO treat myself, so she offers to buy me lunch. We go to a little bistro that bakes its own bread, and that serves portions so large you always wind up taking home half. It’s busy, so Adisa and I sit at the bar.

I have been spending more time with my sister, which is both comforting and strange. Before, I was almost always working when I wasn’t with Edison; now my schedule is empty.

“This is nice and all,” Adisa says to me, “but have you given any thought to how you gonna pay for your own lunch down the road?”

I think about what Kennedy said yesterday about filing a civil suit. It’s money, but it’s money I cannot count on yet-maybe never. “I’m a little more concerned with feeding my son,” I admit.

She narrows her glance. “How much cushion you have?”

There’s no point lying to her. “About three months.”

“You know if things get tight, you can ask me for help, right?”

At that, I can’t help but smile. “Seriously? I had to give you a loan last month.”

Adisa grins. “I said you can ask me for help. I didn’t say I’d be able to provide it.” She shrugs. “Besides, you know there’s an answer.”

What I have learned this week is that I am overqualified for nearly every entry-level administrative job in New Haven, including all open secretarial and receptionist positions. My sister believes I should file for unemployment. But I see that as dishonest, since once this is settled, I plan to go back to work. Getting a part-time job is another alternative, but I’m qualified as a nurse, and my license is suspended. So instead, I’ve avoided the conversation.

“All I know is that when Tyana’s boyfriend got busted for larceny and went to trial, the court date wasn’t for eight months,” Adisa says. “Which puts you five months in the hole. What advice did that skinny white lawyer give you?”

“Her name is Kennedy, and we were too busy trying to figure out how I won’t go to prison to discuss how I can support myself while I’m waiting for a trial date.”

Adisa snorts. “Yeah, because that kind of detail probably never occurs to someone like her.”

“You met her once, ” I point out. “You know nothing about her.”

“I know that people who become public defenders are doing it because morals are more important to them than money, or else they would be off making partner in the big city. Which means Miz Kennedy either has a trust fund or a sugar daddy.”

“She got me out on bail.”

“Correction: your son got you out on bail.”

I shoot Adisa a glare and turn my attention to the bartender, who is polishing glasses.

Adisa rolls her eyes. “You don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” She looks up at the television over the bar, on which an infomercial is playing. “Hey,” she says to the bartender. “Can we watch something else?”