Amy Gustine - You Should Pity Us Instead

Childhood, Sarah thinks: a prison made up of lack. A lack of words, of knowing better, of being believed. You are at everyone’s mercy.

Back at Melanie’s house she looks through the toys and comes across a Rubik’s Cube, its edges pockmarked by Gray’s teething, its colors hopelessly jumbled. On the way home, she buys a new cube and the next day prints off tips on how to master it. That evening, she gives them to Melanie.

“He’ll have something to do on the playground at least.”

A week later Melanie reports that Ethan takes the cube out every day and that some other boys have started gathering to watch him.

“It’s really improved things for him. It was a brilliant idea. You should be a teacher. Have you ever considered that? Going to college?”

Sarah dodges the question with a vague plan about saving money. The truth is she has no idea how to go about getting into college, let alone paying for it. Melanie suggests federal loans, scholarships. “Didn’t the school counselor help you with any of this?” Sarah has no recollection of such a person at any of her high schools. A few weeks later, while watching a show about Albert Einstein, she wonders if that’s what went wrong. Maybe you couldn’t switch schools, houses or families too often or too quickly. It frayed the net of space and time. You had to stay put, let the moments link themselves like runners passing the baton. If you don’t, your life slips through, like her mother’s pots and pans.

Rubik’s Cube as anodyne has a short half-life. Within a month, Melanie reports that Ethan is being made fun of because he is too attached to the cube.

“He’s amazing at it, actually, very, very smart, and at first the other boys were impressed, but they can’t do it as well, so now they’re mad, and he just won’t put it down. I finally had to take it away. I mean, I give it to him during recess, that’s it. Otherwise he’ll never listen or do anything else.”

Melanie says watching him align the squares, his face no longer a simulacrum of absorption, but truly captivated, makes her cry. “I mean the thought that a colored block of plastic is all he has.”

“He has his mother,” Sarah says.

Another eye roll. “He comes to school in the same clothes all week and when we have food, you know, for holidays or birthdays, he eats like he hasn’t had a meal in days.” Melanie shakes her head. “I wish I could get some evidence on her, something to report to child services.”

“Don’t do that.” Sarah hears the sharpness of her tone too late, but Melanie is oblivious.

Unloading a stack of papers covered in large, loopy handwriting, the lines of text sloping up and down, she says, “I’m keeping my eye on things. I don’t like that woman.”

Sarah finds Ethan’s last name in Melanie’s grade book, looks up his address and drives by several times thinking vaguely of warning them: be careful, they’re watching you. Their building is a yellow brick fourplex on a street that backs up to a grocery store and gas station. The windows are the same type of silver ones she has in the new apartment and she wonders if they ice up the same way.

One Sunday Ethan is sitting on the front stoop in a jacket and no hat, hands clasped between his knees. Sarah circles the block, then pulls over and gets out. “You okay? Are you locked out?”

Ethan looks at her a long moment as if he doesn’t speak English. “No.”

“Well, what’re you doing sitting out here? It’s awfully cold, and you don’t have a hat or gloves.”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s a light jacket. Do you have a coat? A winter coat?”

Ethan stares at her sullenly. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

“She’s inside.” Ethan scoots over for her to pass.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“I have to stay out here.”

“Have to? Why?”

Again he gives her that look that lets her know she has no business here.

“Is your mom making you stay out here?”

The door opens. Sarah looks up, startled.

Ethan’s mother is very skinny. She has a pale face pockmarked lightly around the mouth and thin hair dyed the color of a brand-new penny. A dark line cleaves its two halves.

“Your friend is here,” Ethan says. His voice is high, almost broken.

“I don’t want anything. And I don’t appreciate you talking to my kid.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Sarah mumbles.

Ethan looks between his mother and Sarah.

His mother steps outside. “Are you looking for somebody?” Her voice is hard and annoyed.

“Sorry, I just stopped because I thought maybe he was locked out.”

“You just drive around talking to strange kids?”

“Well, it’s pretty cold.”

“What?”

“It’s cold, so I was worried.” Sarah has to use the bathroom. She contracts her muscles and the urge recedes.

Ethan speaks up. “She said you were friends.”

The mother looks at Ethan, registering his claim, then back at Sarah, alerted that something is wrong. “Is that your car?”

Sarah looks behind her. The license plate is fully visible. “I’m from Children’s Services,” she blurts.

Immediately, the woman’s attitude changes. She becomes both stiffer and more friendly, a smile stretched across her face as if it’s being pulled by a string.

Sarah introduces herself as “Ms. Adams.” “May I come in?”

The woman stands back, swinging open the cracked storm door. “Of course, of course, we got nothing to hide.”

An unfamiliar feeling of power washes through Sarah, loosening her stomach and slowing her heart. “Ethan is coming in too, yes?” she asks, glancing behind her as she steps into the building’s common hall, a wide space dimly lit by a single bulb recessed behind a soiled plastic cover.

Inside the apartment the living and dining space is one long room. The table is covered in stacks of mail and various other misplaced things. She spies a screwdriver and several bottles of nail polish. Unopened boxes stand in the corner, and the drapes, little blue and yellow flowers, must be left over from previous occupants. They were not chosen by the same person who owns the overstuffed brown couch and red chairs.

“Would you like a drink? A pop or coffee?” Ethan’s mother asks.

“No, thank you.”

“Please sit down. What’s this about? Did someone call you or something?”

“Maybe we should talk privately.” Sarah mimics the cadence of Nancy’s voice and the kinds of things she used to say.

Ethan’s mother tells him to go to his room, then motions for Sarah to sit and both women perch on the edge, Sarah on the couch, Ethan’s mother on the nearer of the two chairs.

“I’m just here to find out a little information. So I see Ethan was outside. He said he had to stay out there. Why was that?”

“I just wanted him to go play a little while. He doesn’t do anything but those video games. I thought he needed the exercise.”

“It’s pretty cold. Does he have a heavier coat? Some gloves and a hat?”

“Oh yeah, yeah.” She goes into the hall, opens a narrow closet where coats half-conceal an old vacuum cleaner and yanks out a blue ski jacket. “See, he’s got a good coat, and I told him to wear it, but he likes that team jacket. He’s a Broncos fan.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be out in this cold dressed like that.”

Ethan’s mother nods. “Right, sure. Absolutely.”

Sarah wonders if this is how the Judge feels behind the bench: everyone must listen.

“So Ethan’s father? Does he live nearby?”

“He’s out in Texas. Maybe Arizona. The moron moves a lot.” Ethan’s mother rolls her eyes just like Melanie.

Sarah asks about friends, if Ethan has other boys over to play, and his mother shrugs. “We’re pretty busy.”