Christopher Hacker - The Morels

Upon hearing this, Penelope — who had just come out of the kitchen with the turkey — looked on the verge of dropping the platter. From the flurry of wordless looks — for reasons that will in a moment become clear — you would have thought we were all in a Bergman film. Had Will read the book, in spite of his claim to the contrary? Or was this just evidence of the emotional telepathy in children that allows them to ferret out the supposedly hidden affairs of grown-ups? Will said, “What’s the matter?”

Arthur said, “We know too much about one another for it to work. That game’s best played with strangers.”

Frank said, “I’m going to say no — for the same reason I say no to poker. Can’t bluff to save my life.”

“And I’m no liar,” Mrs. Wright said, “so I’m afraid I will have to sit this one out as well.”

Despite these protests, and despite Penelope’s attempt at diverting us with the front-page controversies of the day — developments in the Lewinsky scandal and a recent push by our mayor to cut funding for the arts — ten minutes later Will had us bluffing our way around the table.

I went first. I told them I had never learned to ride a bicycle, which was the truth. I told them I had once found Robert De Niro’s wallet at Katz’s Delicatessen — also true — and that I had been arrested twice: the lie. There was unanimous consent that nobody didn’t know how to ride a bicycle — and so I managed to fool them. Will reminded us, looking sternly at me, that the game depended on everybody being honest about their lies. I assured him that my lie was the truth, and so we continued.

Will went next. He told us that his math teacher had once been a famous R & B singer, that he had lied about doing his homework yesterday, and that he had just last week seen the ghost of the dead boy who haunted the school’s stairwells.

Frank said, “Only two of those facts are verifiable.”

Mrs. Wright said, “Obviously it’s the third one. There are no such things as ghosts.”

Will protested vehemently at this and described the sighting in great detail. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“God forbid!” Mrs. Wright clutched her heart.

Penelope said, “You lied about doing your homework?”

Will hopped off his chair excitedly, padded off to his room, and a few moments later returned with a xeroxed flyer of a black man with a large afro crooning into a microphone, and a loose-leaf sheet — the homework in question.

Arthur said, “You lied about lying about doing your homework. So the lie’s the lie. Very clever!” He smiled approvingly at his son. “Okay, who’s next?”

Mrs. Wright went next, despite her earlier protests. A momentum had developed. She told everyone that she had never been to Europe, that a close childhood friend of hers had only recently learned she was adopted, and that her favorite color was blue.

After we had exhausted our guesses, Mrs. Wright revealed that all three of these things were in fact true.

“That’s not the game!” Will protested.

“I told you,” Mrs. Wright said, “I’m no liar.”

Penelope, during her turn, lied about a latent allergy to eggplant, and Frank — who seemed to have missed the point of the game — kept trying to fool us with little-known facts about Abraham Lincoln. Then it was Arthur’s turn.

He sat at the head of the table, a mischievous twist of a smile, in his element. He said, “I have thirty-four teeth. I have a vaccination scar on my left upper arm. I have a bruise on my right shin.”

Penelope said she knew Arthur’s vaccination scar intimately — it was on his right arm, not his left. Frank said that thirty-four teeth sounded like too many and checked this hunch against his own teeth, which totaled thirty-two. My money was on the bruise. When we were all done guessing, Arthur opened his mouth and confirmed a vowely thirty-two, just as Frank had said.

“But I know that scar,” Penelope said. Arthur rolled up his right sleeve to confirm that Penelope too was right. “That’s two lies,” she said. “You’re only allowed one.”

“Three lies, actually,” Arthur said, showing us his hairy, unbruised shins.

Will said to me, exasperated, “Didn’t I explain the rules clearly enough to these people?”

Arthur said, “For the sake of symmetry — Constance’s three truths to my three lies.”

Dessert was served: apple cobbler and Linzer cookies that the Wrights brought with them. “In my luggage,” Mrs. Wright said. “I’m amazed they survived.” Penelope brought out coffee and cut fruit.

Will took some coffee, refused the fruit. “I think I’m ready for bed,” he announced, and got up.

“Is it that time already?” Penelope said.

He hugged his grandparents, patted his mother and father on their heads.

Once Will had gone into his room and closed the door, Mrs. Wright said, “Is bedtime really a question, dear?”

“We’ve been letting him make his own decisions.”

I took another cookie. The center was pure Smucker’s, so sweet it made my fillings hurt. I ate around the edges and left the middle on my plate — I did this with all three of the cookies I took. Frank watched me do this.

“What sorts of things are you letting him decide about?”

“You can’t let him decide everything. He’s a child.”

“It’s an experiment. We haven’t set limits on what he can and can’t decide. If this is going to be a lesson about the responsibility of free will, what kind of example are we setting by telling him, essentially, there are times when you can’t think for yourself? Times when, arguably, it’s most important to use good judgment.”

“Penny, darling,” Frank said, “I love you but that’s absurd. If he decides he wants to take up smoking, obviously you’re not going to let him. So what’s the point?”

“Hold on,” Arthur said, “not so obvious. So what if he wants to try out smoking? Okay, he’s a little young — but all the better, really. His lungs won’t be able to handle it, and he’ll find it repulsive. Lesson learned. Why would I deny him that experience?”

Something in both the Wrights’ demeanors changed. Mrs. Wright frowned and looked down at her hands. Frank opened his mouth for a moment and then closed it again. Their expressions registered something, a fear confirmed.

“I wouldn’t hand him one,” Arthur said, “and good luck finding a smoke shop that will sell to someone Will’s age.”

Penelope gave Arthur a sharp look. “Anyway, it’s illegal. We’re mostly talking about decisions within legal boundaries.”

“And your book?” Frank said, quietly.

“This hasn’t changed,” Penelope said. “He’s agreed to wait until he’s older.”

“ He’s agreed,” Mrs. Wright said.

“Well, we can’t very well stop him, Mother. If he wants to read it, he will find a way to read it. The best we can do is help him see the wisdom in waiting.” This seemed to be a subject they’d talked about at length, judging from Penelope’s exasperated tone.

“Look,” Frank said, “I don’t want this to become a territory issue. We know our place, and we don’t want to step on your toes here, and Lord knows your mother and I understand better than you would think that raising a child isn’t a black-and-white issue. But the boy is eleven years old.”

“And.”

“And he needs—”

“Discipline?”

“He needs structure. He needs to not be the one driving the ship. He can’t be his own role model.”

“I refuse to brainwash my son,” Arthur said. “I want him to have the courage to make hard choices, to think for himself.”

“He needs limits, boundaries. You can’t just do and say whatever you want!”