that no one, not even Dr. Jean McClellan, would be able to piece it together.
He launched into a tune so grotesquely bastardized I didn’t know what to think. Patrick nearly spilled his morning coffee at the sound of Steven singing.
There were the Police and their doo-doo-doo-da-da-da—or however it goes; there was that Lou Reed piece about how the “colored girls” sing “do-do-do”—ultra-racist now, but it was Lou Reed and he could get away with all kinds of shit back then; there were those Motown bands and those white people who wanted to sound like they were a Motown band and there was every other songwriter in the modern world who stumbled over a lyric and ended up filling the space with something that rhymed with the kiddie word for defecation. And, finally, there was my own son crooning along to the entire musical canon from Brahms to Beyoncé, replacing each and every word with “poo.”
The memories make the present doubly hard, but, finally, I say it.
“Did Steven come to your school today?”
A nod.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
No. She does not.
“Story, then?” I say.
I let her go off to her bedroom, my lackluster reminder to brush her teeth following her from the dining table, down the hall, to the bathroom she has for herself now that the twins are of that age when separate peeing quarters become important. Patrick’s door doesn’t so much as squeak on its hinges when Sonia runs by it.
I take everything out on Steven. Maybe this isn’t the best parenting tactic, but I’m furious.
“What happened at Sonia’s school today, Steven?” I say after sending Sam and Leo off to the TV room. They’re eager to go, mostly because, without their older brother, they get a few minutes alone with the remote.
Steven shrugs but doesn’t turn from the sink.
“I’d like an answer, kiddo,” I say, and I press his shoulder, forcing him to turn.
It’s only now that I see the small pin on his collar, about a pinkie’s worth wide. Inside the silver circle, on a white field, is the single letter P in bright blue. I’ve seen this before.
The first time, it was on television during that ridiculous segment where three Bible-thumping women in twinsets tore Jackie Juarez to shreds. Not a week later, I saw it decorating one of Olivia King’s church dresses when she knocked on my door asking if I had an egg to spare.
It’s supposed to be a symbol of solidarity, I guess, this quiet blue P worn by both men and women now. Olivia’s daughter, Julia, has one, and sometimes I’ve seen it when I’ve been at the grocery store or at the dry cleaners picking up Patrick’s shirts. I ran into Dr. Claudia, my former gynecologist, in the post office, and even she had one, although I suspected her husband had more to do with Claudia’s choice of accessories than she herself did. I know the P stands for “Pure”—Pure Man, Pure Woman, Pure Child.
What I don’t know is why my own son is wearing this pin.
“When did you start this?” I say, fingering his collar.
Steven brushes my hand off as if it’s an annoying fly and returns to rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher. “Got it the other day. No big deal.”
“Got it? As in, what? It fell from the sky? You found it in a storm drain?”
No answer.
“You don’t just get these, Steven.”
He shoulders past me, pours himself a glass of milk from the fridge, and downs it. “Of course you don’t just get them, Mom. You have to earn them.”
“I see. And how does that happen?”
Another glass of milk disappears down Steven’s gullet.
“Save some for cereal tomorrow,” I say. “You’re not the only human in this house.”
“Maybe you should go out and get another carton, then. It’s your job, right?”
My hand flies with a will of its own, makes contact; and a bright palm print blooms on the right side of Steven’s face.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise his own hand, doesn’t react at all, except to say, “Nice, Mom. Real nice. One day, that’s gonna be a crime.”
“You little shit.”
He’s smug now, which makes everything worse. “I’ll tell you how I earned the pin. I got recruited. Recruited, Mom. They needed volunteers from the boys’ school to make the rounds to the girls’ schools and explain a few things. I accepted. And for the past three days, I’ve been going out in the field and demonstrating how the bracelets work. Look.” He pushes up one sleeve and brandishes the burn mark around his wrist. “We go in pairs, and we take turns. All so girls like Sonia know what will happen.” As if to defy me once more, he drains his glass of milk and licks his lips. “By the way, I wouldn’t encourage her to pick the sign language back up.”
“Why the hell not?” I’m still trying to absorb the fact that my son has purposefully shocked himself “so girls like Sonia know what will happen.”
“Mom. Honestly. You of all people should get it.” His voice has taken on the timbre of someone much older, someone tired of explaining how things are. “Signing defeats the purpose of what we’re trying to do here.”
Of course it does.
“Look, I can’t tell you the details, but there are people researching the new—you know—devices. They’ll be more like gloves. Really, that’s all I should say.” He straightens, smiling. “Except that I’ve volunteered to beta test them.”
“You what?”
“It’s called leadership, Mom. And it’s what Pure Men do.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “You goddamned bastard.”
Steven shrugs. “Whatevs.” Then he stalks out of the kitchen, leaving the glass on the counter next to a note saying Buy milk.
Sam and Leo are in the kitchen doorway, staring at me, so I don’t dare cry.
After I read Sonia her bedtime story and lie next to her, waiting for the steady breathing that tells me she’s asleep, I go to my bedroom. Our bedroom. Tonight, I have it all to myself because Patrick is still in his study, even though it’s approaching midnight. Rarely does he stay up so late.
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