Amanda Bright @ Home (11 page)

Liz’s philosophy on motherhood was bracing, if not always convincing, and certainly the opposite of what anyone who knew her at Brown would have expected. Back then Liz was a women’s history major. She intended to devote her life to writing and teaching the next generation “the truth about how men have used domesticity as an excuse to subjugate women over the ages.” Her first pregnancy was an accident—Liz mistrusted chemical methods of birth control—and to her friends’ surprise Liz decided to have the baby. This was agreeable to her live-in boyfriend, Steve, a wiry and laid-back science major. He offered to do 50 percent of the child care, just as he already did 50 percent of the housework (his academic expertise gave him a flair for baking and laundry, although he had a tedious habit of pausing, midload, to explain exactly
why
borax brightened clothes). After graduation, the couple moved to Binghamton, where Steve had been offered a teaching position at the state university. Liz, who had previously disavowed any interest in “adding my spawn to an already overpopulated world,” proceeded to have babies two, three, and four. The spawn, apparently, turned out to be compelling little creatures when they were your own and not someone else’s selfish indifference to the world’s looming food and ozone shortages. Liz even succumbed to marriage between babies two and three. (“I got tired of Sarah asking to see my wedding pictures,” she explained. “What can I say? Children are traditionalists.”) Modern women, Liz took to lecturing to Amanda, have been misled into mimicking male definitions of success: it was typical male conceit to value the things men did—polluting the earth, waging wars, manufacturing pointless items of consumption—more than women’s work. How could it be considered progress that their female classmates were now employed in the same boring jobs and enduring the same long, miserable hours as men in order to serve corporate America? Liz had gone so far as to publish an essay, titled “Motherhood Is a Feminist Issue,” in
Jezebel,
a feminist literary journal. She was deluged with angry letters accusing her of betraying the women’s movement, but she delighted in the reaction. Once, when Liz came to Washington for a visit, Susie asked what had become of her ambition to teach and write books. Liz cast her hand over her children, who were at that moment rolling about Amanda’s living room floor, and said, solemnly, “These are my major works.”

Liz returned to the phone, out of breath. “Got the kids settled with some crayons. Baby’s here with me, eating a banana. What’s up?”

“Gosh, Liz, it’s kind of embarrassing, but I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“Out with it.”

“I had a fight with Bob last night.”

“A serious one?”

“Yeah—we were at a party—”

“Oh, hang on.” Liz put her hand over the receiver.
(No, you may not watch TV. Finish your drawing or go play outside with your sister. Hey, who said you could have a marshmallow? Those are for our project! Okay, just one more. Now get out of here while Mommy is on the phone.)
“Sorry, a fight? With Bob?”

“Uh-huh. We were at a party, and a woman hit on Bob. Then—”

“A woman hit on Bob!”

“Well, sort of—she was all over him, stroking his arm and taking his jacket …”

“I’d say that’s hitting on. What did you do?”

“I confronted him with it, of course.”

“What did he say?” There was a wail on Liz’s end. “Wait, hold that thought.”
(No more marshmallows. No TV. And you’re interrupting Mommy again. Go away!)

“Continue,” Liz said urgently.

“He said he was only being polite.”

“Yeah, right.”

“But that wasn’t the worst of it. When we were driving home, he just exploded.”

“
Bob
exploded?”

“Yes. He told me he was unhappy—how financially difficult it is for me to be at home. How upset he is that the house is always a mess … things like that …” Amanda stifled a sob, and groped around the kitchen counter for a tissue but saw she had forgotten to replace the last empty box.

“Is that so?”

“To be fair, I’m
not
keeping up with the housework,” Amanda conceded. “And I don’t cook dinner a lot of the time. I guess he wonders what it is exactly I’m doing around here all day, except being … overwhelmed.”

“So that entitles him to flirt with another woman?”

“No. Or he claims he wasn’t flirting, anyway.”

There was a pause, and Amanda heard Liz offering the baby another banana.
(That’s good, sweetie. You’re a big, hungry girl! Shh, eat up.)
Her voice came back to Amanda.

“The problem here is that Bob doesn’t value what you do.”

“Liz,
I
don’t value what I do.”

“So you’ve got an even bigger problem. How do you expect him to value what you don’t?”

“You’re right. You’re right.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, hon, you sound in a bad way.”

“I am.” Amanda wiped her eyes with her fingers. “It was an awful fight. He barely spoke to me this morning. And he won’t be back until late tonight—probably after I’m asleep. This damn Megabyte business.”

“Okay, so you’re just going to have to pull yourself out of this hole,” Liz said firmly. “Get on top of things. What are you doing this week?”

Amanda glanced at the calendar taped to her fridge although she already knew what was on it: a series of blank days leading up to her children’s summer vacation.

“It’s almost the end of school! Good God, Liz, what am I going to do with the kids for two months? We can’t afford camp—”

“Listen to you!” Liz interrupted. “Instead of letting it all get you down, why don’t you use this bit of time to get the house organized, and then do some fun things with the kids? Do you want to know what my summer project is?”

Amanda hesitated to ask. Liz was capable of announcing that she was going to replumb the bathroom herself. She reminded Amanda of one of those unrattled hosts of a home-improvement program: “Coming up, we’ll retile a backsplash and apply crown moldings to an old ceiling, all in the next hour.”

“I’m going to redo my sunroom,” Liz continued. “I’ve been researching female artisans from the Arts and Crafts movement, and I came across some beautiful embroidery patterns by Candace Wheeler, who—naturally—everyone has forgotten about. I’m going to use the patterns to teach the older kids sewing. They can work on some throw pillows while I get started on the valances. It’s important to keep these crafts going—you know, recognize them as significant female contributions to the arts. Bastards like William Morris shouldn’t get all the credit.”

“You’re amazing, Liz.”

“No, I’m not. Just organized. You can be, too—but you’re just going to have to learn to respect what you’re doing.
Own
it, Amanda—own your time, your identity. It’s yours and nobody else’s.” A sharp shriek from the baby cut Liz off. “Gotta run,” she apologized.

Amanda hung up the phone. Well, she sure owned all this mess. Plates and crumbs on the table. A half-finished glass of orange juice and Bob’s empty coffee cup. The dishwasher full of clean dishes, waiting to be unloaded and restacked. Upstairs, the beds unmade, pajamas on the floor, and Lord knows what sort of toy disaster left over from last night. Amanda picked up a sponge. This time, it was her phone that rang. It was the secretary of the school.

“Ben’s here in the office. Ms. Phelps would like you to come pick him up.”

Amanda checked her watch. It was only ten-thirty. “Is he sick?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Ms. Phelps will explain,” the secretary said, cutting her off. “Can you come?”

“Yes—yes, of course. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Amanda found Ben sitting on a long bench, fidgeting with the zipper on his knapsack. The secretary, a young woman with spiky red hair and fashionably thick-soled shoes, was photocopying some papers and ignoring him. He did not run to greet his mother.

“Ben, sweetie?” Amanda said tentatively. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t mean it!” he cried, bursting into tears. “I didn’t mean it!”

“Didn’t mean what, Ben?” Amanda asked worriedly. She knelt down beside him and wrapped her arms around his heaving body. “Tell me, honey, please.”

Sheila Phelps poked her head out her office door. “Amanda, can you come in please? Ben can stay there.” And to her secretary, “Please tell Ms. Burley and Dr. Koenig that Ben’s mother is here.”

The crispness of the director’s tone told Amanda that whatever Ben had done, it was serious indeed. She continued to hold him until the other two women arrived. They acknowledged her, but not Ben.

“Shall we begin, Amanda?” Phelps asked, popping her head out a second time.

“Don’t go, Mommy!”

“I’ll just be a minute, sweetie—”

“Gloria will keep an eye on him,” Phelps said, waving at the secretary. Gloria was speaking on the phone and nodded indifferently.

“Mommy!”

“—right back, Ben, I promise, darling—”

Amanda took a seat in Phelps’s office. The others had already positioned themselves in a semicircle around the director’s desk. Dr. Koenig was a gaunt woman in her sixties with freeze-dried, upswept hair; she drummed her knee impatiently with a pen. Amanda mistrusted the expressions on their faces: they appeared to have reached a predetermined judgment and, like some star chamber tribunal, were merely going through the formality of informing Amanda what that judgment was. There was no suggestion that Amanda would actually have a say in Ben’s defense. Amanda, who normally crumpled up before authority, felt a visceral surge of protectiveness toward her son, whose bawling could still be heard through the closed door.

“Ms. Burley, why don’t you begin,” said the director. “Explain what happened this morning.”

“There is no explanation for it,” Ms. Burley said tersely. “That’s why we’re here. Every child is well aware of the peanut rules.”

“The peanut rules?” Amanda asked.

“I’m sure you’re well aware of them too, Ms. Clarke—”

“—Bright,” Amanda corrected.

Ms. Burley ignored her and reached into a bulging purse at her feet. After some rustling around she pulled out a cookie wrapped in a paper napkin. The cookie had a bite taken out of it.

“Do you recognize this?” said Ms. Burley, presenting the cookie to Amanda like an attorney for the prosecution. Amanda examined it.

“It looks like the cookie I put in Ben’s lunch bag this morning.”

“I see.” The teacher took back the evidence and placed it upon Ms. Burley’s desk. “So you are unaware of the peanut rules as well?” She said this with disbelief.

“Ms. Burley, I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand what you’re getting at.” Amanda looked to Sheila Phelps for help.

“You know that we have a strict policy about bringing peanuts—or any peanut by-product—to school because of the allergy risk,” Phelps explained. “We are a peanut-free school.”

“Oh yes—if that’s what you mean by the ‘peanut rules,’” Amanda said. “But—forgive me—I’m still confused. What does this have to do with Ben?”

“This
cookie,
” continued Ms. Burley, speaking slowly, as if to one of her five-year-old pupils, “is a
peanut butter
cookie. It is
infested
with
peanut butter chips.
”

“It can’t be,” Amanda replied, stunned. “I’d never send Ben to school with a peanut butter cookie. I don’t
buy
peanut butter cookies.” She looked to the other two women, imploring them to believe her. “Honestly, I can’t imagine how this happened!”

Could it have happened?
Amanda asked herself.
Did I grab the wrong package by mistake—when we were in the snack aisle at Fresh Farms, and Ben was demanding yogurt-covered pretzels, and Sophie was screaming for fruit leather, and it was supposed to be the truce bag, carob-chip cookies?

“Well it did happen,” Ms. Burley said coldly. “And as a result—”

“Wait, you can’t blame Ben for this,” Amanda interrupted. “Surely it’s not his fault if I, for whatever stupid reason, put the wrong cookie in his lunch bag …”

“There’s a behavioral dimension as well,” Dr. Koenig answered. “Please, let us move on to the behavioral dimension. Explain what Ben did with the cookie.”

Ms. Burley cleared her throat. “Thank you, Dr. Koenig. I was getting to that. Ben took this
highly dangerous
cookie and
waved
it under another boy’s nose.”

The teacher sat back in her chair with a satisfied look of having rested her case.

“You understand the seriousness of his actions?” Dr. Koenig asked Amanda.

“Seriousness?” Amanda could not believe she had been called to the school—that they had caused Ben so much misery—because of this. “You’re telling me all he did was
wave a cookie?
”

“It wasn’t just a cookie!” Ms. Burley retorted. “It was a
peanut butter
cookie!”

“Oh please—”

“It’s nothing to take lightly,” Dr. Koenig insisted. “What worries me here is the way Ben
used
the cookie—pointing it at another child like a loaded gun.”

“A loaded gun? Really, that’s a bit strong—”

“I don’t think so. To some children it can be as lethal as a loaded gun. Do you know how many peanut-related deaths occur every year? That’s why we have this rule. All the children know it. The ‘Just Say No to Nuts’ curriculum starts the first year—”

Amanda was growing more outraged by the second. “But who was this boy? Was he allergic to peanuts? Were there any children with peanut allergies nearby? Tell me,
are there any allergic children in the class at all?
”

“That’s not the point.” Phelps flashed Amanda a look of warning not to argue the point further. “What we have to decide now is the best way to deal with Ben’s behavior. And as we know, this is not Ben’s first incident. I believe Ms. Burley has already spoken with you about Ben’s tendencies to violence. He’s met a couple of times with Dr. Koenig, but apparently these sessions have not resulted in the progress we hoped for. Dr. Koenig—why don’t you continue.”

Amanda backed down, but her whole body was tense with fury. She bit her cheeks and picked at her cuticles while Dr. Koenig proceeded to outline the course of action. “What we’re thinking now is that Ben should go home for the rest of today. Then, with the weekend, he’ll have been away for nearly three days, which I think is an adequate period of suspension …”