The Kingdom of Childhood

He grimaced. “Well, that could be a problem.”

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

“I guess I’d better take you up on that.”

I helped him tidy up the room, stacking the playhouse pieces on a shelf and sweeping up the considerable pile of dust. If he could devote this much time and care to a school project, then perhaps the bazaar tasks would be more painless than I had come to anticipate. The immaturity I had witnessed in our earlier meetings appeared to be mostly for show. About some things, at least, he seemed more focused and thoughtful than Scott, who would be eighteen in short order. Not that Scott was a good stick to measure by.

As Zach climbed into the passenger seat of my car, I picked bits of cat hair from his shirts—a T-shirt featuring a photo of the Earth behind the legend “Love Your Mother,” worn over a thermal undershirt that appeared to attract pet hair like a lint roller. “How many cats do you have?” I asked.

“One. Is it that big a deal?”

“I don’t want it to get all over the car. My husband’s allergic.”

He sat still, tolerating my grooming. “That’s a sign of evil.”

I laughed. “Why do you say that?”

“Cats are the servants of the moon goddess. Only evil people can’t tolerate them. It’s like garlic and vampires.”

I grinned and examined his expression to see if he was serious. “The moon goddess, huh?”

He smiled. “It’s just something my mom says. It’s a joke.”

“I don’t know about that. You haven’t met my husband. She might be onto something.”

His laugh was embarrassed. “I didn’t ask.”

I fell silent, a bit chagrined to have crossed some invisible line in complaining about Russ. The sound of the radio filled the car, traffic and weather. Once the discussion of the news resumed, it took me several moments too long to pick up on the deejay chatter: the Starr Report, in gory detail. My fingers flew to the preset buttons.

“Don’t worry about it,” Zach said, not fooled by my sudden interest in Top 40 music. “You can’t get away from it. They’ll be talking about it on this station in about ten seconds.”

“I can try.”

He chuckled. “You sound like my mom. She’s super laid-back, and even she freaks out every time they talk about it on the news. Which is every minute of the day, in case you’ve missed it. Personally, I think it’s hilarious to hear a news anchor say ‘oral sex.’ It’s like the best prank ever.”

“Except it’s not a prank. At all.”

“No, but it’s still funny. The stuff the Starr Report says Bill Clinton did—have you heard it all? He’s the president of the United States, and I’m sixteen, and I think some of it is really juvenile. Like the stuff with the cigar? Come on.”

“It’s quite a letdown. I was a big Clinton supporter. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“My folks were, too.” He fidgeted with the air vents. “Were. Are. Whichever. I think it’s dumb to go after him over something that stupid. When you think about it, you have to laugh.”

I slowed for a stop sign. “At the absurdity, perhaps. At the jokes, no.”

“Why not? They’re funny.”

“They’re inappropriate.”

“Bill Clinton and Al Gore go to a diner for lunch,” he began.

“Zach, no.”

“They read the menu and the waitress comes over and asks the president if he’s ready to order. Clinton tells her, ‘Yeah, I’d like a quickie.’”

“Zach,” I warned.

“The waitress says, ‘A quickie?! Sir, given the problems you have had lately with your personal life, I don’t think that’s a good idea at all. I’ll come back when you’re ready to order from the menu.’ As she walks away, Gore leans over and says, ‘Bill, it’s pronounced Quiche.’”

The smile I had been forcing myself to restrain won out. I giggled.

“That’s a good one,” I admitted.

He drummed his index fingers against the dashboard. “Thank you. Want to hear another one?”

“No. Please, spare me.”

He gestured toward the window as I approached his house. “You can pull into the driveway.”

I parked behind a little convertible with its canvas top up. LIVE FREE OR DIE, read its license plate above the number. He hitched his backpack onto his shoulder and I watched him meander up the sidewalk, the hems of his jeans raveled where they brushed the ground. He was so lanky they barely stayed on his hips. When he unlocked his front door and the light from the foyer glowed suddenly in the gray dusk, he turned toward me and waved goodbye. I held up a hand in acknowledgment and watched as he slipped inside, shoulders hunched, hair hanging in his eyes.

ZXP, his backpack said.

I did wonder what that X stood for.

Vivienne Heath called me on Friday night to inform