The Kingdom of Childhood

and spiced apples, laced with a note of butter. Yet nobody seemed to be home. In the kitchen the laundry floated in the sink, unattended; next to the Dutch oven, the box of strike-anywhere matches had been left out. Judy was not allowed to touch them, but the story of Pauline had made her curious, and no one was around to see. She slid open the box and held one by its rough wooden stem, examining it closely. She struck it against the counter, the side of the stove, the metal cabinet, but it did not work. Finally she struck it against the wall and like magic it engulfed in flame. Judy smiled. It crackled so, it burned so clear, said the poem; and it was true. But Pauline had been a foolish girl who had not put it out in time, and so Judy puffed a breath of air against it. The fire vanished, and the kitchen filled with the smell of birthday wishes.

It was strange, but not unpleasant, to find the house so empty. She wandered down the hall, peering into each room: the spare bedroom her father used as an office, the bathroom, her own bedroom with its duvet fluffed high as a cloud. Standing in her doorway, she heard a muffled noise from the next room, a steady squeak like a window loose on its hinge. She turned the knob to her parents’ bedroom door, just as a fighter jet flew by overhead and drowned the creaking noise in its resonating sonic boom.

Later she would remember seeing nothing. Nothing at all: that she had turned the knob and seen nothing but the black vacuous space of blindness. Past the door the world ended. Past the door lay the incomprehensible dark.

The blackness had swallowed her father, and when he returned she recognized an impostor.

8

I dressed for College Fair night with a sense of dread. Scott had no desire to go, having already settled on the likely prospect of attending a school near Baltimore known more for its kegger parties than its academics. Yet we had no choice; it would look bad if either he or I skipped it, since I knew parents looked to our family for evidence that Waldorf kids could compete on a university level, and I needed to show up armed with enthusiastic stories about how well Maggie was doing at college. Three days had passed since the afternoon in the workshop, and in that time I saw Zach only through my classroom windows, coming and going from the parking lot. At times my mind grew nearly hysterical with questions I could not possibly answer. I feared his resentment and anger, his morning-after remorse, but most of all I was terrified he would run his mouth; even if he harbored no ill feelings, teenage boys were not legendary for their discretion. Surely he would tell somebody, and if one kid at Sylvania found out, they’d all know by lunchtime. Every time a colleague glanced at me, every time I heard my name called, my heart squeezed with fear. I had to talk to Zach, if only to emphasize to him that I was sorry, it had been a terrible mistake and it would never happen again as long as I lived.

The parking lot was crammed with cars. As Scott and I made our way down the hall, I felt a lump form in my throat as I saw the playhouse situated right in front of the main office. Parents surrounded it, making approving cooing noises. Zach stood nearby, leaning against the wall between the house and a table filled with information about the holiday bazaar. When he saw me his gaze sharpened with recognition but his expression did not change.

Vivienne, however, lit up with a smile and came toward me, a welcoming hand extended. “Judy! Have you seen it? Hasn’t he done an amazing job? I’m so impressed I can hardly stand it!”

I nodded. “He’s been hard at work.”

The shadow of a grin played at Zach’s mouth. I took that as a positive sign. When a teenager wanted to be dour, nothing could stop him.

Vivienne grasped my hand. “Thank you so much for taking so much time out of your schedule to make the workshop available. Zach can do great things when he makes an effort.”

Zach rolled his eyes, absorbing the verbal stress his mother had placed on the last few words. Scott, standing impatiently beside me, said, “I’ll see you in the multipurpose room.”

A crush of parents awaited me along the way, peppering me with questions. I worked my way around the room until I caught sight of Scott near the far corner, roughhousing with his friends. Medieval Judo—that was their name for it. The game consisted of stagecraft martial arts combined with trash-talk in imitation of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Zach was with them, having slipped through the crowd much faster than I could. As I approached I saw Temple had Zach in some sort of a kung-fu grip. Zach twisted around to release himself, then crouched into a low spin-kick, which sent Temple flying theatrically backward. Scott rushed to Temple’s aid by grabbing Zach from behind under both arms and flailing him from side to side.

“Stop, knave!” shouted Zach. “Or I will unleash my Singaporean Fart Attack!”

Scott was unmoved. “My faith will protect me, good knight!”

“Scott,” I said loudly. I tipped my head pointedly toward the semicircle of college information booths.

“In a minute,” he called, none too friendly. He locked his hands at the front of Zach’s chest and hauled him backward. Then, as if it were nothing at all, Zach got his feet under him, twisted at the waist, and threw Scott off his balance, flipping him forward and sending him skidding across the floor on his side. My eyes widened, but Scott didn’t seem hurt. He uttered a surprised laugh and got to his feet.

“Seen anything that looks interesting to you?” I asked, more or less rhetorically.

He answered with a you-must-be-kidding-me look and brushed past me to the booths, randomly swiping brochures.

I sidled up near Zach, who lagged behind as the girls wandered off with Temple. Once alone, we both looked over the noisy room, full of excited upperclassmen chatting up perky college reps. A dozen urgent questions fought for precedence in my mind. After a silence I asked, “Did you tell anyone?”

He shook his head, not breaking his focus on the milling crowd. A shock of hair mostly covered one eye, and his mouth looked brooding, serious. He hesitated, then asked, “Did you?”

I chuckled. “Of course not. Do you think I’m insane?”

A hard sigh escaped his nose, like a noiseless laugh.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” I said quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His nod was slight. “We can go someplace. I’ve still got stuff in the workshop.”

“I can meet you there in a few minutes if you like.”

“All right.” He turned and disappeared out the side door. I checked on Scott, who had regrouped with his remaining friends on the opposite side of the room, and made my way toward the workshop via a door off the main