The Kingdom of Childhood

interests—have produced such an indifferent daughter? As she grew older it had been a struggle to find ways to relate to her. I had thought she would come to confide in me more when boys entered her life, but Maggie moved through her preteen years still scornful of the opposite sex, settling into indifference as high school wore on. Once again I considered myself, and Russ, and wondered: where on earth had that gene come from?

Still, it was none of my business, a fact of which I constantly reminded myself. Maggie was old enough to do, or not do, as she chose. And I was, after all, carrying on enough for the both of us. Given how negligible my judgment could become where sex was involved, perhaps it was for the best that Maggie cared little about it. At her age I had fallen for Marty, gone to bed with him, and all too quickly watched him become jealous and controlling, his teasing sense of humor turning manipulative and mean. But as young as I was, and as naive, it had been difficult to know how to end it. If Maggie could be spared the heartache of that, I would be glad of it.

I turned off the exit ramp, rolling up the window against the thundering wind. Maggie would be waiting for me at the front door of her building, and was probably already there. I turned up the collar of my jacket, and tried to focus on her alone.

“You missed Parents’ Weekend,” she said.

I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets and frowned. “What?”

“It was two weeks ago. I thought you were going to be here.” Her bottom lip looked petulant and her thick brown ponytail fanned across her shoulder like some sort of Roman helmet decoration gone askew. She had gained some weight around her chin. One doesn’t become immune to the Fresh man 15 just because one hits the thirty- credit mark.

“You never said anything about it,” I informed her.

“The school sent a flyer.”

“Maggie. The school sends us a lot of things, most of them asking if we want season football tickets or if we’ll pay up five hundred dollars for a memorial plaque at the alumni center. You’re a sophomore now. I thought we were past those orientation events.”

She tightened her fleece jacket around her waist. “Well, I was just lonely, is all.”

I offered a tight smile. “How’s the dating scene?”

“Oh, Mom.”

I took her out to a pizza place just off campus, coercing her into filling up the tank while we were on the main drag. As soon as we were seated I understood why she had chosen the restaurant. The noise level was ungodly, and the tables were so close together that the constant jostling distracted from any focused conversation. This was a punishment for my asking the dating question, I was sure of it.

“So how are your biology classes going?” I shouted over the din.

She gave a bouncing nod, indicating things were as well as could be expected. “Good,” she replied. “The science courses are always good. I learned something really important over the past year.”

“What’s that?”

“That the stuff they taught us in science at Sylvania is utter bullshit.”

I peered harder at her. “What?”

“Utter bullshit,” she said, more loudly this time.

I pondered this—both the supposition and the fact that it was the first time I’d ever heard Maggie say anything so aggressive or profane. Finally I said, “That’s a pretty broad statement to make.”

“It’s true, though,” she replied stridently.

I nodded. After a moment of silence, I said, “Well, I’ve always thought Waldorf was most ideal for the younger grades.”

She gave a benign smile, her hands folded between her knees. The waiter plunked a pizza down between us. Then Maggie added, “Also, I’ve started going to church.”

“What?”

“You keep saying what,” she pointed out. “Is your hearing okay?”

“What church?”

“The Baptist church on campus.”

“The Baptist church?”

“That’s the one.”

She had taken a slice of pizza and bitten off the end, but I couldn’t even think about eating. All around me was the clanging of silverware, the hum of conversation loud as road construction. In the kitchen, someone dropped a glass. Yellow light glared down, the sort that makes bugs die.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s a nice group of people,” she said, her voice already growing hoarse from the strain of speaking. “Really uplifting. We go out on Sundays, tracting.”

“Tracting?”

“See, you can hear,” she observed, nodding. “You keep repeating back everything I say.”

“It’s because you’re speaking English,” I told her, “but not any English that makes any sense to me.”

“That’s because you’re narrow-minded.”

I reeled back against my chair. “Well, that’s the first time anyone’s ever lobbed that one at me.”