TV.
“Aw, can we leave it on?” Maddie asks.
“No, honey, not during dinner.”
“But we just watched during dinner.”
“That was special.” I sit down.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” my mother says, half to herself.
Of course she doesn’t. When I was a kid, we ate dinner on spindly trays in front of a console television. At least Walter Cronkite didn’t hit us. “We’ve already discussed this, Mom.”
Maddie resettles sullenly on top of the Donnelley Directory. “Grandma lets me watch TV during snack.”
“I think it was a Chanel suit,” my mother says quickly, chopping her spaghetti into bite-size pieces. She refuses to twirl it: too Italian. “Did you see?”
“See what?”
“The buttons. That’s how you know it’s Chanel.”
“I didn’t see.”
“How’s your head?”
“Full of important thoughts.”
She frowns. “I still say you should report what happened. You were attacked.”
“It’s not worth it.”
Maddie shifts on the phone book. “Are they gonna catch the guy that did it, Mom?”
“I don’t think so, babe.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t know who did it.”
“Serves them right.” My mother snorts. “They’re the ones with all the guns—”
“Wait a minute. That’s enough,” I say, and she quiets; we have a specific understanding. I wouldn’t let her baby-sit for Maddie unless she agreed to suspend her two favorite activities: racism and smoking.
“What, Mom?” Maddie asks, confused. “What happened to the guy?”
“They think he ran away, honey.”
“Where did he run to?”
“Somewhere in the city. Not near here.”
Maddie nods knowingly and digs into her salad. “It’s dangerous out there.”
“What?” I laugh. “Where did you get that?”
“Don’t you know?” she says, with a mouthful of iceberg lettuce.
“Finish chewing and then talk, okay?”
She chews the lettuce like a little hamster.
“Don’t let her do that,” my mother says, but I wave her off.
“How’s that tooth, monster girl? Ready for the Tooth Fairy?”
Maddie swallows her food. “Almost ready. There’s only one of those thread things. Wanna see?”
“No. Please.”
Her face grows serious. “There are bad people, Mom, didn’t you know that?”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you watching in the afternoons,
“
“All right, so tell me how school was.”
“Okay.” She shrugs, shoulders knobby as bedposts in her white blouse.
“Did you have art?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes. Did you make anything?”
“Yes.”
“What did you make?”
“A picture.”
“What is this, a deposition? What was it a picture of?”
She perks up slightly. “Trees. You stick little sponges in the paint and then on the paper. It makes fake leaves for the trees. It’s scenery. It’s for our play.”
“You’re going to be in a play?”
Maddie nods and sips her milk, leaving a tomato-sauce stain on the rim of the glass and a milk mustache on her upper lip. Then she grabs her napkin in a professional way and wipes her mouth.
“What’s the play about?”
“Spring.”
“That sounds nice. Is it a musical?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, Mom. That’s in the olden days. We don’t do anything as dumb as that.”
“What a relief. Jeez.”
Maddie squints at me to see if I’m kidding. I squint back, and we squint at each other like moles for a minute.
“Maddie told me some good news today, Grace,” my mother says. She turns to Maddie. “Tell your mother how you made a new friend.”
“You made a friend?” It’s too much to hope for.
Maddie beams. “At recess.”
“Terrific!” I feel my heart leap up. “I propose a toast. To Maddie and her new friend.” I hoist my glass in the air, and so does my mother. The heavy tumblers clink loudly.
“She won’t tell me any more about it,” my mother says. “She says she’s only allowed to tell you.”
“Oh, a secret! So you played with this friend at recess? What did you play?”
“Digging.”
“Like with Madeline?” I think of the day I watched her near the edge of the playground.
“Yep. He likes Madeline.”
“Oh, he’s a boy, huh? Is he cute?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Kind of. He’s big.”
“How big? Like a second grader?”
“No, bigger than that. Almost as big as Daddy.”
My mother laughs. “That means fifth grade.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s a secret. He’s my secret friend.”
I wonder if he’s imaginary. “But he’s real, right? Not like Madeline. A real boy.”
She looks confused. “He’s a man, Mommy, not a boy. He helped me and Madeline dig a hole. He’s strong.”
“What? A man?”
My mother puts down her fork in surprise. “Not a stranger!”
“Maddie knows not to talk to strangers.” I turn to Maddie. “Right, honey? He’s not a stranger, is he?”
Her face flushes red. “He
“Who is he?”
“He said it’s a secret. I told you. He knows you and your work. He knows your judge and the lady on the TV. That’s not a
“What did he look like, Maddie?” my mother says, her voice thin with anxiety. “Tell Grandma.”
Maddie looks from my mother to me, becoming uncertain. “I didn’t do anything bad, Mom. He said he was my friend, and you said make a friend.”
“Of course you didn’t do anything bad,” I say as calmly as I can. “Which recess did he play with you, Mads? Recess in the morning or recess after lunch?”
“He knows things. He said it’s good to be careful, like you say. He said, Tell Mommy too.”
