“Do you see where I’m pointing?” Kate asks, and suddenly squats down and peers into Ruthie’s face. Sometimes there’s a bit of a lag, she’s noticed, a disturbing faraway look. It could be lack of sleep: The consistent early bedtime that Dr. Weissbluth strongly recommends just hasn’t happened for them yet. A simple enough thing when you read about it, but the reality! Every evening the clock keeps ticking—through dinner, dessert, bath, books, the last unwilling whizz of the day—and, with all the various diversions and spills and skirmishes, Kate wonders if it would be easier to disarm a bomb in the time allotted. And so Ruthie is often tired. Which could very well explain the slowness to respond; the intractability; the scary, humiliating fits. Maybe even the intensified hair-twirling? It’s equally possible that Kate is just fooling herself, and something is actually wrong.
Tonight she’ll do a little research on the internet.
Slowly, Kate stands up and tugs at Ruthie’s hand. They are heading back down the hill in search of the doll room. They are having a special day, just the two of them. They both like the feeling of being attached by the hand but with their thoughts branching off in different directions. It is similar to the feeling of falling asleep side by side, which they do sometimes, in defiance of Dr. Weissbluth’s guidelines, their bodies touching and their dreams going someplace separate but connected. They both like the feeling of not knowing who is leading, whether it’s the grown-up or the child.
But Ruthie knows that neither of them is the leader right now. The man wearing the cape is the leader, and he wants them to come to the bottom of the hill. She can tell by the way he’s looking at her—kind, but also as if he could get a little angry. They have to come quickly. Spit-spot! No getting distracted. These are the rules. They walk down the big lawn, past the face-painting table and some jugglers and the honeybees dancing behind glass, and Ruthie sees on the man’s face that her mother doesn’t really have to come at all. Just her.
She has a sneaky feeling that the man is holding a present under his cape. It’s supposed to be a surprise. A surprise that is small and very delicate, like a music box, but when you open it, it goes down and down, like a rabbit hole, and inside there is everything—everything—she has wanted: stickers, jewels, books, dolls, high heels, pets, ribbons, purses, toe shoes, makeup. You can’t even begin to count! Part of the present is that she doesn’t have to choose. So many special and beautiful things, and she wants all of them—she will have all of them—and gone is the crazy feeling she gets when she’s in Target and needs the Barbie Island Princess Styling Head so badly that she thinks she’s going to throw up. That’s the sort of surprise it is. The man is holding a present for her, and when she opens it she will be the kindest, luckiest person in the world. Also the prettiest. Not for pretend—for real life. The man is a friend of her parents, and he has brought a present for her the way her parents’ friends from New York or Canada sometimes do. She wants him to be like that, she wants him to be someone who looks familiar. She asks, “Mommy, do we know that man?” and her mother says, “The man with the guitar on his back?” But she’s wrong, she’s ruined it: he doesn’t even have a guitar.
Ruthie doesn’t see who her mother is talking about, or why her voice has got very quiet. “Oh wow,” her mother whispers. “That’s John C. Reilly. How funny. His kids must go here.” Then she sighs and says, “I bet they do.” She looks at Ruthie strangely. “You know who John C. Reilly is?”
“Who’s John C. Reilly?” Ruthie asks, but only a small part of her is talking to her mother; the rest of her is thinking about the surprise. The man has turned his head away, and she can see only the nighttime color of his cape. She sees that there is something moving around underneath his cape, like a little mouse crawling all over his shoulders and trying to get out. She is worried that he might not give the present to her anymore. She is sure that her mother has ruined it.
“Just a person who’s in movies. Grown-up movies.” Kate’s favorite is the one where he plays the tall, sad policeman; he was so lovable in that. Talking to himself, driving around all day in the rain. You just wanted to hand him a towel and give him a hug. And though something about that movie was off—the black woman handcuffed, obese and screaming, and how the boy had to offer up a solemn little rap—John C. Reilly was not himself at fault. He was just doing his job. Playing the part. Even those squirmy scenes were shot through with his goodness. His homely radiance! The bumpy overhang of his brow. His big head packed full of good thoughts and goofy jokes. Imagine sitting next to him on a parents’ committee, or at Back-to-School Night! She’d missed her chance. Now he and his guitar are disappearing into the fir trees beyond the parking lot.
Kate sighs. “Daddy and I respect him a lot. He makes really interesting choices.”
“Mommy!” Ruthie cries. “Stop talking. Stop talking!” She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m so mad at you
