Other People's Lives Read Free Page B

gave back the same short, fishy stare. Often he simply got up and walked away. Naturally. What did she expect?
    Joan Tepfer said, “I really don’t see why you took him out of private school. At his age! At seven! To be regimented so young. Everyone knows what public schools do, Maria, and you care so much about his education. It’s obvious.”
    Early in the morning when Louise was in her still strange bedroom, trying to get up, she heard children’s voices calling up from the private-school cars, waiting outside. “Adam, Jonathan, Jennifer.” It had a singsong quality, and in repetition had the far-off wonder of an echo. “Adam, Jonathan, Jennifer.” They ran down then, bundled up and yelling greetings. “Have a good day, kids”: mothers had come out with them, wrapped in coats and sleepily waving, on their way to walk the dog. Or “Bye, muffin”: fathers hugging extravagantly, spruced for the morning, halfway into the Times.
    â€œ Je suis desolée ” — it only meant “I’m sorry”: Louise’s new French course. “ Je suis desolée, ” an idiom she hung on to, it was part of her morning collection. “It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned”—Rip Van Winkle (American Lit). And from a Katherine Anne Porter story, the two words “sour gloom.”
    â€œAdam, Jonathan, Jennifer”—it was from “ Wozzeck, ” that children’s street song, when no one was left on the merry-go-round which kept turning. Empty, forlorn, and abandoned. In the sour gloom.
    The school cars blew their horns and zoomed away down Riverside Drive. “Matthew!” Maria would call brusquely from the kitchen, where she was making sandwiches. “Hurry up! I know you have only to walk, but it’s late. Again. Also I’ll be late. Again. I have for you Frosted Flakes and Red Cheek apple juice. Also Skippy peanut butter. Crunchy. Come on, Matthew, angel, hurry up!”
    No one had ever asked Louise what were her favorite foods, and bought them. Je suis desolée: I’m sorry, merely, sorry. That’s all.
    Arthur said, “ Achtung, Matthew! You heard your mother. A little heel-clicking would make her happy…What that kid needs, Maria, is a strong male image.”
    â€œAlways no problem with that, ” Maria said, giggling strangely.
    â€œMaria, I mean it,” Joan Tepfer said. “I can’t understand why you changed his school, it’s not good for him.”
    â€œIt was show, only. Charity. I had to.”
    â€œ Charity? For God’s sake, he had a scholarship! Do you know how many people would donate whole buildings to get their kids in there? Let alone get them scholarships.”
    â€œIt’s the same thing for black children. For show only. So they can say, we have these many children from Harlem and these many children of famous persons. So they can think always, here is the son of Dennis Tobey, so sad, so wonderful. Not just Matthew, a little boy in the school. Like other children. He is not like the other children there, Joan. It was not good for him. They are too rich.”
    â€œI can’t see what that has to do with it. You’re just creating phony issues.”
    â€œWith maids and country houses and sailboats and horses? Always they were treating him, the parents, the maids. And taking him places. I can’t take them. Too many God-damn birthday parties. With magicians. Too many presents, I can’t afford so much those God-damn birthday presents….Matthew!”
    Matthew came bounding through the hallway to the kitchen. “Louise is here,” he said, and ran straight for Arthur’s lap. “Do jellyfish have hearts?”
    â€œHow the hell do I know?” Maria said. “I think I never saw even a jellyfish. Hi, Louise, sit down. Did you wash your hands, Matthew?”
    â€œThere was a terrible epidemic of jellyfish on the Sound