could possibly keep track?”
Stacy rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Anyway, she was the craziest of them all. After he broke up with her, she started calling the house at all hours. We changed our phone number, and then she started calling me at work. I kept imagining that scene from
Fatal Attraction,
you know, where Glenn Close puts the bunny in the pot? I wanted to be prepared in case she came after Zach’s gerbil.”
Was I the only person in the city of Los Angeles who wasn’t packing heat?
The pièce de résistance of the party—I swear I’m not making this up—was a piñata shaped like a two-foot-long pistol. The kids thwacked at it happily, while Ari’s parentsbeamed and scrupulously videotaped every minute of the festivities. When the piñata finally burst, after a good half hour of feeble strikes by the children and one good whack with his machine gun by G.I. Jake, a rain of tiny plastic soldiers, water pistols, and foil-wrapped chocolates in the shape of rifle cartridges showered down on the children’s heads. God knows where they got the candy bullets.
After cake and ice cream, I gathered my two and put them in the car.
“That was a
gun
party,” Isaac announced, beside himself with astonishment and glee.
“Yes, it was. Did you like it?” I asked them.
“I didn’t,” Ruby said loyally. “We don’t like guns, do we Mama?”
“No. No, we don’t.”
“I do,” Isaac said. “I love guns. I
love
them. And I loved that party. That’s the kind of party I’m going to have, okay?”
“Over my dead body,” I said, thinking of Bobby Katz and what a gun had done to him.
“No!” Isaac wailed.
“What, honey?” I asked, leaning into the car where I’d just buckled him into his car seat.
He wrapped his soft, plump arms around me and kissed me on the cheek, hard. “I don’t want you to have a dead body.”
I kissed him back. “That’s just a saying, honey. My body is fine. It just means I don’t want you to have a gun party.”
“But why not?” he whined.
“I’ve told you a million times, baby. Guns are bad; they kill people.”
“Real guns are bad.
They
kill people. Play guns are just pretend. They just pretend to kill people.”
I looked at him, surprised. Did he, at his age, really understand the difference between real and pretend? “Even pretending to kill people is bad, Isaac.”
His lower lip pooched out a bit and his eyes filled with tears. “Am I a bad boy?” he whispered.
“No! No, of course not.” I covered him with kisses. “You’re a very good boy. You’re the best boy.”
“Mama?” Ruby interrupted.
“What, sweetie?”
“Well, you always tell Isaac guns are bad. So maybe that’s why Isaac thinks
he’s
bad. ’Cause he loves something so much, even though it’s so bad.”
I stared at her. Then I turned to him. “Is that true, Isaac? Do you think you’re a bad boy because you love guns and I tell you guns are bad?”
He burst into tears and buried his head in my neck.
Ten
T HAT night I finally got around to reading all the E-mail Bobby had received after his death. There were a couple of messages from clients, obviously written before they knew what happened to him. The rest were from Internet contacts who were not aware that he’d died. There were messages from his on-line adoptee support group. There were piles of spam—junk mail from mortgage brokers and pornography web sites and the like. Mostly, however, there were messages from Candace.
The first of Candace’s messages began with a plaintive lament about his failure to contact her. Apparently, it had been a long time since she’d received an E-mail from him. She begged him not to cut her out of the “loop of his life.” The rest of the message had to do with the letter Bobby had written his birth mother. Candace urged him to ignore thewoman’s failure to respond and to contact her. Candace’s tone was almost nagging. Clearly, she’d been giving him this advice for some
Stacy rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Anyway, she was the craziest of them all. After he broke up with her, she started calling the house at all hours. We changed our phone number, and then she started calling me at work. I kept imagining that scene from
Fatal Attraction,
you know, where Glenn Close puts the bunny in the pot? I wanted to be prepared in case she came after Zach’s gerbil.”
Was I the only person in the city of Los Angeles who wasn’t packing heat?
The pièce de résistance of the party—I swear I’m not making this up—was a piñata shaped like a two-foot-long pistol. The kids thwacked at it happily, while Ari’s parentsbeamed and scrupulously videotaped every minute of the festivities. When the piñata finally burst, after a good half hour of feeble strikes by the children and one good whack with his machine gun by G.I. Jake, a rain of tiny plastic soldiers, water pistols, and foil-wrapped chocolates in the shape of rifle cartridges showered down on the children’s heads. God knows where they got the candy bullets.
After cake and ice cream, I gathered my two and put them in the car.
“That was a
gun
party,” Isaac announced, beside himself with astonishment and glee.
“Yes, it was. Did you like it?” I asked them.
“I didn’t,” Ruby said loyally. “We don’t like guns, do we Mama?”
“No. No, we don’t.”
“I do,” Isaac said. “I love guns. I
love
them. And I loved that party. That’s the kind of party I’m going to have, okay?”
“Over my dead body,” I said, thinking of Bobby Katz and what a gun had done to him.
“No!” Isaac wailed.
“What, honey?” I asked, leaning into the car where I’d just buckled him into his car seat.
He wrapped his soft, plump arms around me and kissed me on the cheek, hard. “I don’t want you to have a dead body.”
I kissed him back. “That’s just a saying, honey. My body is fine. It just means I don’t want you to have a gun party.”
“But why not?” he whined.
“I’ve told you a million times, baby. Guns are bad; they kill people.”
“Real guns are bad.
They
kill people. Play guns are just pretend. They just pretend to kill people.”
I looked at him, surprised. Did he, at his age, really understand the difference between real and pretend? “Even pretending to kill people is bad, Isaac.”
His lower lip pooched out a bit and his eyes filled with tears. “Am I a bad boy?” he whispered.
“No! No, of course not.” I covered him with kisses. “You’re a very good boy. You’re the best boy.”
“Mama?” Ruby interrupted.
“What, sweetie?”
“Well, you always tell Isaac guns are bad. So maybe that’s why Isaac thinks
he’s
bad. ’Cause he loves something so much, even though it’s so bad.”
I stared at her. Then I turned to him. “Is that true, Isaac? Do you think you’re a bad boy because you love guns and I tell you guns are bad?”
He burst into tears and buried his head in my neck.
Ten
T HAT night I finally got around to reading all the E-mail Bobby had received after his death. There were a couple of messages from clients, obviously written before they knew what happened to him. The rest were from Internet contacts who were not aware that he’d died. There were messages from his on-line adoptee support group. There were piles of spam—junk mail from mortgage brokers and pornography web sites and the like. Mostly, however, there were messages from Candace.
The first of Candace’s messages began with a plaintive lament about his failure to contact her. Apparently, it had been a long time since she’d received an E-mail from him. She begged him not to cut her out of the “loop of his life.” The rest of the message had to do with the letter Bobby had written his birth mother. Candace urged him to ignore thewoman’s failure to respond and to contact her. Candace’s tone was almost nagging. Clearly, she’d been giving him this advice for some
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