when your kids were middle-aged.
Mary’s thoughts turned to Milton. He didn’t have any children. When he was in his twenties and thirties, he’d lived a nomadic existence. He barely had any photos of himself from that time, with the exception of the ones she and John had taken at birthdays, anniversaries, or when he just happened to stop by. After all these years, it was still amazing to her that two brothers, only two years apart, raised in the same home, could be so different. John took life—and his responsibilities—so seriously, while Milton was a free spirit. Even so, both of them were successful professionally, and both seemed to have a nature that required a great deal of personal solitude.
Over the years, John had grown to be a pessimist, always seeing the glass half empty, while Milton was still as optimistic as the day they’d first met. Social scientists used to insist that the way a person was raised was everything. If anyone was to blame for a bad outcome, it was the mother. But now, it seemed the experts had changed their tune. Mary had recently read an article that said modern social scientists felt human beings were far more a product of their genetics than anything else. In the battle of nature vs. nurture, nature had won. So how did that explain Milton and John? It was a useful theory, blaming your faults on your DNA, but before Mary swallowed it whole, she wanted to wait for the next study.
Picking up a framed photograph on the end table next to her, Mary examined the snapshot of Bernice and Plato, aged four and seven, flailing like starlings in a small plastic pool in the backyard. Even then, they were already who they would become, if only she’d had eyes to see. Bernice was such a secure little child, very confident of her abilities. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. Plato, on the other hand, always seemed to be walking around in a fog of indecision, unsure which toy to play with, which TV show to watch. He instinctively understood life’s infinite possibilities, and that knowledge seemed to confuse him into inertia. He was also far more concerned about pleasing his father than Bernice was. Both Plato and Bernice were unusually bright, even precocious, kids. Perhaps that’s why Mary had such a hard time raising them. Most of the time, Bernice behaved as if she didn’t need any help, while Plato was always awash in indecision. Again, two children raised in the same home, yet so different. And each one difficult to mother.
As she set the picture back down, she heard a car pull into the yard. Milton had returned. By the time she reached the kitchen, he’d come through the back door carrying a copy of the Wednesday Rose Hill Gazette under his arm.
“The police were just here,” she said, feeling a rush of emotions so conflicting they almost took her breath away.
Milton moved to the counter and set the paper down. “What did they want?” he asked, keeping his back to her.
“It was Doug Elderberg. He said John gave Kirby Runbeck one hundred thousand dollars before he died.”
Milton turned around. “Did he say why?”
“He didn’t know. He thought maybe I did.”
“Do you?”
“No!”
Seeing her distress, Milton put his arms around her. “The police asked me a bunch of stupid questions, too. But they’re fishing, Mary. They don’t know anything for sure.”
“Neither do I,” she said, breaking away from him.
Milton followed her into the living room. “Mary, I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I’m worried about you. It won’t do John any good if he gets better and you get sick again.”
“I’m not sick.”
“No, of course you’re not,” he said patiently. “But the stress you’re putting on yourself isn’t good for you.”
“John’s in that hospital bed because of me.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She whirled around to face him. “When I found out about my cancer, it threw John into a panic. He went a little crazy,
Mary’s thoughts turned to Milton. He didn’t have any children. When he was in his twenties and thirties, he’d lived a nomadic existence. He barely had any photos of himself from that time, with the exception of the ones she and John had taken at birthdays, anniversaries, or when he just happened to stop by. After all these years, it was still amazing to her that two brothers, only two years apart, raised in the same home, could be so different. John took life—and his responsibilities—so seriously, while Milton was a free spirit. Even so, both of them were successful professionally, and both seemed to have a nature that required a great deal of personal solitude.
Over the years, John had grown to be a pessimist, always seeing the glass half empty, while Milton was still as optimistic as the day they’d first met. Social scientists used to insist that the way a person was raised was everything. If anyone was to blame for a bad outcome, it was the mother. But now, it seemed the experts had changed their tune. Mary had recently read an article that said modern social scientists felt human beings were far more a product of their genetics than anything else. In the battle of nature vs. nurture, nature had won. So how did that explain Milton and John? It was a useful theory, blaming your faults on your DNA, but before Mary swallowed it whole, she wanted to wait for the next study.
Picking up a framed photograph on the end table next to her, Mary examined the snapshot of Bernice and Plato, aged four and seven, flailing like starlings in a small plastic pool in the backyard. Even then, they were already who they would become, if only she’d had eyes to see. Bernice was such a secure little child, very confident of her abilities. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. Plato, on the other hand, always seemed to be walking around in a fog of indecision, unsure which toy to play with, which TV show to watch. He instinctively understood life’s infinite possibilities, and that knowledge seemed to confuse him into inertia. He was also far more concerned about pleasing his father than Bernice was. Both Plato and Bernice were unusually bright, even precocious, kids. Perhaps that’s why Mary had such a hard time raising them. Most of the time, Bernice behaved as if she didn’t need any help, while Plato was always awash in indecision. Again, two children raised in the same home, yet so different. And each one difficult to mother.
As she set the picture back down, she heard a car pull into the yard. Milton had returned. By the time she reached the kitchen, he’d come through the back door carrying a copy of the Wednesday Rose Hill Gazette under his arm.
“The police were just here,” she said, feeling a rush of emotions so conflicting they almost took her breath away.
Milton moved to the counter and set the paper down. “What did they want?” he asked, keeping his back to her.
“It was Doug Elderberg. He said John gave Kirby Runbeck one hundred thousand dollars before he died.”
Milton turned around. “Did he say why?”
“He didn’t know. He thought maybe I did.”
“Do you?”
“No!”
Seeing her distress, Milton put his arms around her. “The police asked me a bunch of stupid questions, too. But they’re fishing, Mary. They don’t know anything for sure.”
“Neither do I,” she said, breaking away from him.
Milton followed her into the living room. “Mary, I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I’m worried about you. It won’t do John any good if he gets better and you get sick again.”
“I’m not sick.”
“No, of course you’re not,” he said patiently. “But the stress you’re putting on yourself isn’t good for you.”
“John’s in that hospital bed because of me.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She whirled around to face him. “When I found out about my cancer, it threw John into a panic. He went a little crazy,
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