Impossible Things by Connie Willis Page B

it Perdita?” Viola said, leaning forward.
    I peered around the mulberry bush. “Oh, my God,” I said.
    It was my mother-in-law, wearing a black abayah and a silk yarmulke. She swept toward us through a pumpkin patch, robes billowing and eyes flashing. Mother hurried in her wake of trampled radishes, looking daggers at me.
    I turned them on Viola. “It’s your Grandmother Karen,” I said accusingly. “You told me you didn’t get through to her.”
    “I didn’t,” she said. “Twidge, sit up straight. And put your slate down.”
    There was an ominous rustling in the rose arbor, as of leaves shrinking back in terror, and my mother-in-law arrived.
    “Karen!” I said, trying to sound pleased. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were in Baghdad.”
    “I came back as soon as I got Viola’s message,” she said, glaring at everyone in turn. “Who’s this?” she demanded, pointing at Bysshe. “Viola’s new live-in?”
    “No!” Bysshe said, looking horrified.
    “This is my law clerk, Mother,” I said. “Bysshe Adams-Hardy.”
    “Twidge, why aren’t you in school?”
    “I
am
,” Twidge said. “I’m remoting.” She held up her slate. “See? Math.”
    “I see,” she said, turning to glower at me. “It’s a seriousenough matter to require my great-grandchild’s being pulled out of school
and
the hiring of legal assistance, and yet you didn’t deem it important enough to notify
me
. Of course, you
never
tell me anything, Traci.”
    She swirled herself into the end chair, sending leaves and sweet-pea blossoms flying and decapitating the broccoli centerpiece. “I didn’t get Viola’s cry for help until yesterday. Viola, you should never leave messages with Hassim. His English is virtually nonexistent. I had to get him to hum me your ring. I recognized your signature, but the phones were out, so I flew home. In the middle of negotiations, I might add.”
    “How
are
negotiations going, Grandma Karen?” Viola asked.
    “They
were
going extremely well. The Israelis have given the Palestinians half of Jerusalem, and they’ve agreed to time-share the Golan Heights.” She turned to glare momentarily at me.
“They
know the importance of communication.” She turned back to Viola. “So why are they picking on you, Viola? Don’t they like your new live-in?”
    “I am
not
her live-in,” Bysshe protested.
    I have often wondered how on earth my mother-in-law became a mediator and what she does in all those negotiation sessions with Serbs and Catholics and North and South Koreans and Protestants and Croats. She takes sides, jumps to conclusions, misinterprets everything you say, refuses to listen. And yet she talked South Africa into a Mandelan government and would probably get the Palestinians to observe Yom Kippur. Maybe she just bullies everyone into submission. Or maybe they have to band together to protect themselves against her.
    Bysshe was still protesting. “I never even met Viola till today. I’ve only talked to her on the phone a couple of times.”
    “You must have done
something
,” Karen said to Viola. “They’re obviously out for your blood.”
    “Not mine,” Viola said. “Perdita’s. She’s joined the Cyclists.”
    “The Cyclists? I left the West Bank negotiations because you don’t approve of Perdita joining a biking club? How am I supposed to explain this to the president of Iraq? She will
not
understand, and neither do I. A biking club!”
    “The Cyclists do not ride bicycles,” Mother said.
    “They menstruate,” Twidge said.
    There was a dead silence of at least a minute, and I thought, it’s finally happened. My mother-in-law and I are actually going to be on the same side of a family argument.
    “All this fuss is over Perdita’s having her shunt removed?” Karen said finally. “She’s of age, isn’t she? And this is obviously a case where personal sovereignty applies. You should know that, Traci. After all, you’re a judge.”
    I should have know