Plantation by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

about her and the heartless way she spoke to me about Eric, I wanted to slap her silly, right across her face.
    Eric was the perfect child. Still, I had this nagging feeling that there was more to this than I was prepared to know.
    It was a beautiful November morning, typical for Manhattan.
    It seemed that every taxi horn blared in an off-key chorus. Thousands of cars with commuters raced to their destinations at thirty miles an hour. Great hordes of people rushed by with their briefcases and paper coffee cups, stealing sips at corners. Dog walkers led five to ten dogs each by canvas leashes across the frenzied traffic toward Central Park. Everyone wore their Manhattan Mask—the one that said, Don’t violate my privacy; I might be famous . Their faces always made me think that there were a lot of cranky people in this town.
    I knew that Eric had some anxiety about the whole evaluation process. As we walked up Park Avenue toward his school on Sixty-sixth and Madison, I encouraged him to talk about it.
    “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to worry about this, okay?
    These tests are actually kind of fun.”
    “What if I do bad?” His face was tense and his small hand in mine was moist.
    “You can’t do badly,” I said, “it’s not that kind of test.”
    “I wish I was dead,” he said in a tiny voice.
    I knelt down beside him and looked in his face. He stared back with the most adorable pout I had ever seen.
    “Whoa, right there,” I said, “don’t ever say that.”
    “Sorry,” he said, examining the crack in the sidewalk.
    “Look at me, sweetheart. This is what I want you to do. Will you listen to me?”

    P l a n t a t i o n
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    “Sure.”
    “Okay, number one. Follow the teacher’s instructions. Go slowly, and take the time to reread the instructions.” (He was impetuous and always wanted to rush ahead.) “Then, read them again. Number two, when you’re sure of what to do, begin your work. Write slowly and neatly. Finally, when you’re done, check your work. If you don’t understand something ask the teacher.
    Okay? Pretty simple, huh?”
    “You make it sound so easy.”
    “Just give it a try, okay? For me? You know what to do; just take a deep breath and go for it.”
    “Okay.” His eyes were worried and we continued the short walk to his school. “I’ll do my best. Read the instructions twice, do the work, and check it.”
    “That’s all Dad and I ask, is that you do your best. Hey, how about after school? You and me? Chocolate shakes?”
    “Deal!”
    He seemed a little brighter after that. We arrived at the Smith School; I intended to walk him to his classroom. He dropped my hand and stopped me at the door. The hall was filled with students.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, Eric?”
    “I love you.” He whispered it to me, probably so the other children wouldn’t hear.
    “I adore you!” I said, smiling.
    “I can find my classroom by myself.”
    “You sure? It’s all the way . . .”
    “I’m sure,” he said. I had always walked him to the classroom.
    “Mom? I’m big now.”
    Mom? I’m big now . His words shot palpitations through my heart—not like fatal bullets, but maybe the feeling of surprise you get when the water in the shower inexplicably goes cold for a few seconds. “Okay, baby,” I said, understanding his need for self sufficiency. “You go get ’em and I’ll see you at three.”

    7 8
    D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k All I could think about on the way home was how would I tell Richard about this. No, I hadn’t yet told Richard, thinking it wise to keep my séance with Ms. Daniels to myself for the time being.
    If Eric’s results showed any problems, the comparisons to Harry would increase, by light-years. Harry, Richard’s son from his marriage with Lois, was playing violin in a by-invitation-only children’s orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Harry was the captain of the traveling soccer team at his school. Harry, president of the fifth grade, Roller-blading wizard,