And yet, something is off with Clara. Something is deeply off with her, and it is this fucked-upness that Sonia is really drawn to. The outward appearance so controlled, so perfect, flawless, unassailable, and yet Clara is crazy, Sonia knows it — she just doesn’t know exactly how crazy, or why. Clara is someone that Sonia is happy to run into today. Her son Sam plays fairly well with Tom, and little Mike will follow the big boys around, content to watch their intricate play scenarios. They won’t let Mike play, unless they designate him the pet dog or, as was once the case, the giant rat, but Mike doesn’t care, as long as he doesn’t get hit or left totally behind. Neither does Sonia. And Clara’s daughter, Willa, either sits quietly by their side, playing tea party games by herself or finds another little girl to play with.
They smile and wave and say hello. They don’t embrace or even kiss the sides of cheeks. No contact. Clara is not like that. Sonia is flexible, very kiss-cheeky with mothers who like to be kiss-cheeky, and physically distant from those who prefer physical distance. Clara prefers distance. But she’s warm and kind and Sonia, despite feeling unwell — her mouth is dry, she’s a bit dizzy, could it all be psychological? She couldn’t really already be feeling horrible from the pregnancy — feels better in Clara’s presence. All that lovely beigeness, the desire for beigeness at least, emanating from her bones. And, frankly, Clara doesn’t know her that well. Clara is a new friend. Sonia feels like a blank slate around Clara. She feels she can reinvent herself. She feels hopeful, new, attractive.
But today there is also the question of whether to tell Clara that she’s pregnant. Although Sonia loves this new friendship, there is something to be said for knowing someone well before you tell them that you are pregnant and are not sure if you plan to keep the baby. Because Sonia is not sure. She has no idea what to do. There would be comfort in sharing the news of her state, and her ambivalence, with someone like Ginny, a woman who no longer lives in Brooklyn. Ginny, Sonia knows, has had a few unwanted pregnancies. Ginny believes in family planning. And regardless of the liberal posturing of many residents of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, almost everyone, or so it seems to Sonia, is really ruled by fear and hate. All the allegedly liberal mothers in her neighborhood — with the spiritual Eastern symbol tattoos and Crocs — really think being a mother is sacred. Children are sacred, and mothers should take care of them and be sacred, too. She met a Yoga instructor who once said that women with regular jobs deserved to have their children beaten by West Indian nannies because how could they leave their children all day? This, from a Yoga instructor! And then there was the actress, a friend she thought she knew, educated, hip, who had stared at her in disgust when Sonia admitted to having had an abortion and changed the subject immediately to stage acting versus film. No, Sonia could never tell what people were really thinking. And no one’s appearance guaranteed anything.
But that’s the thing about Clara. She looks so damn conservative. Yet lurking beneath the Izod and penny loafers is a mystery, something beyond conservative or liberal.
The boys run toward each other and then off to the jungle gym. Sonia sits on the bench, glancing down first to check for pigeon shit. A metal handrail separates her from Clara.
“Bill’s been out of town for a week now. I’m starting to go nuts,” Clara says. “Just a little bit. I mean, I’m fine. Sam and Willa are fine. But I find it hard sometimes when he’s gone on big business trips. He normally works late a few nights a week, but just to have him around a couple of nights, you know, and the weekend. I mean, Sam doesn’t even give a shit that his dad is gone. Isn’t that bad? What’s the point of having a father if he’s never around?”
“Dick’s been in Denver for two days and I can’t wait for him to return. It’s harder when they’re not here, for sure.” Sonia knows she’s a wimp in comparison to Clara. Dick hardly ever travels for business. Clara’s husband Bill is nearly always gone. At least two weeks out of the month. And yet, Clara has never complained to her before. She usually acts so nonchalant about Bill’s absences. “Why is this time different? With Bill being gone?”
“It’s not that this time is different. No, what I think is happening is that I’m realizing what our home is like. I’m newly aware of certain things, and I don’t know why that is. The weather? The beginning of summer? Something is making me see my home clearly and I don’t like what I see.” Clara looks over at Sam. He’s playing listlessly on the jungle gym. Sonia scans for her sons, too. The sun warms her head, and she’s feeling at peace for a moment. Sometimes, hearing other people’s troubles does this to her, gives her peace with her own shortcomings.
“Sam watches five hours of TV a day. Yesterday, for the first time, I kept track of how many videos I put in and how many times I turned on the cartoons and I counted, I goddamn counted how much TV he watched, and it was five hours. Five fucking hours of television. Now, maybe nothing’s wrong with that, but the truth is, he doesn’t talk very well for a four-year-old and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because I tune out and stick him in front of the TV so much. He loves the TV on and I grew up with the TV on and I think I’m normal. But I just wonder if there was someone else around, if I weren’t so burnt out all the time, if the TV would maybe be on less. And maybe Sam would talk better. And maybe I’d enjoy this whole motherhood thing more. I love my kids, you know that, but I just find the whole thing so damn hard. Why’s it so hard? And what if someone else were around, really around? Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Nadine, my babysitter. She’s a great babysitter, but she’s a babysitter. She’s not emotionally invested in my kids. She’s not. She cares for them, she takes good care of them, but she’s not their parent. It’s different. And Willa, bless her, she’s so easy on me, but I feel bad as a role model for her. I’m always tired. I sit around, tired. And she sits around me, looking tired, too. Like she’s trying to imitate me or something.”
Sonia nods. Willa stares at the two of them, her mouth set in a pout. She’s two, just like Mike, and yet nothing like Mike. She freaks Sonia out. Whereas with Mike, Sonia feels she can still say whatever she wants to in front of him, because he’s still in his little baby world, with Willa, she feels different. She feels spied upon. She feels judged. She feels like this little two-year-old girl is already sizing her up to see how she can bring her down. She feels like Willa knows how to be mean already. Not hitting on impulse, without thinking about it, like her boys do. Not that kind of meanness, not the behaving without thinking sort of spontaneous behavior. No, Willa, two-year-old Willa, who’s still in diapers, who still sucks on her thumb, already knows how to be a fucking bitch. She turns her brown eyes, eyes that look just like her mother’s, at Sonia and asks, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Sonia hesitates. Could a two-year-old poison tea? Could she poison imaginary tea? Sonia takes her cup, but doesn’t pretend to sip, just holds it in her lap.
Clara says, “Run along, Willa. Go play with the boys. Mommy will play tea party with you later.” And Willa, after glaring at Sonia, sulks off, twitching her diaper-padded butt at them as she goes. “See what I mean? I’m so desperate for adult conversation! And I just push them away all the time. Because they’re always here. They always need me. Not Bill, and not Nadine, but me.”
Just then, Tom runs up, crying. “Mommy, mommy, Sam spit on my head.” Mike is close behind his brother, very curious. Sam hides underneath the jungle gym, in a shady spot. Indeed, there is a large gob of yellow snot on Tom’s head. Sonia can handle this. Frankly, she can handle her children getting picked on very easily. In fact, she finds it comforting. As long as they’re not being the troublemakers, she can shift into good parent mode. “Just use your words, Tommy. Tell Sam you don’t appreciate him doing that.”