Red Clocks. Leni Zumas

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      Her husband’s hands sit on the wheel at ten and two, a habit that in their courting days shocked the wife: he had played in bands, done drugs, punched his father in the face at age fourteen. Yet he steered—steers—like a grandma.

      She is glad not to be driving. No decisions to be made at the bend in the road.

      Little animal black and twitching, burnt to death but not quite dead.

      A scrap of tire struggling its way across.

      Little animal, plastic bag.

      But maybe it wasn’t a plastic bag.

      Maybe her first sight was correct.

      Somebody lit it on fire, some bad kid, bad adult. Newville is not lacking in badness—

       but it’s beautiful here and your family’s been coming here for generations and the sea air’s full of negative ions. They boost the mood, remember?

      Bex is chattering again by the time they reach the store.

      Where’s the doll section.

      John’s so lazy.

      Somebody’s mom came to class who’s a dental hygienist and said even the nub of an adult tooth growing in still needs to be brushed.

      “Perfects at two o’clock,” hisses Didier, elbowing the wife’s elbow.

      Not them. Not today.

      “Shell!” squeals Bex. “Oh my God, Shelly!”

      The girls embrace dramatically, as though bumping into each other in the town where they both live were the most amazing surprise.

      Bex: “Your dress is so pretty.”

      Shell: “Thanks. My mom made it.”

      “Hey, friends!” chirps Jessica Perfect. “Good to see you!”

      “You too.” The wife leans in for an air-kiss. “Brought the whole crew, huh?”

      Shell’s tanned, slender siblings stand in a row behind their tanned, slender parents.

      “Yep, it’s one of those days.”

      Those days at the Perfects’ are probably a little different from those days on the hill.

      On top of making dresses, Jessica knits sweaters out of local Shetland wool for all four children.

      Cans jam from the wild berries they pick.

      Home-cooks their wheat-free, dairy-free meals.

      Chicken nuggets and string cheese never cross her threshold.

      Her husband is a nutritionist who once lectured Didier on the importance of soaking nuts overnight.

      “Blake.” Didier nods.

      “How’s it hangin, buddy?”

      “Long and strong,” says her husband, with only a flicker of a smile.

      “Look at this guy! He’s getting so big! How old are you now?” Blake leans down toward John, who squirms in the shopping cart, shoving his face into Didier’s stomach.

      “Three and a half,” says the wife.

      “Wow. Time just passes, doesn’t it?”

      “I know,” says Jessica, “and it’s been forever since we had you over! We need to do that. It’s hard to find a good night with the kids so busy after school. We’ve got soccer, cross-country, violin—gosh, what am I missing?”

      The oldest child says, “My gifted-and-talented class?”

      “That’s right, my love. This one”—she nuzzles the boy’s head—“tested off the charts last year, so he qualifies for an accelerated math and language-arts program. You guys aren’t vegetarian, are you? We’ve been getting the most heavenly beef from our friends down the road. Their cows are grass-fed, no antibiotics whatsoever, just pure happy beef.”

      “You mean happy before they’re slaughtered,” says Didier, “or once they turn into food?”

      She doesn’t bat an eye. “So when you guys come over, I’ll make steaks, and the chard will be ready soon. Gosh, we’ve got acres of it this year. Fortunately the kids love chard.”

      Still raining hard on the way home. Wipers furious.

      “Shooting?” says Didier.

      “Too quick,” says the wife. “What’s a very slow poison?”

      “Hemlock, I think,” he says, taking a hand off the wheel to caress the back of her neck. “No, wait—starvation! Hoist them on their own, like, whatevers.”

      “Petards,” she says.

      “What is a petard, anyway?”

      “Can’t remember. But I vote for starvation.”

      “‘I notice you’ve got some unsoaked nuts on the premises, and I’m a little concerned. Frankly I wouldn’t dream of feeding my children an unsoaked nut.’”

      “What are you guys talking about?” says Bex.

      “A TV show we saw,” says Didier, “called The World’s Smallest Petard. You would like it, Bexy. There’s an episode where every time a person farts, you can actually see the fart—there’s these little brown clouds trailing behind the characters.”

      Bex giggles.

      The wife moves his hand from her neck down to her thigh and closes her eyes, smiling. He squeezes her jeaned flesh.

      She remembers what she loves.

      Not the fart jokes, but the sweetness. The solidarity against the Perfects of this world.

      She will ask him tomorrow.

      In the car-window fog she draws an A.

      It was bad, yes, the last time he refused. She promised herself she wouldn’t ask again.

      But the kids adore him.

      And he really is sweet sometimes.

      I got the name of a person in Salem, she will say, who’s supposed to be fantastic, not that expensive, does late appointments. We can get Mattie to sit—

      And she has seen herself driving off the cliff road with the kids in the car.

      When the polar explorer turned six, she was shown the best way to hold the knife and how to make a slice across the lamb’s throat—just one, they don’t feel it, do it hard, watch your brother. СКАЧАТЬ