She had an expression on her face. It could have been admiration, or it could have been concern.
— Does your iguana do any tricks? I asked, trying to be cordial.
— We need a biopsy, she said.
NOW THERE WAS FEAR. IT WAS A COLD, SOUR FEAR, INVADING MY skin. I could not get it out. I opened the car windows, which did not help. That fucking cat. What had it wrought? Why this, now? When I got home, I picked it up, gripped its small, thin body. I was afraid to hold him for too long. What would happen next? Where would this embarrassment stop?
The cat was following me, I told my husband, that night.
I did not tell him about the droplets. It would be a stupid secret between the medical personnel and me. The news would not go over well, anyway; he was busy at work. Perhaps he was having an affair. It would make him more understandable if he were having an affair. It would clarify everything. As it was, there was a general gray haze of distraction. He wanted to get away from us. He was in a hurry, to get out of the house, to go to the gym, to flee. He wanted, at midlife, hey, at early life, as we all do, to be somewhere else.
— He’s hungry, he said. — Just give him more kibble.
We fell into each other with a kind of relief, that we could find each other through the blind, sweaty maze that made up our days — we were startling, an oasis. The children slept in the other room, moral and forceful as parents; they could not discover us. I locked the door and put a chair against it, for good measure. We had invited them into the world with this act, and now we wanted to keep them out. His hands felt my breasts; he detected nothing; with the deepest gratitude, we held each other down.
I did not tell him the news about the call until we were finished.
— The principal called, I said. — There was thieving.
— Thieving? Of what?
— He didn’t say.
I wanted to just lie there beside him, pretending we had only this to deal with. I rubbed his arm; it was hard as an apple; it looked no different than it had when we met fifteen years before, but its ability for combat would soon reach its limits.
— It’s nothing, my husband said, reaching and lifting a piece of hair from my forehead with an unwarranted tenderness.
— Don’t worry about it, he said. — It’s nothing.
THE GRIM WALK INTO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. I SMILED AT OTHER parents in the hallway, as though we had been invited here for another sort of conference. Invited. We all wanted to be invited to hear a beautiful future. We wanted the school principal to know more than we did. He would tell us that our child had been identified as supremely gifted and would be shot through a funnel to glorious success. Your child is particularly admired by his/her classmates. Your child. . but no. We were here for the other conference. The bright fluorescent bars in the ceiling spat and buzzed. My husband’s hand was a knot in mine.
We said hello to the principal. He was worn out as a piece of flannel. Our son sat in a chair, not wearing his cleanest shirt. Was that his fault or mine? Hi, our son said, his eyes travelling the ceiling; he pretended not to know who we were.
— Well, said the principal. — I am sorry to say that your son has been thieving. Here’s a list. A donut, a pen, $2.25. And the crowning glory, the teacher’s diamond bracelet. Wanda Jenkins found it in his desk.
I wondered if the principal could run the school effectively because he used this word: thieving.
— Could this Wanda have slipped it into his desk by accident? I asked.
— No. She saw it in there. Other kids did, too.
The principal clasped his hands as though he were trying to hold himself from some other frenzied movement. We all did; we were the epitome of politeness.
— So. Do you understand the seriousness of this?
Our son was frozen. His head barely moved. He was this other thing now, a defendant, and he took to it like a character in a movie. We all sat there, perched on our chairs in this moment of history. We were barely real.
— What do you say? asked the principal.
— I didn’t do it, said our son.
— But you did, said the principal. — We have proof.
— What did you want? I asked our son.
He assumed a blank expression, as though he did not understand this question.
— I don’t know, he said.
This was not the right answer, for the principal said, — He has to go home.
— You mean we have to take him home? Now?
— For two days.
— But we have to work—
— Sorry. You have to figure that out.
— We’ll replace everything, said my husband. — Even the donut.
THE DRIVE HOME WAS NOT FUN. SILENCE EXCEPT FOR OUR OCCASIONAL outbursts. Why? And why the donut? Don’t we feed you enough?
We got home and sent our son to his room. It was a dumb solution, but what else could we do? He ambled there, shoulders drooping. He was so obedient I was somewhat touched. My husband and I stood, startled to find ourselves here at midday with our boy in the house.
— You call in sick at work, I asked my husband.
— No. You.
He did not know that he was being insensitive.
— I want Mom, our son called.
— Me? Why me?
— I just do.
I called into work. I lied, said I had a sore throat. If only. My supervisor sounded envious. A sore throat. Why did I get to stay home?
— You can get sick next, I told her, and then I felt guilty for saying this.
The cat kept following me. He was in a merry mood, as though he sensed an opportunity; intent on displaying his cuteness, jumping up and twisting in the air as he batted at a moth. I went into our son’s room, closed the door, and sat down next to him.
— What happened? I asked him. — What did you want?
— I don’t know.
— Did you want to be important?
— What?
He scratched his neck.
— Did you feel ignored? Bullied?
— No.
I could still see the imprint of the infant face in his current one, a perplexing shadow.
— Then why did you do it? I asked.
— I just wanted it. The donut had sprinkles on top.
He smiled, oddly joyful.
— Mom. Guess what. I can do a Heimlich.
He leaned forward and hugged me so hard I was breathless. I wrapped my arms around him and did not want him to let go. He smelled a little rank, like wet sand. It was the smell of future adulthood.
— Honey, I asked. — Why are you so happy?
— I like sitting here with you.
THE BIOPSY. THE SAME CALM BLUE COLORS IN THE WAITING ROOM. It was as though all the doctors had consulted the same color therapist. The magazines were carefully selected to contain no news of any sort. Interior decorating and cooking appeared to be the only subjects in the world. Other people waiting here wore glazed expressions or were chatting happily, pretending they were at a bus stop.
I was escorted to the patient room, also blue. I was sitting there when the breast surgeon walked in.
— Ready? she asked.
— For what?
She prepared her needle. The nurse gently put her hand on my arm.
— How is your iguana? I asked. I wanted her to tell me something wise.
— He did the sweetest thing, she said.
There was the needle, and there was pain; I was sweating.
— Easy, said the breast surgeon. She was drawing out something.
— You’re doing great! said the nurse. She puffed out her cheeks. She said, — Take a deep breath.
— What did the iguana do? I asked, between breaths.