“I hope,” Jonathan said, “you get life.”
“I don’t want life. I don’t want—”
“Oh, shut up, you little shit. With any luck they’ll give you the gas chamber.”
Thatcher protested. “I’m sick of being a little shit.”
“Cheer up,” the deputy said. “Eventually you’ll grow up to be a big shit.”
It was a bad day for Thatcher. The amendments were sprung on him that night after dinner while the family was still sitting at the table.
“Thatcher and I,” Oliver announced, “will now adjourn to the library.”
Vee sighed audibly, the two older boys exchanged wary glances and even Thatcher, not noted for his acuity of senses, smelled something in the wind.
“Why?” Thatcher said.
“Because we have an important matter to discuss.”
“Why?”
“Stop repeating why like some idiot parrot,” Vee said. “Just go and get it over with.”
As a favor to his brother — who would, of course, be expected to pay it back in full plus extras — Jonathan tried to change the thrust of the conversation. “I wonder if parrots understand what they’re saying when they talk, also other members of the parrot family, cockatoos, macaws, budgerigars, cockatiels, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Be quiet.” Vee’s voice was so sharp that all four males stared at her as if she were a robot who had suddenly acquired the power of speech. Then the two older boys started clearing the dishes from the table without being told, and Thatcher and his father retired to the library, where Oliver explained the object of their meeting.
“What’s an amendment?” Thatcher said.
“An amendment is something added to the original to alter it, usually for the better.”
Thatcher considered this thoughtfully. “You mean like a lady going to a doctor to have her boobs made bigger?”
“No. No, I would not place a constitutional amendment in the same category as the amplification of a lady’s bosom.”
“What’s a bosom?”
“You are beginning to annoy me, Thatcher.”
“I can’t help it. I’m supposed to know these things if I’m going to grow up and be President.”
“Very well. Mathematically speaking a bosom equals two boobs.”
“I heard Mom talking on the phone about a lady called Betty who had her—”
“Thatcher.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, our mission is to memorize the amendments to our Constitution.”
“What’s a constitution?”
“The law of the land. The first ten amendments are generally referred to as the Bill of Rights.”
“The first ten?” Thatcher repeated. “Holy moly, how many tens are there?”
“There are two tens plus six. To wit, twenty-six constitutional amendments. I’ll read you the first one. Listen carefully. Are you listening carefully, Thatcher?”
“Twenty-six. Holy gophers.”
“Amendment One has to do with restrictions on the powers of Congress. It reads as follows: ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.’ December fifteenth, 1791. Do you understand that, Thatcher?”
“No.”
“Do you understand any of it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Too many big words.”
“They may seem big to you now, son, but as you memorize them, they will shrink.”
“How much will they shrink?”
“Thatcher, I am becoming exasperated.”
“I know. Your face is getting red. Mom says when your face starts to get red, we better get the hell out.”
Oliver looked genuinely shocked. “That’s quite impossible. Your mother doesn’t use profanity.”
“Not when you’re around.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood her.”
“No. She used short words. They might have been big to begin with and they shrinked.”
“Shrank. Shrink, shrank, shrunk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, to get back to the amendments, what was the purpose of Amendment One?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it to restrict the powers of Congress?”
“I guess so.”
“There, you’re catching on already. I knew you would. Now repeat after me: Congress shall make no law—”
“Congress shall make no law... I wonder if there’s a law about dogs. I think they should pass a law making everybody buy a dog. I saw a dog on the courthouse lawn that was real cute and fuzzy. Why don’t we buy a dog?”
“I don’t want a dog.”
“What if Congress passes a law forcing you to get one?”
“I would obey such a law, of course, but—”
“Oh, wow. Think of it. All of us with dogs, Mom and you and Chad and Jon and me, me with the biggest because I’m the smallest. Oh, wow. Me and my big dog could beat up on Chad and his littlest one. And all the kids in the neighborhood could take their dogs to school and we could have fights at recess. Oh, wow.”
Oh, wow. Oliver echoed the words silently and stared up beyond the library window toward the heavens. God, as usual, was elsewhere.
Later that night, when Vee and Oliver were about to retire, Vee was brushing her hair, and Oliver his teeth. He was a diligent brusher, ten rotary strokes at the front and back of each tooth, the brush held at a forty-five-degree angle to remove plaque at the gum line.
He came out of the bathroom and stood behind Vee at her dressing table. “Does my face really turn red when I’m mad?”
“Fifty-seven, fifty-eight. Yes.”
“And did you actually tell the boys that when my face turns red, they’d better get the hell out?”
“I might have said something of the sort.”
“Why?”
“It seemed like sensible advice.”
“Couldn’t you have phrased it another way?”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘Boys, when your father is provoked, kindly remove yourselves from his presence.’ ”
“I could have phrased it like that, but I didn’t. The boys respond better to simple language. ‘Get the hell out,’ is more vivid and compelling than ‘Kindly remove yourselves from his presence.’ Don’t you agree?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
He put his hands on her shoulders while she finished brushing her hair. In the soft pink light of the twin boudoir lamps she looked very pretty and almost as young as when he first met her, the day he graduated from law school.
She had come to the graduation party with someone else, and he’d brought another girl. It was love at first sight. They were married as soon as Oliver took a job with a law firm. Vee worked for the first year, up until the day before Chadwick was born.
Vee enjoyed her children, accepting their various phases and faults as she accepted changes in the weather. She knew perfectly well Thatcher would be lucky if he got into college, let alone law school, Congress and the presidency. She knew, too, that eventually Oliver would come to his senses, and they could have a nice, normal life.
Meanwhile, there were the amendments.
He told her about Thatcher’s idea of a new amendment making it mandatory for each person to own a dog.
“How sweet,” Vee said.
“Not really.”
“Oh, but it is. You know how Thatcher’s always going up to strange dogs and petting them.”
“Oh, yes, I know. I paid for the thirty-six stitches on his hand last year. Besides, the object of Thatcher’s proposed amendment doesn’t involve petting but rather the staging of boy-dog fights on the school grounds.”