Arthur said, “You lied about lying about doing your homework. So the lie’s the lie. Very clever!” He smiled approvingly at his son. “Okay, who’s next?”
Mrs. Wright went next, despite her earlier protests. A momentum had developed. She told everyone that she had never been to Europe, that a close childhood friend of hers had only recently learned she was adopted, and that her favorite color was blue.
After we had exhausted our guesses, Mrs. Wright revealed that all three of these things were in fact true.
“That’s not the game!” Will protested.
“I told you,” Mrs. Wright said, “I’m no liar.”
Penelope, during her turn, lied about a latent allergy to eggplant, and Frank — who seemed to have missed the point of the game — kept trying to fool us with little-known facts about Abraham Lincoln. Then it was Arthur’s turn.
He sat at the head of the table, a mischievous twist of a smile, in his element. He said, “I have thirty-four teeth. I have a vaccination scar on my left upper arm. I have a bruise on my right shin.”
Penelope said she knew Arthur’s vaccination scar intimately — it was on his right arm, not his left. Frank said that thirty-four teeth sounded like too many and checked this hunch against his own teeth, which totaled thirty-two. My money was on the bruise. When we were all done guessing, Arthur opened his mouth and confirmed a vowely thirty-two, just as Frank had said.
“But I know that scar,” Penelope said. Arthur rolled up his right sleeve to confirm that Penelope too was right. “That’s two lies,” she said. “You’re only allowed one.”
“Three lies, actually,” Arthur said, showing us his hairy, unbruised shins.
Will said to me, exasperated, “Didn’t I explain the rules clearly enough to these people?”
Arthur said, “For the sake of symmetry — Constance’s three truths to my three lies.”
Dessert was served: apple cobbler and Linzer cookies that the Wrights brought with them. “In my luggage,” Mrs. Wright said. “I’m amazed they survived.” Penelope brought out coffee and cut fruit.
Will took some coffee, refused the fruit. “I think I’m ready for bed,” he announced, and got up.
“Is it that time already?” Penelope said.
He hugged his grandparents, patted his mother and father on their heads.
Once Will had gone into his room and closed the door, Mrs. Wright said, “Is bedtime really a question, dear?”
“We’ve been letting him make his own decisions.”
I took another cookie. The center was pure Smucker’s, so sweet it made my fillings hurt. I ate around the edges and left the middle on my plate — I did this with all three of the cookies I took. Frank watched me do this.
“What sorts of things are you letting him decide about?”
“You can’t let him decide everything. He’s a child.”
“It’s an experiment. We haven’t set limits on what he can and can’t decide. If this is going to be a lesson about the responsibility of free will, what kind of example are we setting by telling him, essentially, there are times when you can’t think for yourself? Times when, arguably, it’s most important to use good judgment.”
“Penny, darling,” Frank said, “I love you but that’s absurd. If he decides he wants to take up smoking, obviously you’re not going to let him. So what’s the point?”
“Hold on,” Arthur said, “not so obvious. So what if he wants to try out smoking? Okay, he’s a little young — but all the better, really. His lungs won’t be able to handle it, and he’ll find it repulsive. Lesson learned. Why would I deny him that experience?”
Something in both the Wrights’ demeanors changed. Mrs. Wright frowned and looked down at her hands. Frank opened his mouth for a moment and then closed it again. Their expressions registered something, a fear confirmed.
“I wouldn’t hand him one,” Arthur said, “and good luck finding a smoke shop that will sell to someone Will’s age.”
Penelope gave Arthur a sharp look. “Anyway, it’s illegal. We’re mostly talking about decisions within legal boundaries.”
“And your book?” Frank said, quietly.
“This hasn’t changed,” Penelope said. “He’s agreed to wait until he’s older.”
“He’s agreed,” Mrs. Wright said.
“Well, we can’t very well stop him, Mother. If he wants to read it, he will find a way to read it. The best we can do is help him see the wisdom in waiting.” This seemed to be a subject they’d talked about at length, judging from Penelope’s exasperated tone.
“Look,” Frank said, “I don’t want this to become a territory issue. We know our place, and we don’t want to step on your toes here, and Lord knows your mother and I understand better than you would think that raising a child isn’t a black-and-white issue. But the boy is eleven years old.”
“And.”
“And he needs—”
“Discipline?”
“He needs structure. He needs to not be the one driving the ship. He can’t be his own role model.”
“I refuse to brainwash my son,” Arthur said. “I want him to have the courage to make hard choices, to think for himself.”
“He needs limits, boundaries. You can’t just do and say whatever you want!”
“Everybody has to learn to be part of society,” Mrs. Wright said, “or they end up in the nuthouse or in jail.”
“Or an artist,” Arthur said. “Picasso spent his whole life trying to recapture the free spirit of his five-year-old self before he’d learned to paint.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! The free spirit is a myth. Even the artist has his place in society.”
“The artist who works for society isn’t an artist; he’s a propagandist. A real artist is an outsider. If he has any hope of making real art, he needs to remain that way.”
“You are a father and a husband,” Mrs. Wright said. “Where does that fit into the model of the real artist? And what’s so bad about being useful? The propagandist is a craftsman. He serves a valuable purpose. We need slogan makers as much as we need slogan busters.”
“There will always be someone to make slogans. Everywhere we turn, we’re being sold something, via slogan. And dissent is only heard when it’s made palatable by actors and rock stars. Real dissent? Real dissent is marginalized.”
“And what are you protesting exactly? The rights of pedophiles?”
“Lower your voice, Dad.”
“I have no message.”
“Arthur, you don’t have to explain yourself. He doesn’t have to justify what he writes to anybody.”
“Oh, come off it, Arthur’s employed by the university. Art is a mill, just like any other. You’ve got a market, a demographic. Just because it’s smaller doesn’t mean it’s more legitimate.”
“For God’s sake, Arthur!” Mrs. Wright said suddenly.
Everyone was quiet for a moment.
“Why did you have to go and—? What kind of smug, self-indulgent — I’m sorry, Penny. I can’t pretend anymore. It’s disgusting, what he wrote. Where is the self-respect? The decency?”
More silence. My instinct, of course, always to smooth things over. A joke, a non sequitur, anything to lighten the mood, anything to right this train that had suddenly gone off the rails. I could think of nothing.
Arthur said, “What good are those traits? Will they make me a better writer?”
“You have disgraced your family. You are aware of that, aren’t you? What you have done is disgraceful. Do you have any idea what Frank has to put up with when he goes to the—”
“Constance, don’t.”
“He should know. He should know how it affects us. We live in a small community. You have the luxury of living in an anonymous place. Nobody cares what you do here. But fine — forget about us. What about your wife? What about your son? How could you do this to them? Explain it to me so that I can understand.”