Little Children

by Tom Perrotta

  “I’m dreading work today,” she informed him.

  Todd was tempted to ignore her, to mirror the indifference with which she’d greeted his mention of the game, but he didn’t want to stoop to that petty level of payback.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m interviewing this vet at the hospital.” She glanced at Aaron before continuing. He was sitting on the floor in front of the refrigerator, staging a battle between magnets. Just then, a strawberry was inflicting serious damage on a local realtor. “He lost both legs at Iwo Jima.”

  “Jesus.”

  “But that’s not the worst of it.” She smiled, the way people sometimes do when every expression seems equally inappropriate. “He’s in this state of like permanent denial. He still believes it’s 1944, and that he’s the same person he was back then. Basically, he’s a seventy-five-year-old man with no legs who thinks he’s a healthy teenager.”

  “Maybe that’s not so bad,” Todd speculated.

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “But it doesn’t really work like that. He can’t understand why his parents don’t visit, and he’s furious with his girlfriend for not answering his letters.”

  Todd sipped his coffee, marveling as he did almost every day at the way he’d underestimated his wife. When they met in college, he’d mistaken her for a bit of a phony, a pretty girl dabbling in poetry and painting, trying to look more artsy than she actually was. Even when she got accepted into film school, he figured that she was just killing time until they could begin a conventional upper-middle-class life in the suburbs: i.e., he’d work his ass off every day for a big law firm, while she went to the gym and Starbucks before picking up the kids at day care. And now here she was, ten years down the road, spending her summer with shell-shocked amputees at the VA Hospital while he lounged at the pool all afternoon, fine-tuning his tan and getting into trouble.

  “You know what else? He keeps asking me out. He wants to take me dancing.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “It’s breaking my heart.” Kathy glanced at Aaron again, and then back at Todd. She kept her voice soft, so only he could hear. “And we think we have problems.”

  No matter what time Todd and Aaron arrived at the Town Pool, Sarah and Lucy always managed to show up a good ten or fifteen minutes later. He wasn’t sure how she made it work out that way, but it happened too consistently for him to imagine it was an accident. It must have been a point of pride for her not to be first, not to look too eager.

  Every day Todd waited for her in the shade and tried to convince himself that the spell was broken, that he’d finally come to his senses and realized that it just wasn’t worth it, risking his marriage for a woman he barely knew and who wasn’t even his type, and what was worse, implicating his own child in the deception. Sometimes he practiced break-up speeches in his head, a series of disconnected utterances—song and movie clichés, mostly—strung together in a momentarily plausible chain: We must be out of our minds, Sarah, let’s put a stop to this before someone gets hurt, maybe if there weren’t kids involved, this is really hard for me, Sarah, I still want us to be friends…

  But then he’d see her, bopping down the concrete walkway with Lucy, a big smile on her face, straw bag swinging jauntily at her side, and all these shopworn phrases popped like soap bubbles in the air around his head. She’s here! Right on time! He’d watch with indiscreet pleasure as she spread her towel out next to him and untied her navy blue beach robe—she’d gotten the robe a few days after they’d begun their affair—to reveal the red bikini underneath, and all he could do was shake his head and sheepishly admit that he’d been kidding himself again, that the spell was nowhere near being broken, that he was just as startled by the force of his desire for her today as he had been yesterday.

  Startled, because at any other time in his life, he wouldn’t have even looked twice at her, wouldn’t have had the imagination to see past her sharp-featured, not-quite-pretty face, her less-than-stunning body. Why would he? He’d always been the kind of guy who could get the obvious girls, the pretty ones with haughty expressions and legs-up-to-here, the short sexy ones with the big brown eyes and the improbably large breasts, the would-be models, the willowy Asians, the hotties who caused a stir walking down the beach or past a row of lockers, the ones who’d never been without a boyfriend since the day they turned eleven, the girls most other guys knew better than to even make a play for. He’d never had to make the adjustments and compromises other people accepted early in their romantic careers, never had a chance to learn the lesson that Sarah taught him every day: that beauty was only part of it, and not even the most important part, that there were transactions between people that occurred on some mysterious level beneath the skin, or maybe even beyond the body. He was proud of himself for wanting her so badly. It made him feel like he’d grown up a little, expanded his vision, like he’d traveled to a faraway place or learned to appreciate an exotic food.

  Todd had always been disturbed by the idea of elderly people making love, their droopy, liver-spotted bodies, the hair sprouting from where it shouldn’t, the wayward odors, the unpleasant proximity to death. Sometimes Kathy joked about it, asking if he’d still find her attractive when her gums receded and her tits were hanging halfway to the floor. Of course he said yes; what else was he supposed to say? But the truth was, he couldn’t even imagine Kathy as an old woman, or himself as an old man hoisting himself aboard her creaky bones. Kathy not beautiful wasn’t really Kathy. But sometimes, when he was making love with Sarah, a weird sense of exhilaration would wash over him, and he’d believe for a moment or two that he could happily fuck her when they were both eighty-five and toothless, that the way their bodies looked was somehow beside the point. But he kept this thought to himself, suspecting that she wouldn’t take it as a compliment.

  No matter how often he reassured her, she remained insecure about her appearance, nervous that she didn’t measure up. She talked all the time about how handsome he was—square jaw, broad shoulders, etc.—and complained in the next breath about her own shortcomings: damaged hair, stubborn little potbelly, the surprising darkness of her nipples. I love your mouth, she’d say. I hate my ear-lobes. She praised the blondish down on his forearms and his crooked bottom teeth, then lamented a tiny mole on her lower back. You have such slender fingers. Mine look like sausages.

  She did her best to make herself pretty for him, and he was touched by her efforts. Lipstick one day, earrings the next. She tweezed her eyebrows, got an expensive haircut. The robe. Platform sandals. On the afternoon of Todd’s football game she showed up with a pedicure. She didn’t announce it, just stretched her legs out in front of her and wiggled her squat little toes, the startling drops of fresh metallic blue lacquer turning them into a series of oddly shaped, upside-down exclamation points.

  Just the day before, she’d reacted badly when he tried to suck her toes. “No,” she snapped, yanking her foot away from his mouth. It was the first time the word had been uttered between them in two weeks of fairly comprehensive sexual exploration, all of which transpired during Aaron and Lucy’s now-habitual late-afternoon nap.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My feet are disgusting. You don’t want them in your mouth.”

  “I don’t mind,” he insisted.

  “Well, I do.”

  It was true that Sarah’s feet were not her finest feature. They were short and broad, almost primitive-looking. She was especially ashamed of her toenails, several of which had been thickened and discolored by fungus. Even now, after they’d been professionally clipped and polished, they still didn’t look quite right.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he told her.

  “I wanted to,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  He checked quickly on the kids. Aaron was showing Lucy his plastic dinosaur collection, letting her hold the less important ones. Todd slid his own foot across the grass and caressed Sarah’s instep with his big toe.


  “I love it,” he whispered. “Ten little lollipops.”

  That afternoon, for the first time, Todd had trouble maintaining his erection. It was nothing personal; the voice of his high school football coach just kept echoing in his head, reminding him that it was a bad idea to have sex before a game.

  “Men,” Coach Breeden would say at the conclusion of Friday practice, “from now until this time tomorrow, you need to keep Little Willy under wraps. Those lucky few of you who have good-hearted girlfriends, please instruct them that a strict no-touchie policy is in effect. Those of you who are going steady with Sally Palm and her Five Sisters, I’d advise you to give those hardworking ladies the night off. God knows they deserve it. I want mean, hungry warriors out there on the field tomorrow, not a bunch of dreamy, weak-kneed lover-boys in velvet smoking jackets.” Coach would grin his cockeyed, unsavory grin. “To express my own solidarity with your ordeal, I hereby pledge to avoid any and all physical contact with Mrs. Breeden during the next twenty-four hours. Of course, those of you who have had the misfortune of laying eyes on Mrs. Breeden will understand that this does not technically qualify as a sacrifice.”

  Coach Breeden was hardly a reliable source. He was a taskmaster from the old school, a short, thick-necked man who had a way with words and a host of dubious ideas about the human body—stretching causes injury, never swallow water during a game, pain is good—that were later debunked by younger, better-informed coaches. On some level, Todd understood that the prohibition against pre-game sex was pure superstition, like not walking under ladders or not swimming for an hour after a meal, but he didn’t do those things either, at least not if he could avoid them.

  “What’s the matter?” Sarah asked. She was on her hands and knees, addressing him over her shoulder. “Am I doing something wrong?”

  “No, it’s not you. I’m just a little distracted.”

  She tried to help him out, coaxing him onto his back, telling him to just close his eyes and relax. She began licking his chest, moving slowly downward, past his rib cage to his navel, and then even lower. It felt good, until Todd remembered how badly he’d played on Thanksgiving Day of his senior year—a miserable five for sixteen passing, with three interceptions—after Amanda Morrissey’s surprise blowjob. He opened his eyes in alarm.

  “It’s okay,” he said, grimacing from the effort of self-discipline. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to.”

  He raised himself up on his elbows.

  “Could we just take a break for today?”

  She lifted her head, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  She looked so crestfallen—they had never “taken a break” before—that Todd felt he owed her an explanation. A bit sheepishly, he told her it was opening day for the Guardians, and that his place on the team still wasn’t secure. Some of the guys—they were cops, men who’d been tested by fire—suspected him of being a pretty boy who’d crumble under pressure, and he was determined to prove them wrong, to show that he belonged.

  “I always get nervous before games,” he added. “In high school I used to throw up in the locker room. It was my body’s way of relieving tension.”

  “I used to throw up in high school, too,” she confessed. “It was my body’s way of purging a big meal.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was kidding, so he limited his response to a polite chuckle.

  “I’m sure it sounds ridiculous,” he said. “I’m a grown man. I should have more important things on my mind than a football game.”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” she told him. “No more ridiculous than me worrying about my ugly toes.”

  “You have beautiful toes.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  “You’re gonna be great tonight.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t played for ten years. It used to be such a big part of my life. That’s who I was in high school, even in college—Superjock, Mr. Quarterback. Then when I stopped, I just stopped. I didn’t even miss it. But now that I’m doing it again, I can’t help feeling like something important’s on the line.”

  This whole time he’d been lying on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at her bare breasts and sympathetic face. It was a nice way to look at a woman.

  “I envy you,” she said. Almost absentmindedly, she threw one leg over his waist and straddled him. She began slowly rocking her hips, pressing herself against him, a moist groove engulfing his softness. “I missed out on all that. I was a smart girl. Drama Club. AP English. I pretended to look down on the cheerleaders, but I was really just jealous of them.”

  “Why?”

  Her breath was warm against his ear, her voice husky.

  “Because they had you.”

  He was hard again; it hadn’t taken much. She leaned forward, reaching back between her legs, guiding him inside. He arched his back, lifting her up. She pressed down against the movement.

  “You have me now,” he said.

  Ever since his first practice with the Guardians, Todd had been hearing ominous rumors about their opening night opponents, who were widely considered to be the nastiest team in the league, as well as the best. He didn’t give it a second thought until he saw the Auditors file onto the field, one guy bigger and meaner-looking than the next, like finalists in a Mr. Steroid contest. Five were white, two black; all of them wore nylon rags knotted gangsta-style on their heads.

  “Jesus,” said Todd. “Are these guys really accountants?”

  The teams shook hands at midfield; with only seven on a side, there wasn’t any need for captains. The Auditors were stone-faced and utterly silent during the ritual, like heavyweight boxers trying to intimidate a challenger during the weigh-in. Todd thought the tough-guy act was ridiculous, but also felt a cold splinter of fear enter his lower abdomen, a sudden inkling that maybe he was in over his head. He wished he hadn’t let Sarah talk him into having sex. Oh no, he thought. I’m a dreamy, weak-kneed lover-boy in a velvet smoking jacket.

  The Guardians won the coin toss and elected to receive. Todd and DeWayne Rogers dropped back to return the kick. Right on time, Todd felt a welcome jolt of adrenaline rush through his system, a biological response to the bright lights, the goalposts and yard markers, the knowledge that large men intent on mayhem would soon be charging in his direction. It no longer mattered that the bleachers were empty, that no one except the players themselves gave a damn about what was going to happen on the field. From where Todd was standing on the twelve yard line, it felt as real as any game he’d ever played.

  There was no ref, no whistle. The Auditors’ kicker just raised his right hand and brought it down in a chopping motion to signal the beginning of play. He jogged toward the ball, his teammates moving in unison on either side of him, and booted it high into the sky. Todd lost it for a moment in the glare of the stadium lights, then found it again, a little chocolate egg spinning end over end, growing larger with each revolution. He was relieved—and immediately embarrassed by his relief—to see that it was plummeting toward DeWayne, that it wasn’t his responsibility.

  By the time Todd started moving forward, looking for someone to block, the Auditors were stampeding down the field, shrieking out a weird, ululating battle cry, as if they were a tribe of ferocious native warriors bent on avenging some ancient insult. It was a chilling sound; Todd felt naked and defenseless in the face of it, suddenly amazed to find himself standing on a football field without pads or a helmet, but he wasn’t standing for long. One of the Auditors clotheslined him as he rushed past—a rock-hard forearm to the face—and the next thing Todd knew he was scrutinizing the cosmos, his head humming emptily, as if every last thought had been knocked right out of it, his body blessedly free of sensation, at least until a very large sneaker descended upon his left hand, grinding it into the turf as though it were a lit cigarette that needed to be extinguished. Todd’s gaze traveled n
orth from the sneaker. A cheerful-looking black man with massive thighs was attached.

  “Yo,” said Todd. “Could you get off my hand?”

  “I could.” The big man smiled, revealing a golden tooth. “What’s the magic word?”

  After Aaron fell asleep, Kathy surprised herself by calling her mother. Normally, when she was feeling stressed out about her marriage, she turned to her older sister, Claire, or her college roommate, Amy, for advice and encouragement. Both were sympathetic, highly intuitive listeners who also happened to be big fans of Todd. The bottom line, as they often reminded Kathy, was she’d been lucky enough to marry a good-looking, intelligent, and kindhearted man who was willing to stay home and care for a small child while she pursued her dream of making documentary films. So what if he had a little trouble passing a test? JFK, Jr. didn’t ace it on his first try either, right?

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oh, hi, honey.” Marjorie sounded flustered, raising her voice to make herself heard over the blaring TV. “It’s late. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “There’s nothing wrong,” Kathy insisted. “I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Hold on. I had it in my hand a second ago.”

  “What?”