Amanda Bright @ Home

by Danielle Crittenden

  “Beauvoir’s fabulous,” agreed Ellen. “I’d like Jonathan to attend the International School for a few years—they have a tremendous French immersion program. Of course eventually he’ll have to go to St. Alban’s. That’s where his father went.”

  “Charlotte’s going to go to Beauvoir, too,” said Kim, and then corrected herself. “I should say we’ve applied, but I’d be surprised if she wasn’t accepted. I attended Beauvoir and Lord knows we’ve given them enough money over the years.”

  Once more their faces turned expectantly to Amanda.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it yet—I’ve just assumed he’s going to go to Oliver Wendell Holmes,” Amanda said, naming the public school three blocks from their house. “Bob and I believe in the public school system,” she added, without conviction. “And Holmes is a national merit school …”

  Patricia offered her a consoling smile. “I think that sounds like the perfect environment for Ben.”

  Amanda turned into the snarl of Connecticut Avenue. Most of the cars struggled north, like salmon beating upstream; Amanda headed south toward the city. Ben and Sophie sat glumly in the backseat. Their disappointment at PlayZone manifested itself in alternating moods of self-pity and quarrelsomeness. Amanda wondered wearily why she had bothered to take them at all.

  Amanda slowed for a red light. They were passing through Chevy Chase. On either side gracious mansions obscured their faces behind tall hedges like demure ladies holding emerald fans. Heat and exhaust billowed in through Amanda’s open car windows. The air-conditioning system had mysteriously failed the day before. Who knew when she would be able to afford to get it fixed? She tried turning up the vents but that only blew the hot air more intensely into her face. The heat made Amanda feel sleepy, dreamy. She glanced sidelong at the car next to her, a gleaming black sedan whose occupant was tightly sealed inside a climate-controlled compartment. Beyond him was the stone fence demarking the Chevy Chase Country Club; from somewhere she heard the sharp thwack of a tennis serve.

  The traffic picked up again and soon they had crossed the District line and entered the familiar reaches of Woodley Park. There was the transient woman shaking a cup for change outside the drugstore. Perspiring mothers in string T-shirts pushed strollers over sidewalks that glittered with broken glass. A waiter mopped down the plastic tables of an outdoor café.

  To Amanda, the shabbiness of her neighborhood was its badge of urbanity; it felt hip and comfortable, like a worn pair of bell-bottoms. But now, as she paused behind a car blinking left, Amanda saw her life stretching out like the motley blocks ahead. Where would she end up if she persisted in going on like this? She watched as an elderly woman climbed the stoop of a depression-era apartment building, its dirty beige bricks streaked with rusty drips from gasping air conditioners. A sign advertised garden units with kitchenettes and all the modern conveniences of a bygone era. There were many of these buildings along this strip of Connecticut—buildings that had missed gentrification during the great boom, buildings in which the hallways reeked of someone else’s cauliflower.

  Amanda’s car lurched forward and cut over a lane; they were nearing their street. She glimpsed, in the rearview mirror, the reflection of two sleeping heads: Sophie’s mouth was parted, her eyelids dappled with sweat; all the anger had drained from Ben’s face and with it, three or four years of age. He looked again as he had in his crib, during those soft hours of nap time, when she would brush her lips across his forehead and be amused that so forceful a creature could appear so benign when asleep. Soon he would be in kindergarten; next fall Sophie would be in school for a full day. Last summer, every single one of Amanda’s movements had been constrained by a diaper-clad free weight. She had been unprepared for the extraordinary sensation of lightness she experienced on Sophie’s first day of school, when her daughter toddled into Ms. Fishbein’s class and assured her anxious mother, with a wave of her tiny hand, that she would be fine and to please go home. As Amanda walked back down the hallway, with no tearful child clutching at her leg, she asked herself if she felt bereft or sentimental over her daughter’s sudden independence. No, came the immediate answer. Not one bit.

  As she pulled into the driveway of their little house, Amanda admitted a thought she had long resisted—a thought she had blurted out to Bob the other night and then almost as quickly suppressed again.

  Why not go back to work?

  Why not?

  Chapter Eleven

  TAPA-TAPA-TAP-TAP. Tapa-tapa-tap-tap.

  The show opened with a drumbeat, followed by heraldic blasts of trumpets and the obligatory shot of the Capitol dome. The panel appeared, seated around a wood-grain tabletop. The camera settled briefly upon Bob. He looked petrified.

  “Why is Daddy orange?” Ben asked.

  “I think it’s the TV makeup. Shh.”

  “Daddy ith wearing makeup?” said Sophie.

  “Shh!”

  The image of the host, Fred Fallow, in his trademark red vest, filled the screen. His fat jowls, mesmerizing comb-over, and belligerent why-is-everyone-but-me-so-stupid attitude would have disqualified him from any other on-air job in the country, but Fallow thrived in the elite hothouse of Washington television like one of those rare snapping plants gardeners prize for their oddity and ugliness.

  “Tonight on Left/Right,” Fallow shouted at the camera, “Megabyte faces the biggest corporate fine in history for flouting its deal with the Justice department. Meanwhile, the Senate will begin hearings next week on competition in the software industry. Megabyte: is it a Mega monster? Or is it—as billionaire founder Mike Frith insists—merely Mega Misunderstood?

  “Joining us are Chris Kachinski, legal counsel for Megabyte, and Bob Clarke, head of the computers and technology division at the Justice department. My cohost, Jane Henshaw, is on vacation. Sitting in for the right is Cathy O’Toole of the National Standard magazine. Welcome back, Cathy.”

  “Thanks, Fred.” The camera panned to a blond woman in a crisp red blazer, the woman Amanda had seen at Jack Chasen’s party. O’Toole greeted the lens with a wry, crooked smile that seemed to imply she knew more than she was letting on. Amanda grimaced and immediately felt sorry for Bob. Cathy O’Toole was like a bull terrier—once she had sunk her teeth into a guest’s pant leg, it was hard to dislodge her.

  “Well, Fred, we’d all like to be on vacation in this weather,” O’Toole was saying with false bonhomie. “Washington is filled with hot air all year round but right now it’s as hot as it gets. Or maybe not. I suspect the Senate hearings are going to generate even more heat—especially for Mike Frith. Chris, how is your client preparing for his much-awaited appearance before the Judiciary committee?”

  Chris Kachinski was bland, reassuring—like a family doctor.

  “Cathy, he reminds me of a professional athlete before a big match,” Kachinski replied smoothly. “He’s pumped, he’s confident. He feels the government has no case against him, and that’s going to become very apparent during these hearings. Frankly, he’s looking forward to the chance to tell his side of the story.”

  Fallow jumped in. “C’mon, Chris, everyone knows the public can’t stand Mike Frith. He’s arrogant and defiant. I understand the Justice department is rubbing its hands together in glee at the prospect of having Frith take the stand. Isn’t that right, Bob?”

  “Uh, not exactly, Fred,” Bob said, clearing his throat.

  “Daddy!” the children cheered in unison.

  Bob paused—for a heart-stopping second, he appeared to have forgotten what he meant to say. As he shifted and leaned forward on his elbows, his fellow panelists stared at him like hungry crocodiles, waiting for the baby gazelle to stray near the edge of the water.

  “The government’s position is this,” Bob began, his voice fluttering. “Megabyte, er, flagrantly violated the consent decree it had with the Justice department with the launch of its new software, MB-98. Basically, you see”—he shifted again—” Megabyte bundled its Internet naviga
tor with MB-98 after promising us it wouldn’t, and that’s why the company got fined. Now we have reason to believe that Megabyte is, uh, threatening its competitors and distributors who won’t play the game their way. We’re currently investigating whether these actions violate the Sherman Anti-Trust Act—”

  Amanda winced at Bob’s technical verbiage. She could almost feel the loyalties of the viewers shifting to Kachinski.

  “What’s Daddy saying?”

  “Quiet—I’ll tell you after.”

  “Bob,” interjected O’Toole, her grin widening, “my understanding is that the antitrust laws were not designed to protect competitors from competition. They are supposed to protect consumers from dangerous monopolies. What evidence, if any, does the government have that the consumer is being hurt by Megabyte?”

  “As I said, we’re collecting that evidence right now,” Bob said, his voice no steadier. “But in any case, Cathy, from our point of view, it’s more about the potential threat that Megabyte poses to consumers.”

  “Well, folks, now you have it directly from the government’s mouth,” Kachinski retorted, shaking his head in mock astonishment. “The Justice department has no evidence that Megabyte has done anything wrong. Instead it’s on a fishing expedition at the behest of our competitors. It’s a dangerous legal precedent to accuse a company of wrongdoing based on a ‘potential’ threat. Either the threat is real or it’s not.”

  “Is that man bad, Mommy?” Ben asked as the show went to a commercial.

  “Uh no, not bad exactly.”

  “Doesn’t he like Daddy?”

  “He disagrees with Daddy.”

  “Who is Mike Frith?”

  “He’s the person that man is representing. He’s like—” Amanda sought an analogy a child might understand. “He’s like Mike Frith’s friend. He’s defending Mike Frith.”

  “Is Mike Frith bad?” Ben persisted.

  “Yes,” Amanda replied without hesitation. “Mike Frith is very bad. He wants to control all the computers in the world.”

  “Like Lord Zordon?” Ben said, referring to the alien villain in his beloved Space Rangers.

  “Yes—I guess so. Like Lord Zordon.”

  “And Daddy’s fighting him?”

  “Uh-huh. Daddy—and the United States government.”

  Ben looked dazzled. “Cool!”

  Not so Sophie. “Will Daddy win?” she asked worriedly.

  “Oh, honey, yes, I’m sure he will,” Amanda said, regretting the nightmare she had inadvertently dropped into her daughter’s head. “He’s not fighting him with swords or weapons, sweetie. He’s fighting him with the law. He’s going to court—you know, with judges and people like that. No one is going to get hurt.”

  Sophie did not seem reassured; she raised her thumb to her mouth and directed her attention back to the television. The show resumed, with no letup in the hammering of Bob.

  “Why can’t you just admit, Bob,” O’Toole lit in, “that Megabyte produced a better product than its competitors, and now its competitors are acting like sore losers and using the Justice department to get back at Megabyte?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Kachinski while Bob stammered, “Cathy, uh, Cathy, if you could just let me respond,” but failed to inject himself into the debate. “What’s more, you’ve got guys like Jim Hochmayer and other honchos lobbying the government. These guys contributed a lot to the president’s campaign and, by the way, a lot to Senator Benson’s election—and he’s going to be chairing the hearings!”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Fallow said in his loud, dismissive voice. “You make it sound like Megabyte is some poor little company, when in fact it’s been crushing to death any competitor that’s dared to get in its way!”

  “I think—” Bob began, but was immediately cut off by O’Toole.

  “Yeah, like who? I’m finding it hard over here to shed a tear for billionaires like Hochmayer—and let’s not forget Jack Chasen and TalkNet. They’re hardly getting ‘crushed to death.’”

  “I think what’s important to remember,” Bob managed to say, “is that the government is not seeking justice for Jack Chasen or Jim Hochmayer.” He pulled himself up in his chair. “We’re not seeking justice for Megabyte—”

  “I’ll say—” Kachinski murmured.

  “We’re seeking justice for the consumer. That’s our job and we’re going to do it.”

  O’Toole snorted.

  “With those words, let’s take a break,” said Fallow. “When we come back, we’ll be joined by Congressman Smathers, who’ll give us the dirt on his controversial sanitation bill.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  “You’re sure I did okay?”

  “Yes. Positive. Really, you were fine.”

  It was the next morning, and Bob and Amanda were pushing through the weekend crowds at the National Zoo. Minutes would pass without him speaking to her, and when he did, it would be to return to the subject of the show.

  “I still think O’Toole came off as really biased.”

  “She did.”

  Bob nodded to himself and slipped back into thought. Amanda had to remind him to pause at the giraffe pavilion, where a reticulated giant was straining to reach some of the last unstripped leaves from a buffet of trees. Bob had been distracted since he woke up: Saturday was his morning to make breakfast for the children, but Frank Sussman had telephoned just as Bob was about to pour their cereal. He took Frank’s call instead, and the children retaliated by banging their empty bowls. Bob stormed up to the bedroom where Amanda was reading the paper and, while clutching the portable phone in one hand, pantomimed angrily with the other for her to get downstairs and quell the rebellion. By the time he reentered the kitchen, Amanda was rinsing the dishes and the children had fled to watch television. He fixed himself a cup of coffee and, without any acknowledgment of the favor she had just performed, launched into Sussman’s reaction to the show.

  “He thought it went great, really great. He said the important thing was to look strong while telling them nothing. It’s easy to get trapped into saying more than you want to on these types of programs, but you can’t let that happen. You’ve gotta stay on message, gotta repeat yourself if necessary. He feels I did that … They didn’t land a blow on me … The department was pleased …”

  “That’s good,” Amanda said, without raising her eyes from the sink. She noticed, though, that Bob seemed more anxious than he had been the previous evening, when any doubts he might have harbored about his performance were eclipsed by the sheer triumph of having survived his first brush with combat television. He returned home flushed and high-strung, burbling about how he “really landed one” on Kachinski and “did you see the look on O’Toole’s face when I said—?” He was no calmer in bed where, in what felt more like a relief exercise than an act of affection, he groped and thrust himself upon her. Amanda acquiesced—even though she was tired, even though it was late, even though she would normally have protested at serving as sexual paramedic.

  Today, however, all mood of victory had drained from Bob, and he was consumed with doubts about how the battle had looked to his generals. He had wanted to go into the office straightaway, but Amanda reminded him that Saturday was their one family day together and he had promised to take the children to the zoo.

  Now, as Bob stood before the giraffes, perspiration forming damp continents on his campaign for tobacco-free children T-shirt, she saw that he was glancing around impatiently and calculating how soon he could leave.

  “Jesus, don’t they have an Arctic pavilion? Where the hell do they put the polar bears in this weather?”

  Amanda unfolded the map she had picked up at the entrance. “They don’t have polar bears. They have an Amazonia exhibit. That’s the tropical rain forest—”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t need an exhibit for that. We’re living it. What else?”

  “There’s something called Animales de Latinoamerica. I think that’s where they have the tropical birds, i
f I remember correctly.”

  “Christ, why the obsession with hot places? You’d think, in this climate, they’d do the Himalayas. Or Antarctica. What’s wrong with Antarctica? Doesn’t anyone like penguins? They’re cute. They’re educational.”

  “Bob,” Amanda said, trying to control her own exasperation, “there’s no need to be so irritable. What about the Ape House?”

  “Gorillas!” Ben exclaimed, turning away from the giraffes. “I want to see the gorillas!”

  “Gowillath!” seconded Sophie from her stroller.

  “Fabulous,” muttered Bob. “I wonder if they use deodorant in this weather.”

  “It’s all the way toward the bottom,” said Amanda, still studying the map. “It’s going to be a hike.”

  “Who wants to see the elephants?” Bob said with sudden enthusiasm. “Big huge elephants! Like Babar and Queen Celeste! And look—they’re right over here!”

  Ben squeezed through the onlookers to a spot by the fence and Bob hoisted Sophie to his shoulders. They gazed at the dusty, desultory creatures, and after a few minutes, Sophie said, “Now gowillath.”

  “You’re sure you’re not ready to go home?” Bob asked as he lowered her. “The elephants are the best part.”

  She scrambled back into the shade of her stroller, a small princess in her palanquin. “No,” she said imperiously. “Gowillath.”

  Bob pushed the stroller forward with a sigh. Ben trotted on a few feet ahead of them. The morning heat felt as if it were rising with every pace they took. The sun was not yet overhead, but already the temperature hovered near ninety degrees. Amanda felt guilty that she had dragged Bob outside on a day like this, and resentful that she should feel guilty. He barely saw the children these days, and she could hardly be held responsible for the weather.

  Nonetheless, he was behaving as if it were somehow her fault. He was no longer preoccupied but openly annoyed at having to walk to the Ape House. He grunted rudely when they were halted by a group of Japanese tourists photographing each other in the middle of the path. Amanda wondered what she might say to placate him but then decided it wasn’t her job.