by Lydia Millet
To placate Charise, Pete had Lili fitted out with a prosthesis and paid for canine psychotherapy. “Florida panther,” he told Charise decisively, though there were rumored to be only five left alive in the state. Estée found a pink poodle ribbon in William’s crib; she kept her mouth shut but decided to take action. She set up a twelve-foot Rent-a-Fence in a forested back lot behind the groundskeeper’s toolshed, and there, beneath a canopy of trees, sequestered herself with William.
With a small tent pitched beside his playpen, a cookstove, and a Port-a-John at her disposal, she whiled away the warm days watching while he learned to climb trees. He was happiest high in the boughs, sucking his thumb, head cocked to one side, listening. He eschewed diapers and defecated in holes in the ground; he would not be handfed, but grabbed his bottle from her and scampered up his favorite tree with it dangling from his mouth, rubber nipple clenched between his teeth.
At first she padlocked the fence at night, leaving William to his arboreal nest, built out of refuse and leaves, and retired to her bedroom. Soon, however, she became accustomed to her tent; she distrusted the padlock, for William was agile and canny. She began to sleep outside and entered the house only for newspapers and magazines, cassettes to play for William on her portable tape recorder, freeze-dried food, water, and changes of clothes. Pete Magnus was not pleased, since she avoided the guests and neglected her hostess duties. “Esty, what the hell are you thinkin?” he asked repeatedly. “Nature’s for hippies Esty, hippies and Indians. Let’s face it, Esty. Nature sucks.”
Her showers became less and less frequent, as did her changes of clothes. William was her sole companion and he possessed no aversion to filth. The two of them developed rituals. At the break of dawn he scavenged for rodents; she watched him eat them and carry the bones and claws to his hiding places. While she spooned up cereal, perched on a stump, William loped around the fence’s perimeter, scouting for changes in the terrain. She began to notice small processes: ants flowing in a single-file river from rock to rock, the decomposition of cicadas, the mating habits of flies, the growth of weeds, the displacement of dirt churned up by her feet. She learned to tell time by the position of the sun and to feel the onset of rain from humidity in the air. She waved to the gardeners when they passed the fence, observed the distant movements of golfers, and read to William from the newspaper. His favorite lullaby consisted of stock-market quotes. “Analog: trading volume 1142, high 36¼, low 35⅜, close 35½, down ¾. Anheuser-Busch: trading volume 7889, high 50⅜, low 50, close 50⅜, up ¼. Ann Taylor: trading volume 573, high 41⅞, low 41¼, close 41¾, no change.” At night she played him an old recording of the Agnus Dei, and he fell asleep with his thumb in his mouth, curled up in his nest in a fork in the boughs.
On a placid Saturday, after lunch, he pronounced his first words. She was unprepared. She’d just put down the National Enquirer, which she had read aloud, and was stretching out to sunbathe. William squatted in a pile of leaves, picking apart a daddy longlegs.
“First ladies,” he said, casting aside a leg. “Leading ladies. Every lady deserves a Bill Blass original.”
Stunned, she sat unmoving as he dropped the remains of the spider and rummaged for an old bird bone, which he picked up and gnawed.
“What William? What?”
“Eight ways you can make every evening a fun family night,” said Little Bill. “Ho-hum! America’s most boring hubby spends all his time hunting fire ants.”
“Say something else!” she urged. “William! It’s a miracle!”
“Dirt-poor kid from cotton farm makes millions selling mufflers,” said Little Bill casually, and stuck the bone into a nostril. “The sky’s the limit: granny graduates from college at age seventy-one. Doctor discovers proven psoriasis treatment!”
She ran into the house, where she found Pete Magnus dressing down a busboy for drinking Red Dog on the job.
“Pete,” she panted excitedly. “You have to hear it. He’s talking! He’s talking!”
Sighing, Pete Magnus followed her out to the enclosure. “That’s impossible Esty,” he complained as she unlatched the gate. “The kid’s just passing wind.”
“No, Pete,” she said. “He was talking in complete sentences! From the newspaper. He’s a genius!”
William was sitting beside a stump, twiddling a finger in his belly button.
“Uh-huh,” said Pete Magnus. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“Come on William. Talk!”
“Buddy,” said William. “Buddy buddy bud.”
“That’s great Esty,” said Pete Magnus, consulting his watch.
“No, he was really talking before,” she said. “William, come on. Do it again.”
William burped and cooed, wiggling his fingers.
“Look Esty, I got a meeting with the accountant,” said Pete. “Gotta go.”
William crawled to the fence to watch him leave.
“Give news anchorman the ax,” he said solemnly. “Four out of five in survey say.”
After the first outburst, his phrasemaking was sporadic. He spoke seldom, but eloquently. “Stock market rebounds,” he remarked when she dropped a soup can on her foot. “Veteran market watchers credited technical factors for much of the buying.” He placed a twig on the ground beside her while she was brushing her teeth at the garden hose and said, “Total diabetes care. At your Wal-Mart pharmacy department.” Bursting into the Port-a-John, he delivered a lengthy monologue. “Pope John Paul launches Eastern European trip. Korea’s Christians: a surging, prayerful force. As many as 500 million sperm start their arduous journey at the opening of the cervix.”
She tried to instigate conversations, but William refused to engage. He was a soliloquist. She kept track of his statements and read to him constantly to improve his vocabulary, whatever she found in the lobby. Systematic patterns emerged. When he was hungry, he said, “Introducing the Infiniti I30.” When he was very hungry he switched to, “Benson & Hedges 100’s: the lengths you go to for pleasure.” There were stock translations. “Look at this dead animal” was “Ten dollars for happy thoughts. Send your entry.” “You can’t have it, it’s mine” was “The incredible chopper, ultimate cutting machine.” He did not speak when spoken to, but he was learning fast.
Then came the ornithologists.
They were garbed in camouflage and golfing gear; they had binoculars and cameras hanging around their necks. They gathered at the fence and gawked at the foliage. Estée, with ratty hair and grimy arms, hid behind the Port-a-John and watched them. It was midafternoon. William was napping.
“It must be a campsite,” said a fat man in a tank top. “See? A little one-man tent.”
“Right here? On the grounds? I’m surprised they allow it,” offered a woman in floral shorts.
“Lookit that,” said the first one, and pointed. “See? Way on up there! Big old nest! Lonnie, look through your glasses. It could be endangered. Size of that thing!”
“Somethin in there,” said Lonnie. “Can’t tell what it is, though. Whaddaya think, Amy Lee?”
“There is something in the nest,” said Amy Lee. “It’s not moving. Maybe it’s dead.”
“Throw a rock at it. It’ll fly out.”
“Here we go, here we go,” said Lonnie.
“I don’t know if you should,” objected Amy Lee. “A rock?”
“Just a little one, Amy Lee. Barely a pebble. Ready Lon? I’ll aim the telephoto. You got good aim? On the count of three. Hold on a second.”
“Stop!” said Estée, running out into view. They turned to stare at her, but the first stone was cast. It hit the trunk beneath William’s nest; he raised himself on all fours, groggily, from sleep.
“My Jesus Lord, it’s a baby!” A shutter clicked.
“Go away,” said Estée. “Leave! Go!”
“But it’s a naked baby,” said Amy Lee.
“Lady, he must be thirty feet up! What are you, crazy? Put your kid up a tree?”
They were distracted by
the sight of William crawling out onto a limb.
“He’ll fall to his death!”
“He’s not going to fall,” said Estée. “Just get out of here.”
“Jesus, Lonnie, get it on the camcorder. Tarzan boy!”
William swung down from branch to branch while the bird-watchers gaped.
“You could make a mint with that baby,” said Lonnie.
“I told you to leave!” said Estée, and ran toward them. “Get out of here! It’s private property!”
They backed off as she approached. The camcorder followed William down his tree to the ground. He loped toward the bird-watchers, giggling. At the fence he sat on the ground and gazed at them.
“I got it on tape,” said Lonnie. “I got it!”
“Aqua-Ban eliminates monthly water bloat,” announced William. “Christie Brinkley fights vicious gossip. Crooked socialite swindles her pals out of $69 million. Those divorce rumors are garbage!”
“Holy shit,” said Lonnie.
Half an hour after they left, Pete Magnus appeared at the fence in casual attire, without a tailored jacket.
“Esty,” he announced, “forget this back-to-nature shit. The guests are freaked out. I hadda tell my man Daniel to steal their lousy videotape. Little Bill is going into full-time day care. I mean it Esty. And you’re coming back to the house.”
“I am not,” said Estée. “We’re fine out here.”
“We agreed Esty. Nothing that would jeopardize our investment. You have to act like a regular mother. They’re coming to get the fence in two hours. That’s it.”
“But he has to be outside. He needs it, Pete. He doesn’t like the indoors. We shouldn’t force it on him.”
“Day care Esty. I found a place already. He can’t live like this. It just encourages him. He’s gotta learn to be like a normal kid. You know, Ninja Turtles, Barney the Dinosaur, and shit. Get ’im in front of the TV Esty, teach him what’s what.”
“He’s not a normal kid. You know that.”
“And he’ll never get normal if you let him run around with no clothes on. I don’t know how I let you do this in the first place Esty. But I can’t be everywhere at once. I got a business to run and so do you. He starts on Monday. I told ’em he was two. He’s so big they won’t know the difference. And take a shower. You gotta look good for the guests. You’re dressed like a homeless person.”
“Don’t do it,” said Estée. “Don’t make him come down from the trees.”
William crawled up and sniffed her foot and then watched closely as Pete strolled back to the putting green.
“Ritual slaying in sleepy Arkansas town,” he said softly.
TWO
“WE DESCRIBE OURSELVES AS A FULL-SERVICE DAY CARE for difficult toddlers,” they told her over the phone. “We pride ourselves on both sensitivity and tough love. A troubled toddler has many conflicting needs. Toddling is a time of big decisions, including toy selection, formation of attachments, potty use, and even weaning.”
They agreed to steward William sight unseen. They’d fed Pete Magnus a harder line than they gave her: no spoiled boy would prove immune to their authority. Even the most stubborn infants, over time, would yield to their unwavering dogma Spare the Rod.
She would have to drive there and back every day, and Pete Magnus’s truck would be unsafe. William could not be permitted to have free range within the cab. It was a confined space and high-speed collisions might occur as a result of his frantic activities. A pediatrician had once prescribed Ritalin to calm him down, but Estée knew no chemical lullaby would work on William. Instead of resorting to sedatives, she bought an old prison van at a state vehicle auction and redecorated its interior. She bolted down a small fiberglass tree, lined the floor with cedar chips, leaves, and twigs, and ordered an anthill in a sandbox for placement in the corner. She could keep an eye on William in the rearview mirror, through the mesh. Other drivers would steer clear, due to the faded, chipped print on the rear of the van. correctional transport: high-sec. keep well back.
“Shop where your money buys more!” crowed William gleefully when he saw it, clapping the heels of his hands. It was his seal of approval.
“Jesus Esty, we’ll get laughed outta town,” said Pete, surveying it in passing through his Ray-Bans.
“Factory clearance,” grumbled William when his father had turned the corner. “Slashed prices. Total liquidation.”
Debbie Does Day Care ran a tight ship. The building was part warehouse, part bunker, set at the rear of a flat gravel lot, with small windows above eye level and an outside mural of Bambi sniffing daisies. William wore diapers on his first day, beneath a pair of brand-new Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls, and carried a mouse skull in his zippered pocket for security. He’d never had a favorite blanket.
They were greeted by Caregiver Ann at the entrance. Her name tag featured a happy face and bore the legend Love Hurts. Inside, the walls were thick and soft, sterile marshmallow white. Estée handed over her personal check and was offered a tour of the premises. William scuttled along at her side as they were led through a maze of quiet corridors whose bulletin boards sported crayon pictures of hearts and rainbows. The recreation room was a factory space three stories high. Here, the Caregiver told Estée, was where most of a Typical Day would be spent. The floor was padded wall to wall, and the walls were padded up to six feet off the ground. There were lined pits built into the foam-covered concrete, like swimming pools with no water. Along the back wall huge multicolored balls big as boulders were lined up on a rack.
“The playpens,” said Caregiver Ann. She indicated one of the pits, easily five feet deep with rounded edges. “You see how safe the toddlers are. We have a lot of naughty little ones who like to practice self-mutilation. A Caregiver pats them down when they enter. We do not like a sharp object.”
“What do they do for fun?” asked Estée.
“They stay in the pits during play hours,” said the Caregiver sternly. “They play with body balls or Bouncy Ponies. Beanbag rocking horses. Most toys on the commercial market aren’t geared toward troubled toddlers. Excuse me. My pager.”
She went into the office. William had his eye on another Caregiver stacking mats in the corner with her back turned.
“Shelley Winters: acting turned me into a pill-popping addict,” he remarked, and touched his mouse skull through denim.
“Sorry,” said Caregiver Ann briskly, snapping closed a portable phone as she strode out of the office. “We have learning hour, social expression hour with a JD counselor, vegan lunch, nap time, and interactive psychological support games. No utensils of course. We stress cooperation and confidence. Other questions?”
“How many children are there?” asked Estée, distracted. William was squatting on his haunches, stuffing a bluebottle fly in his mouth.
“We have ten toddlers now,” she told Estée. “We have to keep enrollment low. This is an exclusive service.”
“It’s very important,” said Estée, as she was led toward the exit with William trotting beside her, “that he doesn’t get out of the building. He can be a bit destructive.” She knelt to remove a small wing from the corner of his mouth. “Okay William. I’m leaving, but I’ll be back tonight. Be good.”
She was at the van, opening the driver’s-side door, when he dashed out, scrambled up her legs, and threw his arms around her neck.
“William,” she said, “it’s just during the day. You’ll be fine.”
“Wild bachelor party,” he mumbled plaintively in her ear. “With seventy-two topless dancers!”
“William, get off,” she said. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Come on. You’re a big boy.”
He clambered around to her front by holding onto her head. “You can’t rush smooth flavor,” he urged.
“Down, William.”
Caregiver Ann looked on, with William grubbing disconsolately in the pebbles at her feet for stray worms, as Estée got into the van and reversed out of the parking lot.
> At the resort she wandered across the grounds with nothing to do. Pete Magnus, friendly and avuncular, put an arm around her shoulders and introduced her to a guest with a colostomy bag. “Esty, meet Don ‘Tiger’ Tindale,” he boomed. “A colonel, retired. He used to play golf with Dick Nixon. Go figure!”
“Got yourself a pretty little wife there,” said Don Tindale, hefting his nine iron appreciatively and nodding into the distance. “My first wife was quite a filly too. Cunt like a vise though. Had to pry it open with a crowbar.”
“I’m sorry, what?” said Estée.
“Ha!” said Pete Magnus. “Ha ha. That’s a good one, Don.”
Estée floated with equal buoyancy in air and water; her hands were not tied. She was light as helium. She could study the sky without watching her back. In the afternoon, having left Pete Magnus in conversation with a senile poultry distributor from Milwaukee, she laid down a towel over the damp grass beside an imitation Chinese pagoda in Pete’s garden of orchids and fell asleep.
Caregiver Cindy, wearing a name tag inscribed Idle Hands, let her into the rec room at 5:30. Caregivers in padded body armor, like Michelin men, stood with arms akimbo, supervising the play. Little Bill was cross-legged, a bulky Buddha in the corner of a pit. He held a Nerf football in his lap and shredded it methodically as other toddlers waddled and fell in the piles of shredded foam, righting themselves on unsteady bow legs and then falling again. One of them stood up, supported himself against the pit wall, and trundled toward William holding a panda in a drooping felt hat. He held it out to William, who dropped the fragments of the ball and grabbed the bear. The toddler bent down and retreated. William bit off a panda ear as the boy sucked on a piece of foam and cautiously, from time to time, peeked out from under downcast lids.
At 6:00 p.m. sharp the Caregivers corralled the children and made them stand in a line.
“Thank-you time,” said Caregiver Ann brightly. “Now is when we thank the Caregivers for a fun-filled, developmental day. Douglas, you start.”