“Why? What’s up? Did one of his teachers say something?” Of Brenda’s three kids, Dante was my favorite. A grave, polite little boy who, on the day Brenda had moved in, had held the door open for me and then plodded along next to me on a walk to the playground, his pace and posture those of a little old man. Twice he’d asked how much farther it was, and one time, he’d stopped to catch his breath. He wasn’t as heavy as some of the kids I’d seen—he was carrying perhaps ten extra pounds, most of it on his belly—but my guess was that the only exercise he got involved his thumbs on his handheld videogame.
“Nooooo.” Brenda stretched the word like chewing gum. “But, I dunno. His grades aren’t great. I think he has a hard time focusing.”
“Do you have the TV on when he’s doing his homework? Does he have a quiet place to sit and work? Remember we talked about that?” She nodded. My guess was that in this house the television was always on. My further guess was that Brenda wasn’t interested in Dante’s lack of focus or poor grades as much as the additional three hundred bucks she’d get every month for a child who’d been diagnosed with a disability, the way Nicky, her oldest, had been years before. The money was supposed to go for educational support—a classroom aide, an after-school tutor, visits to a psychologist. But the system was so stretched that there was no structure in place to check on how parents actually used the money. I suspected that the extra cash she’d gotten for her oldest son’s diagnosis was sitting right in front of us, with a sixty-inch screen and surround sound.
“I just wish Dante had a shot,” I’d told Amy the week before. It was Friday afternoon, the end of the day and the workweek, but she was lingering over a pile of paperwork. Leonard was at the hospital that weekend, and Amy was in no hurry to go home.
“Brenda dropped out of school when she was fifteen because she was pregnant. Her mom had her when she was eighteen. She’s got three different kids from two different guys, and the only thing she cares about is finding a new boyfriend.”
“Forget her.” Amy ran her hands over her hair, which was perfectly smooth, then straightened her stack of files. “Sorry to be blunt, but she’s not going to, you know, take classes at CCNY and then go to Harvard. And realistically, her kids might end up making the same choices she did.”
I thought about quiet, serious Dante, with his choppy at-home haircuts and his round glasses; the way he had used the Model Magic I’d bought him to make a mobile of the solar system, with the planets strung up on fishing line. His big brother’s plan to join the army had been foiled by his arrest record, as had his ability to get a job, so Nicky still lived at home, along with Dante’s sister, sixteen-year-old Laurel, who reminded me, in a way that tore at my heart, of Bethie Botts. Laurel had the same untended skin and greasy hair, the same cold gaze and resentful expression, combined with body language that telegraphed “Leave me alone.”
“You can’t ever let yourself get stuck on one kid or one family.” Amy flipped open a compact and touched up her perfectly lipsticked mouth. Amy always came to work with lipstick on, that ruby-red slash the only makeup she wore. Dispassionate, cynical Amy, who underneath the guarded exterior was as tender as anyone I’d met. “Write ’em off.” I tried . . . but something about Dante had lodged in my heart. Browsing in a bookstore, I’d look at a children’s book and think Dante would like that. While I was watching TV, a commercial for a movie would come on the air, and I’d imagine taking him to the show, buying him popcorn, taking him out to eat after and asking if he’d liked the movie, and which star had been his favorite. Everything echoed: Dante reminded me of Keila, my little sister from college. Laurel reminded me of Bethie, with whom I’d had no contact since high school. Everyone and everything reminded me of Andy; eight-year-old Andy alone in the hospital, the first time I’d recognized the possibility of being the helper instead of being helped.
“So can I get him tested?” Brenda asked.
“I’ll ask my supervisor,” I said. Brenda’s face arranged itself into a pout. “You’re a wonderful mother,” I told her again, “and I know you and the kids are going to do well here.” She was smiling faintly when I shut the door.
It was eight thirty in the morning. If I caught an express train I could be home at my sublet in the West Village in twenty minutes, take an hour to have breakfast, grab the yoga mat that I was forever leaving at my studio or the supermarket, and then go to the office.
We were at Astor Place, just ahead of my normal stop at Bleecker, when the subway stopped. Something came over the static-clogged public address system, as fuzzy as the one in the hospital had been, but all I could make out was “this train will not be proceeding.” Sighing, I joined my fellow passengers streaming onto the platform.