Everyone, and there must have been eight people in there at that point, stopped and looked. My son was just studying me with the most incredible expression.
“Would you look?” the nurse said. “In twenty years I have never seen a baby look at a mother like that!”
His skin was velvet, his eyes were navy, and his eyelashes were thick and blond. He had all his toes and fingers. In my arms was the true love of my life. I didn’t have a care in the world. I could’ve spent the next year just looking at his perfect little face. This child was my miracle. Life just didn’t get any better than that.
On Sunday afternoon, Eric Boswell Levine and I were home. I had named him without consulting Richard. I was propped up in bed, nursing Eric, when Millie came in with a tray. His bassinet and changing table were right next to my side of the bed. Richard didn’t want to give up his study for a baby’s room until the last possible moment. That suited me just fine. I wanted Eric as near to me as possible. Maybe I’d keep him in the room with me and kick Richard out.
“Yanh, you got to eat something,” she said. She just stood there with the tray.
“Thanks,” I said, “he’s asleep now.” She took him from me and put him back in his bassinet. “Okay, Millie, what’s up? I can tell from your face.” I munched on a piece of chicken she had fried that morning. It was delicious.
“Your mother is resting and I don’t want her to know we talked.”
“About what?”
“Extension telephones. I picked it up the other night without thinking.”
She had obviously heard the woman answering the telephone in Richard’s room.
“Oh, well,” I said, “it’s not great, huh?”
“That’s all right,” she said, “I can fix him iffin you want me to, make the hag ride ’em.”
“The hag was riding him!” I said. The hag I referred to was Lois; the hag Millie spoke of was another matter entirely. “It was Lois, but if you want to send him another one tonight, be my guest. In fact, make it a double.”
Millie winked at me and said, “Drink that tea. It’s good for what ails you.”
In the ACE Basin, the “hag” is notorious. It’s generally accepted that the hags are spirits who exist in a parallel world and the root doctor (someone like Millie) can summon them at will. They come in your house through the chimney, a keyhole, or any kind of opening and ride you while you sleep. Some of them make you have sex with them. All night. And, once they figure out how to get to you, they are not easily expunged. I hoped she could send Richard a big old hag with bad breath and screaming desire. Richard didn’t know who he was messing with. You don’t cut any fool with Millie’s girl or there would be the devil to pay.
When Richard finally arrived home, he was ragged-looking beyond description. Unshaven and hangdog. Millie had fixed him but good. I decided to say nothing about Lois. It would be something I would save and use only if I needed it.
MISS LAVINIA’S JOURNAL
Never in the world has there been a more loving and wonderful little boy than my grandson, Eric. The dear little fellow sends me articles torn out from the New York Times that he thinks will interest me. I’m going to buy him wonderful miniature trains for Christmas this year! Trip always loved trains when he was little. I’ll tell you one thing: he’s a lot smarter than those Neanderthals my daughter-in-law brought into this family! And, sometimes I’ll answer the phone and hear his dear little voice! I’m glad he calls me because he can’t write worth two hoots. But, Lord, he’s sweet.
Seven
Eric
1995
LIKE most married couples, Richard and I lived in a reasonably peaceful groove. I had no indication that he ever stepped out on me again. He had been a good husband and a dutiful father to Eric. I wasn’t positive of his fidelity, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t running around. There were no strange matchbooks or numbers written on crumpled paper cocktail napkins. For the most part, I put his one tryst with Lois out of my mind and concentrated on Eric, my business, and being such a good wife that I hoped Richard would never betray me again. In fact, our little family was pretty cozy. Life was all right. At least, it seemed to be.
Raising a child in the city was such a difference from my own childhood on the plantation. When I was a child, the ACE Basin of South Carolina was my whole world. I grew up planting vegetables, gathering pecans, arranging flowers, riding the Edisto River, and worshiping my ancestors, like a typical Lowcountry girl. I could not even imagine New York City outside of the images of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or the occasional picture in a magazine of a child playing in water spewing from a fire hydrant.
From the time Eric could sit up in his carriage, I began to work a little less, taking on fewer clients. We spent hours roaming museums, public parks with playgrounds, and the cavernous New York Public Library. When it was time for him to go to prekindergarten, I cried like a baby. What would I do all morning? I’d miss him so much! The bonding thing had proved itself and there were other by-products. For example, I learned more about art and history in those years than I did in the rest of my life. New York seemed to offer everything and Eric was my excuse to take advantage of it.
By the fall of 1995, Eric was newly entrenched in the second grade. His backpack had all sorts of gadgets hanging from it and when he threw it over his shoulder, he sort of walked with a manly swagger. Four feet tall, as skinny as a string bean, thick blond hair and dark blue eyes like mine. He was all energy and simply adorable.
He loved our routine of walking to school together, meeting again at the end of the day, and going to Central Park or the Gardenia Coffee Shop on Madison Avenue for a Coke. We’d talk about the day, go home, do homework together, and I’d cook dinner while he played Nintendo or Legos with John Hillman, a boy on the eleventh floor.
He loved building things and my brother, for some unknown reason, was always sending him craft kits and models. Eric would always pick up the telephone and call him to say thanks. Trip did this on his own, but every time he did, it served as a reminder that I never reciprocated with his children. At least Eric’s manners were good. The most recent gift was a beautiful remote control sailboat to use in Central Park. Eric was thoroughly thrilled. It made me gasp. I guessed I should have been sending something to Frances Mae’s horrible little girls. Trip shouldn’t have been doing this. It wasn’t like they came to visit or that Eric even knew him. He’s seen him twice in his whole life! I had enough stress without pretending to like Frances Mae. Nonetheless, all through September, I took Eric to the park with Trip’s boat. At the very least, I had to admit it was a very thoughtful gesture. I didn’t know why I was so annoyed.
In the middle of October, I was called to his school for a conference with his teacher. As soon as I sat down, Ms. Daniels started running her mouth. She told me that she suspected Eric had attention deficit disorder and perhaps some other issues. She wanted to put him through a full battery of psychological tests to determine the nature of his suspected learning disabilities and then meet again to discuss our alternatives. She said all this without one visible shred of emotion. My jaw was on the floor.
“I’m very concerned about him,” she said.
“Attention deficit disorder?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you qualified to make that judgment?”
“No, but I haven’t missed a call yet.”
I didn’t like the way she spoke and I didn’t like her. What was she saying? Eric was not a hyperactive child. Energetic perhaps, but very well behaved. I knew Eric’s handwriting wasn’t as clear as the other children’s, and artistically his work was inferior when compared to the paintings and models of his classmates. But so what? He was just a little boy!
On the other hand, if you asked Eric about the history of mankind, his eyes twinkled as he took you down the timeline from one era to the next. If you wanted to know about dinosaurs, he could tell you everything there was to know. He watched Boyd Matson and the Nati
onal Geographic Explorer endless hours upon end, virtually memorizing everything. Between television, museum visits, and books we read together, Eric’s beautiful mind was filled with information and imaginings I’d never had at his age. There was nothing, I repeat, nothing wrong with my son.
I had been warned about teachers like this woman, this Ms. Ice Cube Daniels. They can’t teach worth a damn so they blame it on the children, picking away at them, searching for justification of their own ineptitude.
She went on to say he was too easily distracted, had to be constantly reminded to get “back on task.” I told her I thought he was probably bored to tears.
She claimed that he had social issues with the other children, that he was a loner. Big deal, I said, Eric doesn’t like to play soccer. He is a more cerebral child. That remark set off some kind of pyrotechnics in her miniscule brain.
“Mrs. Levine?” she said, and not very nicely, “I’ve been teaching for ten years and it doesn’t take too long for me to spot a troubled child in my classes.”
“Ms. Daniels? Do you have children?”
“That is irrelevant to this discussion.”
No children. Probably hadn’t been laid in ten years either, from the looks of her.
“Eric’s only seven years old! Cut him a little slack!”
“Mrs. Levine, I’m required to bring these things to the attention of the parents and the administration. If you don’t wish to accept my recommendations, you’ll have to discuss it with the headmistress.”
I sat back and looked at her. Who was this horrid woman trying to attach a label to my son? Over forty, unmarried, graying hair pulled back in a clasp, long denim jumper over a striped turtleneck, huge eyeglasses. As plain a Jane as has ever tormented children. And parents. I did not like this woman.
“Test him,” I said. “Test him and we shall see what we see.” Eric and I would prove her wrong and then I would take out a full-page ad in the New York Times insisting her teacher’s license be revoked and that she be publicly caned. Maybe I’d cane her myself.
I was suddenly reconciled to testing him. To be honest, I was slightly curious. I wanted to know just how his fabulous young mind was wired. He was different from other children, I admitted to myself.
The testing haunted me until the appointed day arrived. What if I was wrong? I couldn’t be. When we had hard results in our hands, then his obvious gifts would be revealed and recognized. Most of all, I wanted to see Ms. Daniels writhing in pain in a pool of her own self-righteous, small-minded, and judgmental blood. Every time I thought about her and the heartless way she spoke to me about Eric, I wanted to slap her silly, right across her face.
Eric was the perfect child. Still, I had this nagging feeling that there was more to this than I was prepared to know.
It was a beautiful November morning, typical for Manhattan. It seemed that every taxi horn blared in an off-key chorus. Thousands of cars with commuters raced to their destinations at thirty miles an hour. Great hordes of people rushed by with their briefcases and paper coffee cups, stealing sips at corners. Dog walkers led five to ten dogs each by canvas leashes across the frenzied traffic toward Central Park. Everyone wore their Manhattan Mask—the one that said, Don’t violate my privacy; I might be famous. Their faces always made me think that there were a lot of cranky people in this town.
I knew that Eric had some anxiety about the whole evaluation process. As we walked up Park Avenue toward his school on Sixty-sixth and Madison, I encouraged him to talk about it.
“Sweetheart, I don’t want you to worry about this, okay? These tests are actually kind of fun.”
“What if I do bad?” His face was tense and his small hand in mine was moist.
“You can’t do badly,” I said, “it’s not that kind of test.”
“I wish I was dead,” he said in a tiny voice.
I knelt down beside him and looked in his face. He stared back with the most adorable pout I had ever seen.
“Whoa, right there,” I said, “don’t ever say that.”
“Sorry,” he said, examining the crack in the sidewalk.
“Look at me, sweetheart. This is what I want you to do. Will you listen to me?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, number one. Follow the teacher’s instructions. Go slowly, and take the time to reread the instructions.” (He was impetuous and always wanted to rush ahead.) “Then, read them again. Number two, when you’re sure of what to do, begin your work. Write slowly and neatly. Finally, when you’re done, check your work. If you don’t understand something ask the teacher. Okay? Pretty simple, huh?”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Just give it a try, okay? For me? You know what to do; just take a deep breath and go for it.”
“Okay.” His eyes were worried and we continued the short walk to his school. “I’ll do my best. Read the instructions twice, do the work, and check it.”
“That’s all Dad and I ask, is that you do your best. Hey, how about after school? You and me? Chocolate shakes?”
“Deal!”
He seemed a little brighter after that. We arrived at the Smith School; I intended to walk him to his classroom. He dropped my hand and stopped me at the door. The hall was filled with students.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Eric?”
“I love you.” He whispered it to me, probably so the other children wouldn’t hear.
“I adore you!” I said, smiling.
“I can find my classroom by myself.”
“You sure? It’s all the way . . .”
“I’m sure,” he said. I had always walked him to the classroom. “Mom? I’m big now.”
Mom? I’m big now. His words shot palpitations through my heart—not like fatal bullets, but maybe the feeling of surprise you get when the water in the shower inexplicably goes cold for a few seconds. “Okay, baby,” I said, understanding his need for self sufficiency. “You go get’em and I’ll see you at three.”
All I could think about on the way home was how would I tell Richard about this. No, I hadn’t yet told Richard, thinking it wise to keep my séance with Ms. Daniels to myself for the time being.
If Eric’s results showed any problems, the comparisons to Harry would increase, by light-years. Harry, Richard’s son from his marriage with Lois, was playing violin in a by-invitation-only children’s orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Harry was the captain of the traveling soccer team at his school. Harry, president of the fifth grade, Roller-blading wizard, straight A student; and Harry, the once and future Jedi, was a total and complete pain in my ass.
For all of Harry’s accomplishments at his young age, he had a smart mouth, was a bully, a practiced liar, and one of the sneakiest, most contemptible children I had ever encountered. And when I tried to discuss his behavior with Richard, Richard became more imperious than ever. If Harry took one of Eric’s toys, Richard would say, Oh, please. Eric has plenty. Why shouldn’t he share with his brother? If Harry picked on Eric to the point that Eric lost his temper, Richard would reprimand Eric, not Harry. On and on. It didn’t take long for Harry’s visits to become a contest with Eric for their father’s love and attention.
The last thing I wanted was for Richard to think there was a bona fide reason to hold Harry in higher regard. So I never told Richard anything. By the time I was finally called in for discussion of the evaluation results, I was doing yoga twice a day and still pretty well lathered in fear and loathing.
The meeting was to take place in the office of the school psychologist. I knew as soon as I swung into the office of Dr. Judith Moore that something was wrong.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Levine,” she said, rising and extending her hand. “Would you like some coffee?”
Admittedly, she was congenial, but too officious for my blood.
“Sure, just black,” I said and shook her hand.
“Please sit here and I’ll be back in just a minute.”
She indicated that I should wait
in the wooden chair in front of her desk. Her small office looked like something from central casting. Old oak desk piled high with folders, beige metal filing cabinets, children’s artwork covering a bulletin board, and bookshelves crammed with volumes on everything from ADD and obsessive-compulsive disorder to childhood depression and teenage suicide. I wondered if the other chair would soon be filled by the demoness—Eric’s teacher. She was probably too humiliated to show up. Wrong again. She came through the door with Dr. Moore, chipper as could be. I stood to greet her—after all, may as well be civilized, I thought.
“Good morning, Ms. Daniels.”
“Mrs. Levine,” she said, nodding her head and sitting in the chair opposite me.
“Well, now,” Dr. Moore said, handing me a foam cup of coffee. “We’re all here. Good.” She went around her desk, took her seat, put her reading glasses on, and opened a manila folder. She looked up at me and sighed. “Mrs. Levine, before we go over the results of Eric’s testing, I want to give you some information on how the results and findings were achieved.”
“Fine,” I said, “I’d appreciate that very much.”
“Eric was given a series of tests, which are standard in education, to measure different areas of his general knowledge—mathematics, science, language, reading comprehension, and so on. In the afternoon, he was also given two different psychological evaluations and his behavior was observed and noted.” She paused.
“And?” I said, “What did you find?”
“Some very interesting things. Eric is a very bright little boy.”
“Thank you,” I said, “and a sweetheart too.”
“He is a dear little boy,” Ms. Daniels said, immediately making me suspicious.
Dr. Moore began again. “He shows particular strength in vocabulary.” She handed me a copy of the test to review. “If you’ll look at the bottom of page three, his vocabulary is on a sixth-grade level.”
The room was silent as I looked at the pages, not exactly sure of how to interpret what I was reading. She spoke again.
Plantation Page 8
