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There's a trick they do with one pea and three cups which is very hard to follow. Eleven years ago, something like it, for greater stakes than a handful of loose change, took place.
Three golden-haired babies; three sets of parents; one exceptional muddle in a tiny, out-of-the-way birthing hospital.
The trick has been performed. What remains is its outcome.
~ ~ ~
In a garden in Tadfield, a golden-haired boy just past his eleventh birthday sits gloomily with his dog. It’s warm; sunny; a beautiful day to be outside.
Far too beautiful a day, as far as Adam is concerned, to be confined to a garden — parental orders notwithstanding.
Perhaps tipped off by some paternal second sense, or perhaps simply having enough experience to fuel a healthy distrust of his son’s apparent obedience, Arthur Young comes to the window just in time to see Adam disappear through the hole in the hedge Arthur didn’t even even know was…
Wait, no, of course he knew it was there. It’s been there ever since they moved in. Deirdre is always telling him they should get it filled in, but he keeps forgetting. Well, if they’re keeping that dog Adam set his heart on — and somehow, there’s no doubt in Arthur’s mind that they are — they’d really better do something about the hedge now.
Arthur is already at the back door, leaning out, mouth open to shout after Adam’s disappearing figure — never mind that the boy is probably already too far to hear, and sure to pretend he can’t either way — when he feels Deirdre come up behind him. Her hand lands on the small of his back, and he turns into his wife’s arms.
“Don’t waste your breath,” she says, and for all the exasperation in the words, when she pulls back to look in his eyes there’s an affectionate sort of resignation in her blue ones. “He’ll be back… eventually. We’ll talk to him then.”
“Hmph. When I said grounded, I meant grounded .” He pauses, trying to remember exactly why he said Adam was grounded in the first place. He’s sure there was a good reason for it, it’s just slipped his mind at the moment.
“I know, Arthur.” Deirdre sighs. “But it’s such a nice day. You were a boy once, too.”
“Not a boy like Adam,” he grumps, for the principle of the thing. “He’s got more boy in him than I ever did. Or anyone I knew, for that matter.”
She laughs at that, and doesn’t disagree. “God alone knows how someone like Adam came from the two of us."[1]
“But he did,” Arthur points out.
“So he did.” She kisses his cheek. “Lucky us.”
“Lucky us,” he echoes, gruffly.
They may be joking, but there’s also no question at all that it’s true. He returns the kiss, then goes to close the door to the garden.
~ ~ ~
Not too far away, in another Tadfield house, a blond boy of a bulk all out of proportion to his mere eleven years stares at a page in the magazine open on his bed. American Football in Europe! says the article headline, in big, eye-catching letters.
“Huh,” Greasy Johnson mutters aloud, brow creasing in thought. He leans forward, reading on. “Huh.”
In the hall just outside the half-open bedroom door, a man — Greasy’s father, as relatively diminutive as his adopted son is large for his age — pauses, glancing through the doorway to see what his son is doing.
He worries about the kid. He knows Greasy’s mother does too; ironically enough, that shared worry was probably part of what let them save their friendship after the divorce three years ago. Where were they supposed to find energy for spitefulness, with all their energy already allocated to work and parenting? They were overwhelmed enough trying to intervene to address his problems at school (an ongoing but unfortunately thus far unsuccessful effort, given how often he still gets in fights with the other children) and to support the rather expensive hobby that’s the only thing he’s ever seemed to really enjoy (in this, they were successful; the tropical fish are still going strong).
They’ve always worried, of course. That much is just part of being parents, and it’s especially part of being parents to a child of Greasy’s size and style. But they both hoped he might grow out of his propensity for misery at some point before he grew out of his father’s shirts.
Given that Mr. Johnson lent him a shirt for his last fish contest (Greasy’s own outfit having gotten torn in an encounter with the neighbors) that came unnervingly close to too tight around the shoulders, time is running out.
Now, though… peering through the door to the bedroom, a father’s heart leaps at the look on his son’s face.
That face looks thoughtful; focused; interested, in a way that Greasy Johnson is seldom interested in anything that isn’t a tropical fish.
Mr. Johnson starts to take a step into the room, mouth opening, then thinks better of it. Clearly, Greasy is engrossed in whatever he’s reading. Best leave the kid alone for now, and ask about it later.
He already knows he’ll do whatever it takes, if it will help his son be comfortable in his skin.
It’s not always easy, raising Greasy Johnson. In point of fact, it’s almost never easy. But still, not a week goes by that Mr. Johnson doesn’t bless those talkative nuns who, all those years ago, handled the adoption.[2]
There’s a spring in his step as he goes to call Greasy’s mother and tell her the good news: their son is smiling.
~ ~ ~
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, a boy with longish hair that has darkened to brown over the last eleven years dozes in a first-class airplane seat. A comic lies forgotten in his lap.
His parents sit one on either side, for once with neither ambassadorial work nor high-stakes socialization to occupy their attention during this odd, not-entirely-planned flight back to the States. His mother glances over Warlock’s head, and finds Thaddeus looking back at her.
He’s smiling, which isn’t that unusual for Tad. But, there’s something about this expression…
It takes her a moment to figure out what’s different. It’s that the smile looks… genuine. It’s not the carefully crafted, intentionally charismatic, perfect-teeth-displaying beam that he uses for diplomatic affairs. And nor is it the false, forced, You know I’d love to hear all about it, hon, but I’ve really got to get ready for that meeting with the president smile Harriet hates.
This is the kind of smile she used to see more often, years ago. It’s the kind of smile that makes her want to smile back.
So, she does.
His hand is resting on their sleeping son’s shoulder, the perfect picture of father and son. She considers reaching for her phone camera to capture the moment, then decides that’s ridiculous and settles back in her seat.
It’s been a long time, Harriet realizes with a start, since they’ve had time together, just the three of them. Even when they travel as a family, it’s generally for work, and even when it isn’t she and Tad are usually too busy bickering about hotels and itineraries to get much pleasure out of it. And in London — back home, she supposes, though even after so many years it’s still never really felt like it — Warlock was always with that nanny of his, or in the garden, or with his tutors, or just sitting in his room watching cartoons.
On impulse, Harriet reaches out and across, letting her own palm come to rest over the back of Tad’s, a thumb stroking absently through one of their son’s loose locks. Warlock stirs, but doesn’t wake, which is probably for the best for the sake of his rebellious pre-teen pride.
The plane flies on, the three of them companionable inside it. She wonders, suddenly, if they might be able to find a way to stay in America. Maybe even get Tad to cut back on work.
He’s always liked to present himself as a family man. But right now, they feel like a family.
~ ~ ~
There's a trick they do with one pea and three cups which is very hard to follow. Eleven years ago, something like it, for greater stakes than a handful of loose change, took place.
Three golden-haired babies; three sets of parents; one exceptional muddle in a tiny, out-of-the-way birthing hospital.
There is an ancient saying, popularized in the last few centuries by an English playwright, which seems an apt enough summation of the workings of ineffability in this particular instance. The saying goes as follows: All’s well that ends well.
Of course, as things turned out, nothing ended this weekend. It is in fact highly notable, the fact that nothing ended. It's the first Sunday of the rest of their lives. The unknown future stretches ahead, looking something like a sneaker or a stick or a whistle on a long summer afternoon.
But for now, at least, all is well.
Footnotes
1 This is in fact true; while a few others have in retrospect pieced together some of what must have happened that night at the hospital, She is the only one who knows the full story. (With the exception, of course, of the esteemed reader, who doesn’t count.)[return to text]
2 The former sisters of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl would probably be offended at being blessed. Luckily, they don’t know.[return to text]