His response was instant and unequivocal. “I don’t think you want to do that. This is going to be handled in juvenile court, and the juvenile courts are notorious for erring on the side of protecting the child.” I can’t remember if he said it or only implied it, but either way, the warning took root. You don’t want to lose your kids over this. It was the first time the idea had skulked out of the darkest, most anxious corners of my mind. My lawyer and I said we’d talk later. I thought I was going to be sick.My father told me a story once about a nightmare he had when I was small. He dreamed he was back in upstate New York where he grew up, and he was driving in a snowstorm along a deserted highway, me in the back of the car. He pulled onto the shoulder to check on a tire. A minute later, when he tried to get back into the car, he realized he’d locked himself out, and that I was trapped inside in my carseat. It was freezing. The snow swirled down around him in wild eddies. He banged on the window, trying to break it. He screamed for help, but there was no one near, no one to help, only empty fields and darkness.
I never leave my kids in a car now when I run into a store, and so I know nothing bad will ever happen to them in a non-moving vehicle. I suppose every little peace of mind helps. Still, I worry. I worry that when my husband and I decide our kids are old enough to walk alone to school, be that in two years or in five, some good samaritan will disapprove and call the police. I worry what the other parents will think if I hang back on the bench while my kids are playing at the park, reading a book instead of hovering over them. I worry that if I let my son play in the alley with the other kids and don’t follow him down because there are already eight responsible adults standing around, I’ll be thought of as the slacker mom who’s not pulling her own. And so I accompany when I probably don’t need to. I supervise and hover and interfere. And at least half of the other parents are probably doing it for exactly the same reason. This is America and parenting is now a competitive sport, just like everything else.
What do we get if we win? A kid who will never be hurt of frightened or alone? The promise and assurance of safety? I’m not that naive.I dealt the first hand. Miss Sheryl reminded me to deal to the left. “Always deal to the left, boy, the rule don’t change!” she said. She has the widest jaws in the history of wide and jaws, thicker than both of her bloated caramel arms, which are thigh-size. I collected the cards, reshuffled and dealt to the left. And there we were — my job-hungry unemployed old heads and me the overworked college professor.
College professor?
Not the kind of professor that makes hundreds of thousands of dollars for teaching one class a year but a broke-ass adjunct who makes hundreds of dollars for teaching thousands of classes a year. The other day I read an article about an adjunct who died in a homeless shelter and I wasn’t surprised; panhandlers make triple, and trust me, I’ve done the research, I should be looking for a corner to set up shop.
I have a little more than my friends but still feel their pain. My equation for survival is teaching at three colleges, substituting, freelance Web designing, freelance graphic designing, rap video director, wedding photographer and tutor — the proceeds from all of these are swallowed by my mortgage, cigarettes, rail vodka and Ramen noodles. I used to eat only free-range organic shit, I used to live in Whole Foods, I used to drink top shelf — I used to be able to afford pop culture.Busic, J. is written in a spidery hand. The name makes me shiver. Inside the envelope are the words of my husband’s killer. The letter trembles in my hand as I shove it in the junk drawer and slam it shut.
Years ago I imagined Julie Busic’s release from prison. I pictured her living an idyllic life in some small-town community, a place where no one knew that she and her husband hijacked a plane and left a bomb in Grand Central Station, a bomb that exploded and killed my husband, a member of the NYPD bomb squad. But the prison postmark means she is still in jail, and I have a fleeting moment of sweet revenge.
My new husband, James, and the kids eat dinner while I stand with my back to them and stare at the drawer, worried about what the letter will reveal. The boys, teenagers now, have climbed up from a life rubbed raw by the loss of their father. James managed to come into our lives and make things normal again. Together we welcomed Kaitlin, our unexpected daughter, and the return to family chatter after a long silence.
Later, after bedtime kisses, I curl up on the sofa, and open the sticky flap of Julie’s letter and feel the pull of every word. “We are still in prison,” she writes, “because John Boyle has made it his mission in life to keep us locked up.” John, the head of the bomb squad, had lost one side of his face and several fingers to the blast. He also believes that Busic is the mastermind of the LaGuardia Airport bombing in 1975, but cannot place him at the scene.
“I’d like to tell you my story,” she went on, “enlighten you with the details of the hijacking.” Yes, I say to myself in the dimly lit living room. I want to know. Tell me. And then I will tell you my story, so you may know the harm you’ve done.