The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)

Developmental Psychology

Previously: "Wand Work" 

You stare down at Eric Brown, who is splayed across the narrow bed, the sheets a sloppy tangle beneath him. A musty odor of unwashed socks and sweat permeates the stuffy room.

Eric is a big kid, bigger even than Brownie. No surprise: He's got two years on Alec in age and in time spent at the gym.

Maybe more than that. Heather's memories are a little hazy on when her sons started working out consistently. But Eric was burly for his age even in elementary school; he was a linebacker during middle school and high school; and he started bulking up for it long before Alec decided he wanted to be a wrestler.

Last Friday, when you were looking for a new place to hide, Eric would have been one of your top choices. Even though he's in college, he could have swaggered back onto school property in Brownie's company, and together the two of them could have straightened out Blake and his friends and anyone else you'd want to straighten out.

But plans have changed. And you're not sure Heather has changed enough, even after this afternoon's bed-romp with Alec.

"You can have him," you tell Sydney. But still you can't tear your eyes off him. His pectorals bulge beneath the tight t-shirt.

"You sure?" Alec says. "It doesn't matter, I guess. One for me, one for you, next for me, next for—"

"Did you have any trouble with him?"

"With the mask, you mean? Nah, I just waited till his back was turned." He points at the chest of drawers in the corner. Half the drawers are pulled open, and whites and jeans are half-stuffed into them. "Asked if I could borrow one of his pullovers, and when he turned around— Fuck." He shakes his head. "Dad trained us better. He should'a seen it coming in his peripheral vision."

You ignore the cuss word. "I should get back to your father. Are you going to switch places with him now?"

"I'll have to let it play to see what happens." He rest his hands on his hips. "To start with I'll just put the mask back on him, see how he takes it."

"You be careful. Your brother treats you a lot more carefully than you think. You don't want him surprise you."

"Shit."

"Alec, don't get sloppy now. We're only halfway through."

He makes a face. "So, you want to take a mask back with you, convert the major while the twerps are away?"

You hesitate, then shake your head. "They could be back any minute. That's another reason you need to hurry." You glance around uneasily. "I'm not sure they haven't been concocting some kind of prank against Eric." You don't voice the fear, but you can't shake it. What if they've hidden a camera-phone in here? But surely Eric would have found it and broken it in half and rammed it down their throats if they had.

"Ops," Alec corrects you. "We don't call them pranks, Mom. We call them ops."

"Well, get this 'op' finished off before they get back. And lock the door after I'm gone." You give the shabby room one last glance-over, and step back out, pulling the door after you.

Your husband has the nachos in his lap when you rejoin him. "It wasn't blood, was it?"

"What? No, just water damage, I think," you improvise. "To the ceiling."

He pauses in mid-chew, and leans forward to get up. "I'll take a look."

You restrain him with a firm hand. "It's the Sabbath, honey. You can look at it tomorrow or the next day. If it's kept this long it'll keep until then."

* * * * *

You're woken early the next morning by the rumbling tread of heavy feet in the hallway, and the sound of running water in the bathroom. You clench your eyes shut and try to burrow deeper beneath the sheets. Teenage boys always think they're being quiet, you think, and that their mother will never hear them.

It rumbles for several minutes, before it's interrupted from far below by the sound of a truck motor roaring to life. Feet run, and there's a muffled squawk. The front door creaks open, and slams shut. The truck motor races; more doors slam; the truck growls to a crescendo, then gradually fades.

A hand gropes your thigh under the sheets, and slips between your legs.

You groan pleasurably, and allow yourself to be rolled over. The bedroom is dark—the sun is still the better part of an hour from rising—as Major Victor Brown slips off his pajama bottoms, rolls up the hem of your night gown, and finds your nest with his member.

By seven o'clock, though, you're downstairs (still in your nightgown) fixing scrambled eggs, slices of ham, oatmeal, and coffee. At seven-thirty your husband—still dark of hair, though a little gray is starting to show at the temples, is downstairs in his fatigues. Together you eat breakfast without talking much as he reads a tablet and you a newspaper. Only when Victor rises to leave, and pulls you close, do you murmur endearments and anticipate the day to come.

After cleaning the kitchen you go upstairs to shower and dress in workout clothes: the family gets a military discount at the Steel 24-Hour Gym, which Mrs. Brown is the only one to take advantage of, but for that reason is fanatical about it. You're ten minutes early to the spin class, so that you can get your favorite bike. On the way back home, you drop off some clothes at the dry cleaners, and pick up last week's batch.

Then it's a lunch of tuna fish and toast, after which you'll do the day's housecleaning chores: vacuuming the upstairs and cleaning the master bedroom and bath.

But you're interrupted by a phone call from the middle school.

* * * * *

"Why don't you just call it what it is?" you brusquely inform the principal after ten minutes of her pussyfooting around. "Bullying."

A couple of different colors—pink and white, mostly, but there's a little green, too—swirl around Dr. Moss's face. She's a heavy-set woman wrapped up in a ruffled white blouse and pancake makeup. Her pudgy fingers tighten as she clasps her hands atop the desk. "I didn't want to call it that, Mrs. Brown," she starts to say, "but if we're—"

"You didn't want to, but you all but did," you retort. "Even though it wasn't. My boys—Micah and Riker—are not bullies."

She smiles as though it pains her. "I'm not sure the name we put to the behavior is important, Mrs.—"

"Names are always important. Always call things by their true names, unless you have a special reason to dissemble. My grandmother taught me that. Maybe we agree and maybe we don't on whether it was bullying. But call it like you see it, Mizz— Doctor Moss." You feel your teeth grinding at the title. "That way we know where we stand and we can grapple direct with the issue."

The principal's smile tightens even as it widens. "What would you call it, Mrs. Brown? What I've described?" A cat-like glint comes into her eye.

"Horseplay. High-spirited horseplay. That's what I heard you describing."

"You weren't there. They reduced the boy to tears."

"I'm not saying they didn't misjudge. But it's better if you tell this classmate of theirs—"

"Steven," she says in a pinched voice. "The boy has a name, and it's Steven Pope. If we're to call things by their proper names." There is now steel behind her half-smile.

"It's better if you tell Steven to play rough right back with them. They can take it. Better he do that than fall to the ground in a crying jag. Tell him to pop my kids in the mouth," you continue as the principal gasps. "Let 'em get in a scrape. They'll all come out the other end as friends. It's how boys bond."

Dr. Moss's eyes nearly pop from her head.

"Mrs. Brown!" she squeals. "I'm sure you think you know your sons best, but I have a degree in developmental psychology, and—"

"Are you suspending them, Micah and Riker?" you interrupt. "Suspending, expelling, putting them in detention?"

Her lips disappear. "No."

"Then why are we having this conference?"

"We are having this conference," she says, "to forestall us having to, er, mete out any such, uh disciplinary actions in the future."

You pick up your purse.

"I'll take them home now," you announce. "I'll talk to them—"

"They're still in class, Mrs. Brown!"

"They have a doctor's appointment," you tell her. "With their own developmental psychologist."

* * * * *

The twins are very quiet on the drive back home. They sit in the back seat and answer your questions in forthright but very clipped statements, as though they are under hostile interrogation.

The long and the short of it is that they grabbed a classmate's gym clothes at the end of P.E., wadded them into a makeshift football, and played keep-away with the kid as he, clad only in his tidy whities and socks, ran back and forth trying to intercept the passes. None of the other boys interfered; rather they cheered the twins and jeered the victim.

"Sweethearts," you tell them, "I know you think you were just having fun. But did it look like Steven was having fun? It's not fun unless you're all having fun."

"We didn't have any fun on the wilderness run this morning," one of the twins retorts. That's where they (and Eric and Alec) go off to so early every weekday and Saturday morning: to jog in the Suffolk Wilderness.

"I'm sure you did have fun," you sigh. "But what did your brothers do to you?"

"Kept hitting us in the butt in with sticks when we lagged."

"That's them showing they care about you. You're training with them."

"We were training with Steven. He's fat. Did we mention that? He needs to sweat it off."

"Honey, you can't just—"

But you break off when you see one of them nudge the other.

What are they up to? you wonder.

Next: "Lords of Discipline" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 4)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 4)"