A Fine Young Man
by Karen Zlotnick
The office of Mr. Peter Jameson, manager of the country club, reeks of authority. Dark wood walls. Marble-top desk. Hovering indoor tree, most likely fake. Mr. Jameson speaks to us with a hint of apology, referring to Zander’s confusion about what is and isn’t allowed.
Jack directs his commanding voice into Mr. Jameson’s face. What do you mean our son’s confusion? Confusion about what?
Mr. Jameson stiffens and adjusts his tie. Then he begins, Look, we’re all in the same boat here. But he can’t say that stuff. What used to be acceptable is no longer acceptable. Do you understand? My hands are tied. Zero tolerance. If Zander uses that language here again, I’ll have to refund your dues.
I’m trying to make sense of what he’s implying. I roll it over in my head. What language? What language, Mr. Jameson?
***
She signs all her texts Best, Lu, Lu being short for Lucille. Who signs texts anyway? The formality annoys me. Jack thinks it’s pretentious, like our new neighborhood. Manicured pines. Transplanted rose bushes. Competing sprinklers.
Lu’s son Marcus often comes down the block to call for Zander who’s just three months younger. We moved in eight weeks ago, and the boys, in their eagerness for friendship, have been playing together a lot. Though older, Marcus is shorter and leaner than Zander, his face angular under big glasses. His eyes are small, making it hard to feel optimistic about his character, even at nine years old. After our housekeeper, Maria, has fed them grilled cheese sandwiches, the boys ride their Marvel bikes over storm grates and perform wheelies, a harmless little dance with danger. We speak to Zander about not flipping off the lawn guys if that’s what Marcus is doing, and we give him strategies for getting away when Marcus is being mean to those less fortunate. We think it’s important that Zander learn to handle all kinds of situations on his own, so instead of interfering, we list things he can say in the moment: I have to go do my homework. My parents are waiting for me. I have to go to the bathroom. Anything, we say. You can play with Marcus as long as you don’t behave that way. Zander tilts his head but remains silent.
One day Zander goes to see Marcus at his house, and that’s when Best starts.
Hi Cara. Thanks so much for allowing Zander to play with Marcus today. I want to make you aware that the boys were using some objectionable language. Henry and I ask that you and Jack chat with Zander about this, as we’ll do with Marcus. I’m sure this is just boys being boys, but let’s nip it in the proverbial bud! Any questions, just holler. Best, Lu.
When I was the point person in Jack’s office, it became customary to sign emails that way. Sincerely, got shoved into the past, and my inbox flooded with notes signed All my best, My best, My very best. The laziest cut it down to one word. Best. It always felt like a punch from someone who couldn’t take a split second to add another word or two. Really, in all forms it lacked sincerity. Was anyone truly wishing their very best to someone they barely knew? I avoided it altogether and just signed my name.
For Zander’s birthday, we tell him to choose one friend to join us for the day, which will begin with dropping off a sack of Zander’s old toys at the community center. Make room for the new ones, we tell him, and in the meantime, you’ll make a poor child happy! We think this will help his mood—helping others is certainly my mood lifter—but his face sags. He throws last year’s toys into the garbage bag like he’s tossing stones into a river.
Lu texts me that morning. Hey Cara! Your azaleas look amazing! Thank you for including Marcus in the plans for Zander’s birthday. He told us you’re going to the community center before the beach. Can you provide details, please? Also—what time do you think you’ll be home tonight? Henry and I are attending a dinner. Best, Lu.
Running Jack’s office was a great experience—an extension of our partnership at home. We often know what the other is thinking without words, and in the office, some of our staff members made comments like, There they go again, rolling their eyes and whispering all the time. Though I couldn’t stay in that position, I learned how to deal with all kinds. So when Lu asks for details about the community center, my radar goes up. Lu’s question comes from a place of discomfort, that she maybe doesn’t want Marcus to visit the community center. When I respond to Lu, I avoid that question and say that I’ll hang onto Marcus until she and Henry get home. My silence on the community center works, and Lu asks nothing else.
At the community center, Zander delivers his old toys like a pro. He smiles like we told him to and says to the director, I don’t need these anymore. I hope they make another boy happy. The director shakes his hand and says something about generosity. Marcus looks on from behind, and something Zander does makes Marcus smile, but it’s the kind of smile a kid wants to cover up. I usher them into the car and we drive to the beach.
When the boys play in the surf, Jack says he is unsettled by the way Marcus stares at the man who picks garbage off the sand. I haven’t noticed, but Jack says it’s like Marcus is trying to figure out something.
Jack says, Prejudice runs deep, Car. That kid has issues.
Do you think I should text Lu? I ask.
Jack shrugs. I don’t think we should get involved, he says.
I nod my agreement.
The boys come out of the water, and Zander’s chest is pumped up. He points to a boy in a blue bathing suit and says, He started with us!
He glances around and picks up a shell covered in seaweed. He threw this at us! Right at Marcus’s head!
Marcus looks down at his toes in the sand.
Zander continues, That little shit. He should go back to where—
Jack notices that the woman sunbathing in a low beach chair near us has turned her gaze on him and the boys. He looks down, wipes his brow like he does when he’s embarrassed, and interrupts the boys.
Hey, Hey. Calm down. No bad language—that’s the rule. Go dry off. This is supposed to be a fun day. A celebration. No fighting today.
Luckily, Jack’s embarrassment never lasts long. It’s one of his traits I admire most. That and his ability to assess what needs to be done.
He hands the boys their towels, looks at Marcus, then at me, as if to say, See. That kid’s a bad influence.
Let’s get going, he says, guiding the boys toward the boardwalk.
My phone pings. Hey there. Just checkin’ in. Hope Marcus is behaving himself. Will you remind him to wear his sunscreen? He’s so fair and burns so easily. Thanks, Car! Best, Lu.
In Jack’s office, there were several employees Jack and I called The Needy Ones. They begged for more staples, more printer ink, more working water coolers, more heat in the winter, more sick days. More, more, more. I show Jack Lu’s text, and we mouth it at the same time: Needy!
We eat tacos and gelato and float into the arcade. Zander is sullen, bored. Jack suggests we all play lots of games—pinball, basketball toss, air hockey, Pac Man—and collect prize tickets to cash in at the counter. Zander grabs fistfuls of tokens out of Jack’s hands and dumps them into machine after machine. Marcus stays with Skee-Ball, pulling strips of tickets as the game box spits them out.
Later, the boy in the blue bathing suit—the one who had irritated Jack in the water—leans on the counter, and in an accent unfamiliar to me, he asks what prize he can buy with the ten tickets he’s won. Next thing I know, Zander’s yelling at Marcus. I see that Marcus has meandered over to the boy and is holding his prize tickets in an outstretched hand. When Zander sees me, he puts his arm around Marcus’s shoulder to guide him away.
Zander says to me, I told him to leave that kid alone, to walk away.
Then he turns to Marcus and continues yelling, I mean come on! Stop teasing him! Enough is enough!
Marcus twists his torso to get out from under Zander’s grip and walks ahead. Jack juts out his chin, points at Marcus, and whispers to me, See what I mean, Car?
At home that evening, when Jack comes out of his office for the dinner Maria has cooked, he’s rambling on about the bodega he can’t evict from one of his Manhattan buildings. Jack is frustrated with the bodega’s owner, who claims the rent is unreasonably high.
They come here expecting, he begins. If they’re not happy with what we give them, they should go back— He stops himself and looks at Zander who’s wolfing down his steak.
Jack collects himself and says the tenant has done research and wants to take Jack to court. He says it might be an issue for us if the owner can speak enough English to enlist the right lawyer, but he doubts that’s the case. Jack inhales while he’s chewing and tells Maria her chimichurri is perfect on his prime rib.
Lu texts me first thing the next morning. Hi Cara. Thank you so much for taking Marcus with you yesterday. I’m not sure how you did it, but he’s in his room picking out toys to donate to the community center! You know, Henry and I are on the boards of two nonprofits, but we never thought Marcus got it. What you did yesterday was magical! Best, Lu.
We promoted Daisy, whom we knew well from the country club, to a manager-level position, and almost immediately, we started to hear phrases like “preferential treatment” and “privilege.” So Jack and I sat down for one of our image-control conversations. We needed Daisy’s accounting skills, and she could easily absorb my responsibilities, so Jack suggested I take some time away in order to thwart more damaging chatter about the “nepotistic environment” of the office. I knew it was the right move, but still, it stung. Jack encouraged me to send an email to everyone explaining that I’d be taking some time to focus on Zander. I even wished them my best.
I’m not sure what Lu means by “magical,” but it feels condescending and false. What nonprofits? That’s some big info to drop into a casual text. Her little Marcus is no angel, that’s for sure. I hope she checks the toys he’s donating. I bet they’re missing wheels. I bet the plastic is cracked with sharp edges. I have the urge to call the community center to give them a heads-up.
I walk into our home library where Zander opened his birthday gifts the night before. Gift cards, electronics, science kits, space-age headphones, two skateboards (one for the park, one for the road), a drum set.
Zander sneaks up behind me and whines, Last year was better!
His stomach grumbles. Can you please tell Maria to start the pancakes? She’s talking to her family in Nicaragua again.
Marcus comes by a little later and surveys Zander’s gifts. The one he gave him—a certificate saying he sponsored a sea turtle in Zander’s name—is tucked away with yesterday’s junk mail. Zander play-shoves Marcus, and Marcus trips over one of the skateboards. It doesn’t look like he’s hurt badly, but I can tell he’s holding back, his small eyes threatening to overflow with tears.
Maria puts a Bandaid on his shin, and I hear Marcus whisper, Gracias.
Maria holds the palm of her hand to Marcus’s cheek. Zander play-shoves Marcus again and asks him if he wants to move to Nicaragua to live with Maria’s family. Marcus faces the window as if he’s searching for the right words. Then, blinking out the light of the July sun, he says he has to go do his homework and walks out.
***
While Mr. Jameson adjusts paperweights under the shadow of his fake tree, I scan details in my memory. Our day at the beach. Zander and Marcus in the surf. The boy in blue. Zander’s suggestion that the boy should go back— Marcus’s outstretched hand. I see now that Marcus was offering his prize tickets, but Zander steered Marcus away. Earlier, I’d felt so sure that Zander had stopped Marcus from targeting that poor boy.
Then. The particulars from that evening. The toy handcuffs Zander purchased with his prize tickets. How they dug into the flesh around Maria’s wrists. How tired she looked when she saw me in the doorway. The aggression in Zander’s words. Where had he heard anyone speak like that? Was he watching that news station, too—the one Jack says he watches so he knows what others are saying? How resigned Maria looked when I said, Zander—time to go wash up.
The feeling that she wanted more from me.
Mr. Jameson is waiting. I inhale, exhale, inhale. Raise my chest a little away from the rocks in my gut. Look at the wall’s framed sailboat scenes. Certificates of excellence. Thank you letters from local charities.
It is in this moment when everything becomes clear. I’m curious about how that happens—this process of becoming—and for a few seconds I study it. The air becomes thick. Time becomes irrelevant. A son becomes unrecognizable. His mother, complicit. The reasons become, well, the reasons. A country club manager becomes a threat. And as a result, a family becomes what—disconnected? Broken?
My eyes meet Jack’s, laser focused on me. He knows that I can fix this—I can ensure a no-mess end to this conversation. His eyes remind me that the club is important, a network of like-minded families, a sea of connections we’d be foolish to discard. His eyes say, Think of Jay Oppor, whose Manhattan real estate sales are through the roof. Think of Will and Tessa Whitehall and their Tuscany villa. Think of Josey Grandview and her polo ponies. You’ve always said that might be the right sport for Zander. Someday. Think of us, Car. Think of someday.
And so I do. I allow the right corner of my mouth to turn upward just a hair, signaling to Jack that I’ve got this. Because what else can a mother do.
I mention my connection to Mr. Jameson’s boss and let it hover. I mention where we went to school, how we studied classics together. Then I stop. I study Mr. Jameson’s graying blond hair, his blue eyes, the way he fingers his gold Cross pen. He sinks into the leather on his chair, twists his pinky ring with his thumb, looks at Jack, looks at me, exhales.
His voice soft, he begins, Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I guess it’s possible that I’ve jumped too far ahead without all the facts. The groundskeeper—he must have misinterpreted what Zander said to him. Maybe he’s a little oversensitive. You know how these things can happen. Zander is a fine young man and I’m sure he meant no harm. I’ll speak with the person who thinks he heard . . . I’ll speak with him. No harm done. My deepest apologies. Clearly a mistake. Our mistake.
Later when Mr. Jameson emails us complimentary tickets to the club’s gala, he writes, Be sure to stop into the wine tasting in the ballroom! Regards to Zander. My very best, Pete.
I’d respond right away, but Zander and I are busy stuffing toys into another sack to donate to those less fortunate.
Born and raised in New York, Karen Zlotnick lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband and their Newfoundland dog. Some of her work has been featured in Pithead Chapel, Typishly, jmww, Stonecoast Review, and Moon City Review. In addition, one of her stories was nominated for Best Small Fictions.
This story originally appeared in the online edition of Stonecoast Review Issue 23.
Photo by Julia Morales on Unsplash