Big Fat Liar

The neighbors' boy is here this week while his parents vacation in the Bahamas. He is a strange child: almost emotionless, or whatever emotions he has are hidden behind a face that defaults into a heavy-browed frown. I keep my distance, casually rubbing his head or resting my arm on his shoulder. Those casual connections are all he'll tolerate. But still, a neighbor for half his life, I can't tell how he feels around me.

So they leave the child with me the day my father comes home from cardiac intensive care: three kids and a sick old man, all under my wing--me: disorganized, tenuously employed, left-brain me. This week I've reserved all my patience for the critically ill person; the kids have gotten what's left over, which hasn't been much. (Kids, too, can tell when you're weak; they know when the barn door's open.) I feel bad.

Today I heard my sweet boy in full holler: "He is NOT--he's a big fat liar!" I listen in. Neighbor's kid responds, "He's the finest president this country has ever had." Liam is stunned--all five years of him: "Don't you know that he sent soldiers to a country and killed innocent people there for no reason?" So that's how the grownup talk reduces. You never know until it's flying, in action. I groan; they're Republicans. I feared it, but intentionally didn't confirm it, because they're the only neighbors I know around here. But there it is. The finest president this country has ever had. Sit on that one for a minute. One person's plague is another's jewel. How can that possibly be, under the sun? How?