A Different Kind of Summer

“We’ve got ourselves into a scary situation.”

Her butterflies swooped back. “What’s the answer, then? How do I reassure him?”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Of course I do!”

“I can understand that might be a parent’s first reaction. Say it works. How long will it last? Ten minutes, ten days? What happens the next time he’s frightened?”

Gwyn didn’t say what she was thinking. I’dreassure him again.

“Can his father help? Maybe he could give your son a different perspective.”

Even though she’d wished for exactly that, the suggestion annoyed her. “A male-to-male thing. Toughness and courage and sucking it up, stuff I wouldn’t understand.”

“My mother is more from the sucking-it-up school than my father is, but yes, that’s along the lines of what I had in mind.”

He put down his mug and pushed books out of his way so he could lean forward, his forearms on his desk, his hands clasped. It made him look like a family doctor about to say something awful for the patient’s own good.

“When I’m worried I need to take action. Otherwise I’m stuck brooding and I can’t get anywhere brooding. It sounds as if your son might be like that, too. Why not sign him up for our day camp this summer? We’re doing a whole week about climate change.”

He had to be kidding. What had happened to childhood? What about finger puppets? Maybe they did have finger puppets, finger puppets that got walloped by tornadoes and swallowed by glaciers.

“He’s five, remember. He may be bright for his age, but he’s still a child. I don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Facts can be comforting to children, especially when they’re learning about a serious problem. Then it’s not a nameless monster in the closet. It’s an identifiable question with a list of solutions.”

Finally he’d said something that didn’t give her a stomachache. “Solutions?”

“Well…measures that may ameliorate the situation.”

That made her smile. “Ameliorate. Chris would love that.”

Bretton smiled, too. “Think you’ll sign him up?” When she didn’t answer right away, he added, “It’s not child labor. We have a good time. Kids come back summer after summer. Willingly.”

“Maybe in a year or two.” Or ten.

He looked at her the way Chris sometimes did. As if she’d failed. “That’s your decision, of course.”

Oh, she hated that tone. Her completely wrong decision, he meant.

“There’s a book in our gift shop—”

“About the mammoth. You mentioned it on Saturday.”

“The one I’m thinking of now explains weather systems. It’s meant for young children. It gives a really clear, easy to understand overview.”

She’d had enough. She stood up, wishing she could tell him all the ways he annoyed her. “The books I’m thinking of for my son involve talking spiders and children who play games on flying broomsticks.”

Bretton stood, too. For the first time his voice sounded chilly. “I thought you said he isn’t into make-believe.”

“Maybe he should be.”

“From the little I remember about being a child that isn’t something a parent can force. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Books like that have a dark side. You might be happier with the old Dick and Jane readers. Did you have those in school? Dick and Jane are never afraid. They just bounce balls, watch Spot run and say, ‘Yes, Mother.’”

Gwyn stared at him until she noticed she wasn’t doing anything but blinking.

He reached into one of his desk drawers and brought out a pamphlet. “Why not take that with you? Just in case.”

From Dinosaurs to Black Holes: Science for the Summer. Inside was a chart with dates and prices. A hundred and fifty dollars a week. They should call it This Week Give Your Kid Nightmares Instead of Meals. She folded it in two and put it in her purse.

“This is more than a job to you, isn’t it, Dr. Bretton? You’re a bit of a zealot.” She’d never used the word in conversation, only in history essays. It fit the occasion nicely. The surprise on his face was worth the trip downtown. “Thank you for your time.”

GWYN’S PLEASURE AT HER EXIT had lasted all of two minutes. Whatever she’d hoped to accomplish by going back to the museum, she hadn’t done it. She’d had some foggy idea that Dr. Bretton would recant if he heard about the folder of drawings, that he had a whole different batch of ideas for five-year-olds who were afraid their world was ending. But no, he had more of the same ideas. Books and day camps full of information to add to Chris’s fears.

On the way home she’d stopped at the library. The book about the mammoth with grass in its mouth was there. She’d signed it out along with a few about orbiting planets and how caterpillars became butterflies. Charlotte’s Web, too, to read aloud.

From Iris’s kitchen window she saw Chris sitting under the maple tree in their backyard, a book open in front of him. He’d gone off with the whole pile, except for the one Bretton had recommended. She wanted to check it first then look at it with him, if she decided he should look at it at all.

She turned back to Iris, aware she’d gone a long time without finishing the story of the parent-teacher interview. “Anyway,” she said, wrapping it up quickly, “I kind of lost my temper. I hate losing my temper.”

“Once in a while you need to stand up for yourself.”

“Sure. And alienate your son’s teacher who already thinks you’re failing him.”

Iris pulled a pitcher of sangria from the fridge, put two wineglasses on the table, then slipped off her shoes and lit a cigarette. Gwyn sat across from her.

“There’s always somebody who thinks they know what we should be doing. You’ve got to ignore people like that, Gwyn. Leaning on Chris? Give me a break. You’re a great mom. You do everything you can for that kid.”

“He’s in knots about this, about the idea the weather’s changing. Obsessed.”

Iris shrugged. She tapped the end of her cigarette in the ashtray to put it out, but kept holding it as if she was going to take another puff. “It is different, isn’t it? Ice storms and floods, droughts, warm winters.”

“Maybe it only seems that way. We’ve got 24-hour news and a channel for the weather. They have to talk about something.”

“Could be.” Iris poured each of them some of the sangria, careful that the fruit in the pitcher didn’t plonk into their glasses. “Don’t worry about Chris. Kids get scared. Molly was a wreck about strangers after she started kindergarten. Forget the alphabet, the first thing they taught her was ‘be afraid, be very afraid.’ She didn’t want to go trick-or-treating that Hallowe’en. She wouldn’t sit on the mall Santa’s knee at Christmas.”

“What did you do?”

“Not a thing. She got over it.”

Molly came in the door just then. “Me? Hi, Mrs. Sinclair.” She shrugged when her mother asked how her exam had gone. “It was okay. Jamie says she flunked. We’re going for coffee later.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Not coffee, really. Just out.”

“On an exam night?”