"Children's programming on commercial U.S. television is so one-sided in its depiction of white, male characters that 'it can only be seen as a major barrier in the battle for recognition and respect for minorities in this country,' a public-interest group study says.
"In fact, children's programs have fallen behind adult shows in the frequency with which they feature minority as well as female characters, 'and both groups are portrayed in a more stereotyped manner in children's programming than in primetime programming,' the study found . . .
"Of the 1,145 TV characters that appeared during the 38 hours [of the survey], only 42 were black . . . stated another way, 3.7% of the characters in the sample were black . . ."—AP dispatch, summer 1982
"There was an old woman who lived in a slum,
Upscale-demographics-wise, strictly ho-hum.
But she had lots of kids, and they all wanted toys,
Plastic dolls for the girls, plastic guns for the boys.
And they watched our commercials, and begged her to buy
Lazer Death, Hunny Buns, Killer Zap, Kuty-Pie,
Spyshooter and KupKake and Elmo the Elf
(WELFARE MOTHER GOES SANE, MURDERS TODDLERS AND SELF)."—Sean Kelly and Rick Meyerowitz,
National Lampoon
Jennifer preferred riding in the back seat. More privacy, better visibility, above all more room—for she had not yet quite reached the age at which it is possible to sit still for any length of time (although she had reached the age at which she tried). Fortunately her father had designed the family car for comfort many years earlier. Both front and rear seat belts were gimbaled on sliding tracks, which allowed passengers to be securely restrained in any position they chose. A front-seat passenger, for instance, could snuggle as close as she liked to the driver without unbuckling—and Jennifer could lie full-length on the back seat if she chose, then sit up and slide from side to side at will.
At the moment she was lying down, feet up on the right-hand window, dress pooled around her lap, hands folded across her belly. Her eyes were closed; she was trying to deduce, from the accelerations she experienced, what the traffic around them was doing, measuring her success by how well she could anticipate new vectors. It was a game for avoiding thinking.
"Better put those legs down, princess," her father said. "Or cover 'em up."
"Oh, Daddy!" she said, opening her eyes and grinning. "You see me naked all the time."
Her father sighed. "That sixteen-wheeler in the right lane is not pacing us to annoy the people behind him."
She opened her eyes, shrieked, and was instantly vertical, dress covering her legs.
"Daddy! Do something!"
"For instance?"
She gave the truck driver her very best Withering Glare, the one Dena had coached her with, and to her immense satisfaction it worked perfectly. The driver blushed, looked away hastily, and accelerated. She watched his truck pull ahead until it was out of sight. The driver had looked young, and Puerto Rican—
"Men are animals."
"What are women? Plants?"
"You could have growled at him, Daddy. Shaken your fist."
"Why? Because he had the nerve to obey a reflex?"
"So if a man peeks at me, it's my fault?"
"No, honey. It's nature's fault. But it's your responsibility."
She thought that over. Being a woman was complicated, and she wasn't sure she liked it. Women had all the responsibility, had to do the choosing, and Russell had once said that making choices was the hardest thing people did.
On the other hand, as Dena had once said, you seldom had much trouble getting your snow shoveled or your car started. Or your schoolbooks carried.
This was getting too close to what she had been avoiding thinking about. "Could I have the map back here, please?"
Her father fed the map display to the screen on the back of the front seat. She lay down again—with her legs out flat and covered—and fiddled with the controls. Long Island, she learned, looks startlingly like a miniature version of Nova Scotia. Both land masses resemble a fish swimming west, with forking tail to the east; both lie to the south and east of their respective mainland, the chief difference is that Nova Scotia is physically connected to mainland New Brunswick (about where the fish would keep its wallet if it had one) while Long Island is a true island.
"Chief difference," that is, to an observer in orbit. At ground level, the resemblance is almost nonexistent—for Nova Scotia has fifteen times the land area of Long Island and about a tenth the population. Although Jennifer confirmed that they had already passed through Brooklyn and Queens (the two innermost Long Island counties which are formally considered boroughs of New York City) and were well into Nassau County, she had so far seen little out her window which suggested that they had left the city behind them yet. New York was eating the Long Island fish, and had swallowed the western half already. "When do the suburbs start?" she asked.
"About six AM," her father answered. "And they're usually on the Long Island Railroad or the Distressway by seven-thirty."
"Daddy, your jokes are awful. I mean: how soon does it stop being city around here?"
"I'm not sure, honey. This used to be suburbs back when I lived here. Hang on, Suffolk County should get a little more rustic. And by the time we get to Grandpa's you'll think you're in Nova Scotia."
She switched off the map and thought about Grandpa. She loved him dearly and, since she saw him about once every three years, looked forward eagerly to this visit. But his wife had divorced him five years ago; Jennifer had met his second wife a few years back, on their honeymoon in Nova Scotia, and had taken an instant dislike to the woman. Regina had not seemed to Jennifer to treat Wilson Grant with sufficient respect, and furthermore had displayed to Dena that breed of overpoliteness which one uses with social inferiors to whom one must be gracious. Worst of all, she was one of those adults who think that they can relate to children as equals, and are mistaken. Jennifer hoped that Grandpa was happy—and did not see how he could be. She wished passionately that his first wife Anna would give up journalism, come back from Germany, and throw the upstart Regina out; Jennifer thoroughly approved of Anna as a grandmother. But Russell had assured her that this was highly unlikely.
She understood Dena's reluctance to come along on this visit, was glad her stepmother had found a way to duck out—but she was going to miss Dena. She was not at all sure she would be able to enjoy this without help.
As Russell had predicted, the surrounding territory gradually became less urban as they penetrated deeper into Long Island's easternmost county, Suffolk. Buildings shortened, trees grew taller, and the murderous traffic began to ease up slightly. They sped on in silence, having exhausted most topics of conversation and all the songs to which they both knew the words on the long drive from Halifax. Jennifer passed the time by proving theorems of Euclidean geometry with jabberwocky logic on the computer screen; Russell pulled his headphones down from the ceiling and listened to music.
Jennifer was just deciding that if you didn't look too hard through the trees and notice the suburban tracts beyond and the utter absence of mountains in any direction, you might indeed pretend you were on Nova Scotia's Bicentennial Highway, when her father disengaged his headphones and let the ceiling reel them back up. "Jenniflower?"
"Yes, Daddy?"
"About our drive through Harlem yesterday . . ."
She sat up slowly. "I'm straight on that. Momma and I talked about it. It's history, Daddy."
"Then let's rewrite history."
"Huh?"
"I'm very proud of the way you conducted yourself: you were brave. Nonetheless I don't plan to mention it to your grandparents."
"Oh. You're right. No sense scaring Grandpa."
"It's Mrs. Grandpa I'm worried about." "Mrs. Grandpa" was their private name for Regina; Russell knew how Jennifer felt about her.
"Her? I don't care if she's worried."
"You should," he said darkly.
"Why?"
"Never mind. Just go along with me, all right? We had a nice uneventful drive to New York."
"Okay."
Orient Point was one of the Last Outposts of Gracious Living on the island, and intended to remain so forever. Here a handful of Long Island's wealthiest citizens, driven eastward by the inexorable tide of middle-class humanity spilling out of the city, had made their last stand with the sea at their backs. They protected themselves with a wall of money, which expressed itself in tough zoning laws, incredible property values and tax structure, and a physical wall of patrolled fence; the community had been enclosed for several years. The Grants had to identify themselves to a hard-eyed private cop, who checked them carefully against his Expected Visitors roster before opening the gate and giving them directions. Three more cops were visible; all four were armed. Jennifer suspected that they would have checked twice as thoroughly if Dena had been in the car.
She looked around as they drove down the blacktop road through Orient Point. If you looked out to sea, you might indeed think you were somewhere along the Fundy Shore. The houses were no closer together than they would have been there, gardens were just as frequent, Connecticut on the horizon could just as easily have been New Brunswick. But the houses were much too new and well kept, the lawns too neatly manicured, the gardens too small and impractical, the cars too new and expensive. Farmers and fishermen did not live here. And of course, if you looked over your shoulder the illusion was gone, for there was nothing resembling a mountain from one end of Long Island to the other, and its own sand dunes and wild rose hips were rarely to be found in Nova Scotia.
Nonetheless Jennifer began to enjoy herself; she was a sea-and-sky fan, however they might be decorated. And Long Island beaches were sand, not rock—that would be fun. A shame it was too late in the day for a swim. But perhaps just as well—the only bathing suit Jennifer had brought with her was the one she had bought just before leaving Halifax, and although Dena had overseen and approved the purchase, Russell had not yet seen it and would certainly hit the roof when he did. Jennifer herself was not certain she was ready to wear it outside a dressing room.
Wilson Grant's house stood on three acres of land overlooking Long Island Sound. Trees to east and west gave privacy from neighbours, and privacy from passersby was assured by a long series of two-meter-high pine board and steel baffles set back from the road by about fifty meters. They were staggered so that they allowed maximum passage of wind and sunlight, yet allowed a view of the interior only to a man clearly and unmistakably trespassing. This not-quite-fence was bisected by the house, a wide one-story with built-on garage and boat shed and a large U-shaped driveway. Wilson Grant knelt in the driveway, tinkering with the carburetor of a Moped. He looked up at once when he heard the car slow, smiled when he recognized it, wiped his hands on a towel, and came to meet them.
He was just as Jennifer remembered him, short, slim, slightly pot-bellied, with a full head of snow white hair and a pepper-and-salt Van Dyke beard, and his eyes still held that mischievous twinkle she recalled so well. Her first impulse was to cry, "Grandpa!", leap from the car before it stopped rolling, and hurl herself up into his arms for their usual greeting, The Battle of the Kisses—a ritual in which each attempted to kiss the other into unconsciousness, and which Jennifer always won. Barely in time she remembered that she was fourteen years old now. With an enormous effort she sat still, and when her father had shut off the car she got out the way she imagined a princess would leave a coach and waited demurely for her grandfather to approach her.
He had clearly been expecting a Battle of the Kisses, but he took in the situation at once and shifted gears smoothly. He came near, bowed lower than she had thought possible for a man of his age, straightened, and said, "Hello, Jennifer. It's wonderful to see you again. You look simply ravishing," with his face perfectly straight.
Immensely pleased, she curtsied in return. "Thank you, Grandfather," she said formally. "It's wonderful to see you, too. Your new home is quite lovely."
"Thank you, my dear, but I'm afraid it is nowhere near so beautiful as it seemed before you arrived. It has been eclipsed." He took her hand and kissed it. She felt a tingle of pleasure begin in her scalp and race to her toes. Oh God, she thought, I bet I'm blushing, oh shit. "Excuse me, won't you, while I say hello to your driver?"
He turned to Russell then and the two men hugged long and hard.
"Hi, Pop. You're looking great."
"And you look like a man who's driven the length of Long Island. You're just in time to help me out with a desperate problem."
"Name it."
"I've just learned there's too much gin in the house. It's an ugly situation, but it has to be dealt with. Can I count on you?"
"Isn't there something in the Bible about the gins of the fathers who are visited by their sons?"
Wilson Grant winced and turned back to Jennifer. "And perhaps a split of vermouth for you, my dear?"
She was fiercely proud that he was asking her and not her father. She wanted to peek at Russell to see what he thought of the idea, but refused to let herself. "That would be lovely," she replied, and at once worried that the wine would make her lose her poise. She resolved to take tiny sips.
"Let's go in then."
"Shouldn't we get this heap stored before we get comfortable?" Russell said, indicating the car.
The elder Grant frowned. "I did my best. But you turned out practical just the same."
They parked the car out behind the boat shed; it would not mind exposure in the least and sunlight would keep its battery at full charge. It was not necessary to put it up on blocks; Russell simply extruded the built-in front and rear jacks.
"You still can't get Detroit interested in this car?"
"Not even Tokyo. I gave up years ago, Pop."
"Cretins."
"No, they're reasonably intelligent. Look at her. I designed and built her the year after Jennifer was born. I might need to replace her in fifteen or twenty years, and I might not."
Wilson Grant frowned. "To quote a writer I worked with once, 'If the question begins, "Why don't they—?" the answer is, "money." '"
"That's part of it," Russell agreed. "But look there where I've switched the pedals. In my car it's easier to get from the accelerator to the brake than the other way 'round—and that little feature has saved my life twice so far. It wouldn't cost a red cent to make all cars that way. But the average driver could never unlearn the habit of doing it the stupid way, and he'd kill himself quicker."
"So, once a stupid mistake is institutionalized it's too late to change it."
"Well, you used to work in publishing."
Regina Parkhill was waiting for them in the living room, a petite slender platinum blonde in her mid-sixties who could quite easily have passed for thirty-five. Her tan was astonishing. She greeted Russell effusively, then turned to Jennifer and regarded her as though she had just materialized amid thunderclaps and fire. "Jenny," she cried, "my dear God how you've grown! Such a big little girl, I can hardly believe my eyes!"
You're such a little big girl, I know I can't believe mine, Jennifer thought cattily. "Hello, Grandmother."
Regina winced. "Call me 'Regina,' please, darling."
"If you'll call me Jennifer." Same deal I offered you last time.
The older woman blinked and smiled. "Of course, dear. Wilson, shall we take martinis out on the terrace—and a cola for little Jenny?"
"Good idea, darling—but I've already offered Jennifer a split of vermouth, and she's accepted."
"What? Nonsense, Wilson, she's just a child. I'm sure she'd prefer a soft drink—wouldn't you, honey?"
Jennifer opened her mouth—and caught her father's look. It was a private code between them, and it meant, "I know you have a perfect right to make a scene—but please don't, and I'll make it up to you later." She closed her mouth.
And Grandpa opened his. "Regina, don't be rude. Our guest has already expressed a preference, it's not our place to change her mind."
"Darling, she is fourteen years old."
"Which makes her husband-high by the standards of most of the civilized cultures in history. Her father has some rights in this regard, but he raises no objection—so please fetch along the vermouth and a pony glass." He turned and led his descendants to the terrace. Jennifer smiled to herself, loving him.
The view was stunning. A vast expanse of rolling green dotted with truly lovely trees and a Japanese rock garden ended in a cliff, beyond which lay the Sound. Three or four miles out an immense oil supertanker made its stately way east. The weather was perfect, the sky seemed clean and clear, Connecticut was a greasy smudge on the horizon. When the conversation of her elders turned to the war in Africa, Jennifer excused herself and wandered the grounds. She took mental notes, for Sophie would want to hear all about this when she got back home to Halifax—best friends were useful for helping you to remember things. The rock garden held her attention for some time. She tried to watch the rocks grow, and failed as always, but did not mind failing in such a beautiful place. There was a superb bonsai in the garden, and she devoted some time to trying to understand the nature of the gentle suggestion Grandpa was making to it with wire. Again she failed; the proposed alteration would, it seemed to her, decrease the tree's wa rather than enhance it. She decided it was Regina's idea.
She felt a little like a botched bonsai herself: overdeveloped in some aspects and retarded in others. Intellectually she was genius-plus—but physiologically she was fourteen and a half years old and her goddamned period was never going to come. All her friends had gotten theirs ages ago. Grandpa had just said that she was "husband-high"—but she wasn't! She decided that if nothing happened by her fourteenth birthday she would try to prime the pump by cutting her throat.
She drifted over to the cliff edge. A wooden staircase led down the face of the bluff to the beach far below. Of course Regina had enjoined her to "be careful if you go down that staircase, dear"; of course the stairway would have been perfectly safe for a retarded five-year-old with Parkinson's Disease. The beach was indeed sandy and free of driftwood, absolutely unoccupied, and Jennifer yearned to climb down to it and get sand in her shoes. A year or two ago she would have—but it was late in the day, and the stairs were long and steep, and she did not feel that her father should have to handle all the socializing alone. She returned to the terrace and endured a ghastly hour of conversation with Regina, during which she was twice forced to literally bite her tongue.
Dinner was served on the terrace, and it was exquisite; it was not until after coffee and dessert that the argument began.
Jennifer started it, quite innocently, by wondering aloud why Wilson and Regina had sold their previous home and moved here. "I mean, this place is really nice—but so was the other one, and you had more land."
"I meant to ask that, too," Russell agreed. "I thought you were settled in Southampton for keeps."
"They closed the golf course," his father said, smiling.
"No, seriously, Pop. I remember you telling me about trying to get a zoning exception so that you could be buried on that property."
Grandfather's smile remained fixed; he said nothing.
His wife broke the awkward silence. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Wilson!"
"My dear—"
"I know he's married to one. But that's Canada—he knows things are different here. Tell him, for God's sake it's not as if you've anything to be ashamed of."
Russell and Jennifer both set their glasses down and sat up straighter. They exchanged a brief glance.
"I hope you're right," Grandfather said, and looked his son in the eye. "Russ, it's like this: a black family moved in next door."
His son was visibly shaken. "Pop, you're not serious. It's a rib."
"Oh God," Regina said, rolling her eyes insolently. "I hear a knee jerking."
"Russ—"
"I thought I cured you of racism back in the '70s—"
"Mind your tongue, young man, and let me finish! You've been in the city, you must have noticed that the world has changed since the last time you were around here straightening out your elders. You must have seen how high racial tension is running—"
"I'm beginning to see why."
"It's a reality that has to be lived with, whether I like it or not. There's a difference between racism and simple self-preservation. This all happened back when the news was full of Mau Mau bombings and murders."
"Let me get this straight. Angry street blacks from Harlem moved in and started sneering at you and leering at Regina? Welfare cheaters with drug habits and ghettoblaster radios bought a half-million-dollar house in the Hamptons?"
"They had more money than we did, actually. University professors." Just like Dena's parents, Jennifer thought. "I watched them move in—their furniture was beautiful."
"Then why—?"
"Simple economics," Regina said blandly. "Your father didn't want to sell—men are so impractical—but I insisted. And events proved me right. We were the first to unload, and we got back ninety-five percent of our investment. Within two weeks a dozen other families had sold their homes too, and the longer they hesitated, the more of a beating they took. We weren't being racist, we were protecting our investment—and we still took a small loss. If I hadn't put my foot down, we could have lost everything. I still don't see why we can't sue that realtor—the property values in the neighbourhood went down fifty percent thanks to him. It has nothing to do with race itself."
Russell opened and closed his mouth several times. At last he managed to say, "You know why there are so many cattle stampedes? Because every smart cow knows that the first cow to bolt has the best chance of not getting trampled in the stampede she starts."
"Russ—" his father began.
He turned to Jennifer. "It seems to me we passed the train station on the way in. About a klick or so back?"
She remembered it, the cleanest-looking train station she had ever seen. "On the left."
He nodded and stood up. "Thanks for the food and drink—it was wonderful," he said to his father and stepmother, and turned back to Jennifer. "Let's go, princess." He turned on his heel and strode off across the terrace, headed around the house to the road.
"What's the hurry?" Regina said, trying to persuade herself that the situation was salvageable. "The last train isn't for hours yet."
"It's the next train that interests me," he called without stopping or looking back.
"Russell, God damn it," his father began, and gave it up.
"Well of all the . . . nerve," Regina sputtered. "I, I never in all—"
Jennifer stood up, faced her grandfather until he was forced to meet her eyes. "Grampa," she said softly then, "I'm very disappointed." He looked away.
"—such a rude and unforgivable—" Regina was still raving.
"SHUT UP," Jennifer bellowed. Near the corner of the house, Russell stopped in his tracks. "Grandfather has you for an excuse. What's your excuse?"
Regina's mouth worked, but the sounds that spilled out were not words.
"I'll bet you cheat at solitaire," Jennifer said, and saw that one strike home, and went to join her father.
They walked in silence in the gathering dusk, listening to crickets and the occasional distant backyard stereo. They were obliged to walk along the roadside, as the community did not have sidewalks. There was no traffic. Most of the houses they passed were lit, but they saw no people. A very fat man passed them on a snarling moped; he looked them over carefully. Less than a minute later a prowl car arrived to question them. Jennifer was impressed by the response-time.
The ritual that ensued impressed her as well. Russell was well-dressed, well-spoken, patently respectable, and traveling in company with a fourteen-year-old girl; nonetheless he was questioned most carefully. He produced ID for himself and Jennifer produced her own. He gave the name and address of the resident he had been visiting and the time of his entry. He explained why he had left his car behind, and when asked why the Grants had not driven him to the station stated that the night was so pleasant he and his daughter had preferred to walk. There was a pause then, while the officer gave all this information to his partner. The latter had never left the car, and Jennifer noticed that his hands had never come into view. He radioed back to the main gate man, who not only verified their entry, but called the Grants to confirm that these pedestrians, as described, were indeed their guests. Only then did the first officer relax to the extent of a smile.
Even then he was not done with them. "Please let us offer you folks a lift the rest of the way."
"Thank you, officer, but we really would prefer to walk." Her father had remained quietly polite throughout the interrogation; only Jennifer could tell how impatient he was for these nosies to go away.
"Please let us offer you folks a lift," the officer repeated.
"No thank you," he said firmly.
"Please," the officer said.
"Constable," Russell said, deliberately using the Canadian honorific, "I am a stranger here. Is it really against the law to walk the streets in this country now?
"No sir, not exactly."
"Good evening, then." He made as if to resume walking.
The officer looked pained. "Mr. Grant, please wait." Russell paused. "Look: every time one of our people looks out their window and sees you folks, they're gonna call it in. And every time they call in they gotta see a car respond, so they know they're gettin' good coverage. Look, roll down all the windows and move your feet back and forth, and we'll drive real slow and you can pretend you're walking, okay?"
Russell smiled and relented. "Is it really that bad here?" he asked as they got into the car.
"Not if we can help it."
When they were underway, Jennifer spoke up suddenly. "Do you have much trouble with niggers here?"
Her father flinched.
"Nah," the driver replied. "Not since we blew away a few last year."
"Really?" she said, making her voice sound approving and fascinated. "What were they doing?"
"Snuck over the electric fence on foot, stuck up a dinner party a mile from here. Sorry, for you folks that'd be a couple of kilometers, wouldn't it? Three of 'em, two draft dodgers and a woman, maybe twenty people at the party. They pistol-whipped a few for laughs, took all the money and jewelry in the place, then they—"
"Harve," the officer who had interrogated them cut in, "she's a kid for Chrissake."
"Oh shit. I mean, sorry."
Russell spoke up. "Officer, my daughter is old enough to be allowed to read newspapers. Finish the story."
Harve shrugged. "They made everybody get undressed and play sex games, with them and each other. I guess they had a pretty crude sense of humour. They didn't kill anybody outright, but six hadda go to the hospital, and one committed suicide the next morning, and a lot of 'em are still goin' to a shrink. Then the sc—excuse me—then the perpetrators stole a Jensen Interceptor and split. I guess they figured to shoot their way through the gate."
"And?"
"They'd ripped out the phones and tied everybody together in a big bundle, too big to get out the door. But they didn't notice the CB base unit the resident had in with his stereo gear. We were waiting for 'em with machine guns. Blew the block out of the Jensen, blew all four wheels off, blew up the niggers, cut to commercial."
Jennifer was not enjoying this as much as she had expected. It had been her vague intention to draw the cops out about racism, then tell them as she was getting out of the car that her mother was a nigger. She had since changed her mind. Had it only been yesterday that she herself had been in a nightmare much like the one he was describing? "Did the man mind about his car?"
"Not when he seen what was in it. I never saw a man smile like that in my whole life, and I hope I never see another one like it." Harve's own savage grin was visible in the rear-view mirror. "He traded us a signed waiver on the car for—" He caught himself suddenly. "For a couple of souvenirs, like. He's still got 'em, in a jar."
Russell shuddered. "What an incredible story!"
Harve shrugged. "I first heard a story almost exactly like that one, a good fifteen years ago. West of here, in Nassau County. Only difference was the silly bastards happened to pick a big fancy restaurant to have fun in, and the owner was a heavyweight in the Greek Mafia. Last mistake they ever made. But there's been a dozen incidents like that in the last ten-fifteen years, different places—this was just the first one we ever had here. Be the last, too."
"Niggers been turning animal the last ten-fifteen years," his partner said glumly. "I dunno what the hell it is. Those Mau Maus . . . I remember a time when I had nigger friends."
"I still got a couple," Harve said, surprising them all. "Couple o' guys I grew up with in Brooklyn. But I ain't seen either of 'em in a few years—and I wouldn't go to Brooklyn to do it."
"Fuckin' A," his partner agreed. "Sorry, miss. Well, here we are."
They had reached the Long Island Railroad station. Russell thanked the officers for the ride, and he and Jennifer got out. The prowl car drove off.
There were one or two occupied cars in the vast parking lot, but the ticket office and waiting room were locked and the platform was deserted. The next train west was already in place, idling noisily. They boarded and took seats in an empty non-smoking car which smelled faintly of urine and old vomit. Nearly every seat in the car contained a copy of that evening's New York Post, a tabloid whose front page shrieked about a draft riot in Harlem. The car did not seem to have been more than cursorily cleaned or maintained for at least a decade; some of its windows were opaque with grime, and most were translucent at best. This, Jennifer thought, is the train the rich people get. What do the poor neighbourhoods get?
At last Russell broke the silence. "I heard what you said to Mrs. Grandpa. What did you say to Grandpa?"
"I just said I was disappointed."
"Fair enough."
"I thought so. Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Why did he marry her?"
Russell was silent a moment. "Honey," he said finally, "Pop is a fighter. Some people just like conflict, something to sharpen their claws on all the time. He was never so happy, when I was a kid, as when I tried to buck him on something—and the older I got and the better I got at it, the better he seemed to like it. Back when he was an editor, his greatest joy was the acquisition of a new, worthy enemy. Now that he's retired, I guess he needs to have his conflict at home."
"And it cost him a home he really loved."
"A bully is someone who only picks fights with weaker opponents. Pop was never a bully. Sometimes he loses his fights. Hell, he lost Mom. It's the fighting itself he enjoys, not the winning."
"Is that why you walked out?"
Russell grinned ruefullly. "You're sharp, peanut. I think you're right. Mean bastard, ain't I?"
She giggled, and that broke Russell up. "He's probably been looking forward to this fight for months," she said, and the two of them laughed harder. Russell mimed turning his back on an opponent and said, "Take that," and Jennifer howled, and it became one of those extended cathartic laugh-sessions where each punchline suggests another and breath becomes a rare commodity.
The conductor appeared as they were tapering off and sold them tickets to Penn Station. "Change at Jamaica," he chanted ritualistically and started to leave.
"God," Russell said, still grinning, "I haven't heard that in a long time."
The conductor gave him a half-curious glance.
"I used to live on the Island," Russell explained, "but I moved away twenty-five years ago."
The conductor grimaced. "You picked a helluva time to come back, Jack." He left.
"What's this about Jamaica?" Jennifer asked.
"It's a station in Queens, where just about everybody has to change trains to get in or out of the city. I must have spent half my adolescence there waiting for a connection."
The train got under weigh with extreme reluctance. Jennifer had ridden on very few trains in her life, and none that were not old and in poor condition, but this was easily the worst of the lot.
"Dad? Tell me something?"
"If I can."
"I don't really know how this stuff works, but . . . suppose Grandpa hadn't sold his house. So his property values go down—but he didn't want to sell it in the first place. So, doesn't he end up with the same house, in the same location—with lower property taxes?"
Russell gaped, thunderstruck.
"—and with a guarantee that none of his new neighbours are stupid enough to be bigots?"
"I'll be damned," he said. "What Regina 'saved' him from was the chance to have the place he loved at half the cost. Jen, you're right? Great blithering mother of shit, I never thought it through . . . do you suppose I could rent your brain, times when you're not using it?"
"As long as you return it in good condition," she said smugly.
"I've been hearing that 'property values' argument for forty years, and you just put your finger on the hole in it. Oh, this is rich!" Suddenly his joy sprang a leak. "Poor Pop," he said, and was silent.
Clever me, she thought; we almost overlooked the saddest part.
After a few miles, her father spoke up again. "They leaned on me, while you were walking around the grounds."
"Grandpa and . . . her?"
"Yes."
"Leaned how?"
"Well, there was a long build-up about the growing climate of violence in the city, and the increasing racial tension. I kept my mouth shut about yesterday, but I had to agree. The punchline was, why doesn't little Jennifer stay with us?"
"Oh my God."
"Yeah." He poked at a copy of the Post; it was open to a photo of the County Executive of Suffolk in her new bathing suit. "May I confess something?"
She blinked. "Oh, Daddy. Oh, don't say it."
"Before the matter of the black family next door came up, I was thinking the idea over halfway seriously."
"Stand up!"
"Jenn—"
"In two seconds I'm gonna kick you under the belt. If I were you I'd get up and turn around first."
"Dammit, I gave the idea up."
"Not fast enough. Daddy, I'd have been miserable there? how could you even think—"
"Button it."
She began an angry retort—then shut up.
"Put yourself in my place. You're Daddy. For the next three months your daughter Jenniflower the Beauteous, the most precious creature on Earth, has to be one of two things: in the dumps or in danger. Whichever one you pick . . . don't you think it over carefully?"
"You know when you are the most annoying?" Jennifer shouted.
Russell started at her volume. "When?"
"When you're right, you big jerk."
He grinned at her. "Princess, I intend to annoy the hell out of you until you're old enough to move out and make your own mistakes."
"When'll that be?"
"How should I know? You'll tell me, when the time comes. Uh—I'd be nervous if you were younger than eighteen. Very damned nervous. No, I'd be outright afraid. But it's not my decision, sweetheart."
Jennifer tried to imagine herself independent, living apart from her parents. Nobody to tell you what to do, stay up as late as you want, leave your room a mess if it suits you. All the junk food and desserts you want. Access the adult channels on your TV without having to bribe the damned babysitter. Experiment with boys in the comfort and privacy of your own home.
Hmmmm.
Alone with a boy in a private place with a bed in it, no parents in the next room. That could be scary. And I'd have to pay for the private place—there goes staying up all night. In fact, there go over half my waking hours. And I'd have to keep the place clean to invite boys over. And if I eat too much junk eventually I get jelly-belly and pizzaface and the next thing you know, there I am alone in my private place, watching more fortunate souls humping away on TV . . .
And I'd be so homesick for Mom and Dad!
Jennifer decided that although New York law allowed her to declare legal independence at age fourteen, she'd be crazy to do so. Compared to the alternative, living with your parents was a good deal.
It kept things simple. You only had two people to outwit. . . .