all this isn’t enough, we’ve got other incentives for playing along. No one knows this better than Moira Campbell two houses down.
I catch a glimpse of Moira’s place from Freddie’s bedroom window. The porch light burned out months ago; the blue glow from the television went dark a day after the bus came to take Moira’s two sons away. Once a week, Moira comes out to check her mail, and on Saturdays her car rolls out of the garage, disappears down the street, and comes back an hour later. I’m guessing Saturday morning is Moira’s grocery shopping time, but I can’t be sure. I never see her with groceries.
And there is no Mr. Campbell. Not since he moved out last year.
They were always arguing, the Campbells. Always skipping out on neighborhood parties at the last minute. Moira had a headache; Moira was getting home late from work; Moira left town for a family emergency. The excuses were different, but the reason was always the same—Moira and Sean Campbell, like most couples with a rocky marriage, didn’t socialize. They put on a show for a while; Sean hung around the house pretending to be a husband, and the word on the street was that they were sticking it out for the kids’ sake. When Sean finally left, Moira would hang out his laundry on the line in her side yard. A few pairs of boxers, some T-shirts, whatever. Just enough to keep the illusion going.
The illusion didn’t last long, and the Fitter Family’s child welfare representatives—gray-faced women in gray uniforms, clipboards in hand—started coming around, trolling the neighborhood, asking questions. A month later, a gray van arrived, and Moira’s boys clambered in, suitcases in one hand, while Moira cursed and threatened from her front porch.
“We’re doing fine!” she screamed at the gray women. “One parent is as good as two!”
The Fitter Family Campaign disagreed.
Moira went to court, not once but three times. She ended up representing herself because no lawyer would take her case, not as a single mother. She lost before the hearing even started.
“They told me you have to get the fitter parent to testify,” she said after the third day in court. “Can you believe that? The fitter parent—meaning the one who earns more, the one who takes less annual leave, the one with the higher Q rating. I can’t even find my ex-husband, let alone get him to show up before a judge. Fucking laws.”
I felt for Moira then. I feel for her more now as I realize that Malcolm, with double the income I bring in and half the late days, will always be the fitter parent. Most men are—even the ones who aren’t.
So now, sitting in Freddie’s room with wine I don’t want and ice cream she won’t eat, the idea of leaving enters my mind, snakes around for a few delicious seconds, and then departs, replaced by a hopeless question. How long could I keep up the subterfuge? A month? A year? More likely, I’d be discovered by the end of the week. My Q rating would drop, and I’d lose my job.
And that would hurt Anne. The thing about Qs is this: They seem to be inheritable.
Malcolm, though. Malcolm could work it out. He’s got access to the databases, and he could fudge Freddie’s numbers. By the time the yellow bus arrives to pick up Freddie on Monday morning, we could have a fresh set of Qs, back in the eight-point-something range.
That fantasy lasts all of a minute.
“Okay, little miss,” I say to Freddie. “Bedtime.”
“Stay with me for a while, Mom?”
I answer her with a hug, and she brightens, but it’s a temporary light that shines in her eyes. “And then tomorrow we’ll go see Oma and Opa, okay?” My parents are going to flip a wig when I tell them. They’ve always hated Malcolm, and by tomorrow afternoon, they’ll hate him even more. Not as much as I do, but enough.
The light grows a bit steadier as Freddie settles back against my arm and smiles up at me.
She’s asleep in no time at all, a heavy presence next to my body. Through the door, the television murmurs as