WEBVTT

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This is a short piece
called "The Brunch."

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I had been invited
to a Sunday brunch

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by an old friend of mine.

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I should say ex-lover,
Jan, who wanted

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me to meet some of her friends.

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They were mostly politically
engaged men and women.

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The women were all professionals
running daycare centers

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or getting advanced degrees.

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Some of them knew each other
from being in the same Upper

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West Side women's group.

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There was lots of good
food, omelets, and bagels,

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and whitefish, and fruit
salad, and coffee, and wine.

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By noon everyone
was mildly drunk.

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Some of the guests were dancing
to a rock and roll record.

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I sat on a couch talking
to a woman named Betsy

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who was going to social
work school, who had brought

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her little daughter.

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And who incidentally I knew
had been an off and on lover

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of the hostess when my
friend Jan had decided

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to take lovers of her own sex.

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I hadn't been very comfortable
with that period in Jan's life,

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but I had to admit
that I was more

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disturbed by the thought
of Jan's changing

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than by the tangible
person next to me,

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Betsy, who looked
so trustworthy.

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Betsy clearly
wanted to talk to me

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and there was
nothing in her manner

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that seemed hostile to men.

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She was very open, pretty
in a maternal buxom way.

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And if I hadn't known she
was otherwise inclined,

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I might have made a pass at her.

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Her little daughter began
climbing around her lap

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and demanding her attention.

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Betsy ignored her at
first, or stroked her hair

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while trying to ignore her.

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I turned to the kid to
find out what she wanted.

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"Oh that's right,"
said Betsy, "you're

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very good with
kids, aren't you?"

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The thought that I had a
reputation for being good

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with children because I
was successful teacher

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and had written "Being
With Children" throws me.

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I found myself
having to overcome

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a distaste for this child.

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She was whimpering
about something

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but basically had
nothing to say.

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Soon her mother went to the
bathroom, leaving us alone.

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"What grade are you in?"

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I asked.

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"First," she said.

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I began to play a game with
her, threatening to cook her

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in a pot if she wasn't careful.

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She challenged me to do it.

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She was delighted at the idea.

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"Cook me", she said.

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I grabbed her up and
took her into the kitchen

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where Jan was clearing
away a few things.

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"We're going to put her
in the stew," I said.

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"Oh very good," said Jan
immediately following to step.

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"Where's the
seasoning?", I asked.

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"The spices on
the second shelf."

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I was still holding the girl
in my arms and by this time

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I noticed she was
becoming a bit frightened.

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I reached for the basil
and sprinkled a little

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on her stomach.

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"No", she said, squirming
to brush it off.

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"How about some
cinnamon?", I asked.

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I took down the jar
of cinnamon and--

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this is the part I will
never understand about me--

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poured some on her
face even though I

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guessed she would hate it.

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She began to cry.

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"Oh what's the matter?", Said
Jan taking the girl from me.

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"She must have gotten
some in her eyes.

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I was aiming at
her nose", I said.

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"I know", said Jan,
"some of it accidentally

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must have gotten in her eye.

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Poor baby."

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At this, the girl began
to cry twice as hard

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and I thought to myself, faker.

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If she was a well
brought up child,

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she would know to
be more stoical.

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She's just used to
exploiting her mother's

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guilt as an only parent
to get attention.

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We went back into
the living room.

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"What happened?",
asked her mother.

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"Oh, we were playing a game
and she started crying.

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It's my fault," I said.

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Betsy apologized
for her daughter

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and took her into
the other room.

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And I thought it would
be a long time before she

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said to me again, "you're
so good with children."

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