This is a short piece called "The Brunch."
I had been invited to a Sunday brunch
by an old friend of mine.
I should say ex-lover, Jan, who wanted
me to meet some of her friends.
They were mostly politically engaged men and women.
The women were all professionals running daycare centers
or getting advanced degrees.
Some of them knew each other from being in the same Upper
West Side women's group.
There was lots of good food, omelets, and bagels,
and whitefish, and fruit salad, and coffee, and wine.
By noon everyone was mildly drunk.
Some of the guests were dancing to a rock and roll record.
I sat on a couch talking to a woman named Betsy
who was going to social work school, who had brought
her little daughter.
And who incidentally I knew had been an off and on lover
of the hostess when my friend Jan had decided
to take lovers of her own sex.
I hadn't been very comfortable with that period in Jan's life,
but I had to admit that I was more
disturbed by the thought of Jan's changing
than by the tangible person next to me,
Betsy, who looked so trustworthy.
Betsy clearly wanted to talk to me
and there was nothing in her manner
that seemed hostile to men.
She was very open, pretty in a maternal buxom way.
And if I hadn't known she was otherwise inclined,
I might have made a pass at her.
Her little daughter began climbing around her lap
and demanding her attention.
Betsy ignored her at first, or stroked her hair
while trying to ignore her.
I turned to the kid to find out what she wanted.
"Oh that's right," said Betsy, "you're
very good with kids, aren't you?"
The thought that I had a reputation for being good
with children because I was successful teacher
and had written "Being With Children" throws me.
I found myself having to overcome
a distaste for this child.
She was whimpering about something
but basically had nothing to say.
Soon her mother went to the bathroom, leaving us alone.
"What grade are you in?"
I asked.
"First," she said.
I began to play a game with her, threatening to cook her
in a pot if she wasn't careful.
She challenged me to do it.
She was delighted at the idea.
"Cook me", she said.
I grabbed her up and took her into the kitchen
where Jan was clearing away a few things.
"We're going to put her in the stew," I said.
"Oh very good," said Jan immediately following to step.
"Where's the seasoning?", I asked.
"The spices on the second shelf."
I was still holding the girl in my arms and by this time
I noticed she was becoming a bit frightened.
I reached for the basil and sprinkled a little
on her stomach.
"No", she said, squirming to brush it off.
"How about some cinnamon?", I asked.
I took down the jar of cinnamon and--
this is the part I will never understand about me--
poured some on her face even though I
guessed she would hate it.
She began to cry.
"Oh what's the matter?", Said Jan taking the girl from me.
"She must have gotten some in her eyes.
I was aiming at her nose", I said.
"I know", said Jan, "some of it accidentally
must have gotten in her eye.
Poor baby."
At this, the girl began to cry twice as hard
and I thought to myself, faker.
If she was a well brought up child,
she would know to be more stoical.
She's just used to exploiting her mother's
guilt as an only parent to get attention.
We went back into the living room.
"What happened?", asked her mother.
"Oh, we were playing a game and she started crying.
It's my fault," I said.
Betsy apologized for her daughter
and took her into the other room.
And I thought it would be a long time before she
said to me again, "you're so good with children."