We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [111]
“Trent just rode his bike down that big hill on Palisades Parade, lost control, and landed in the bushes! He’s knocked up pretty bad!”
I’d tried to stay on amicable terms with the Corleys, whose son was a year or two older than Kevin. Though Moira Corley’s initial enthusiasm for arranging play dates had waned without explanation, she’d once displayed a gracious interest in my Armenian background, and I’d stopped by only the day before to give her a loaf of freshly baked katah—do you ever miss it?—that slightly sweet, obscenely buttery layered bread my mother taught me to make. Being on congenial terms with your neighbors was one of the few appeals of suburban life, and I feared that your narrowing our front door was beginning to appear unfriendly.
“Roger,” I said behind you, wiping my hands on a dish towel, “why don’t you come in and talk about it? You seem upset.”
When we all repaired to the living room, I noted that Roger’s getup was a little unfortunate; he had too big a gut for Lycra cycling shorts, and in those bike shoes he walked pigeon-toed. You retreated behind an armchair, keeping it between you and Roger like a military fortification. “I’m awful sorry to hear about Trent’s accident,” you said. “Maybe it’s a good opportunity to go through the fundamentals of bike safety.”
“He knows the fundamentals,” said Roger. “Like, you never leave the quick-release on one of your wheels flipped open.”
“Is that what you think happened?” I asked.
“Trent said the front wheel started wobbling. We checked the bike, and the release wasn’t only flipped over; it’d been turned a few times to loosen the fork. Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to conclude that Kevin was the culprit!”
“Now wait just one minute!” you said. “That’s one hell of a—”
“Trent rode that bike yesterday morning, no problem. Nobody’s been by since but you, Eva, along with your son. And I want to thank you for that bread you sent over,” he added, lowering the volume. “It was real good, and we appreciated your thoughtfulness. But we don’t appreciate Kevin’s tinkering with Trent’s bike. Going a little faster, or around traffic, my kid could’ve been killed.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions here,” you growled. “That release could have been tripped in Trent’s accident.”
“No way. I’m a cyclist myself, and I’ve had my share of spills. The release never flips all the way over—much less turns around by itself to loosen the spring.”
“Even if Kevin did do it,” I said (you shot me a black look), “maybe he doesn’t know what the lever is for. That leaving it open is dangerous.”
“That’s one theory,” Roger grunted. “That your son’s a dummy. But that’s not the way Trent describes him.”
“Look,” you said. “Maybe Trent had been playing with that release, and he doesn’t want to take the rap. That doesn’t mean my son has to take it instead. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some work to do around the yard.”
After Roger left, I had a sinking feeling that the Irish soda bread Moira had promised to bake me in return would never materialize.
“Boy, I sometimes think you’re right,” you said, pacing. “A kid can’t skin his knee anymore without it having to be somebody else’s fault. Country’s completely lost touch with the concept of accident. When Kevin broke his arm, did I give you a hard time? Did it have to be somebody’s fault? No. Shit happens.”
“Do you want to talk to Kevin about Trent’s bike?” I said. “Or should I?”
“What for? I can’t see he’s done anything.”
I said under my breath. “You never do.”
“And you always do,” you said levelly.
A standard exchange—not even exceptionally acrimonious—so I’m not sure why it flipped something in me, like Trent Corley’s quick-release. Maybe because it was standard now, and once it hadn’t been. I closed my eyes, cupping the back of the armchair that had walled off Roger Corley’s outlandish accusations. Honestly, I’d no idea what I was going to say until I said it.
“Franklin, I want to have another child.”
I opened my eyes and blinked. I had surprised myself.