We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [77]
I had embarrassed them. Moreover, I’d done precisely what Harvey had already warned me against. Later they were both deposed, and snippets of this deadly little speech would be quoted back verbatim. I don’t think your parents had it in for me, but they were honest New Englanders, and I’d given them no reason to protect me. I guess I didn’t want them to.
When I rustled with leave-taking motions, setting down my stonecold tea, the two of them looked relieved yet frantic, locking eyes. They must have recognized that these cozy teatime chats of ours would prove limited in number, and maybe late at night, unable to sleep, they’d think of questions they might have asked. They were cordial, of course, inviting me to visit any time. Your mother assured me that, despite everything, they still considered me part of the family. Their inclusivity seemed less kind than it might have six weeks before. At that time, the prospect of being enveloped into any family had all the appeal of getting stuck in an elevator between floors.
“One last thing.” Your father touched my arm at the door, and once again asked the kind of question he’d evaded most of his life. “Do you understand why?”
I fear my response will only have helped to cure him of such inquiries, for the answers are often so unsatisfying.
Happy New Year, my dear,
Eva
JANUARY 6, 2001
Dear Franklin,
The Electoral College just certified a Republican president, and you must be pleased. But despite your pose as a sexist, flag-waving retrograde, in fatherhood you were a good little liberal, as fastidious about corporal punishment and nonviolent toys as the times demanded. I’m not making fun, only wondering if you, too, go back over those precautions and ponder where we went wrong.
My own review of Kevin’s upbringing was assisted by trained legal minds. “Ms. Khatchadourian,” Harvey grilled me on the stand, “did you have a rule in your household that children were not allowed to play with toy guns?”
“For what it’s worth, yes.”
“And you monitored television and video viewing?”
“We tried to keep Kevin away from anything too violent or sexually explicit, especially when he was little. Unfortunately, that meant my husband couldn’t watch most of his own favorite programs. And we did have to allow one exception.”
“What was that?” Annoyance again; this wasn’t planned.
“The History Channel.” A titter; I was playing to the peanut gallery.
“The point is,” Harvey continued through his teeth, “you made every effort to ensure that your son was not surrounded by coarsening influences, did you not?”
“In my home,” I said. “That is six acres out of a planet. And even there, I was unprotected from Kevin’s coarsening influence on me.”
Harvey stopped to breathe. I sensed an alternative-medicine professional had taught him some technique. “In other words, you couldn’t control what Kevin played with or watched when he went to other children’s homes?”
“Frankly, other children rarely asked Kevin over more than once.”
The judge intervened, “Ms. Khatchadourian, please just answer the question.”
“Oh, I suppose,” I complied lackadaisically; I was getting bored.
“What about the Internet?” Harvey proceeded. “Was your son given free rein to access whatever web sites he liked, including, say, violent or pornographic ones?”
“Oh, we did the whole parental-controls schmear, but Kevin cracked it in a day.” I flicked the air dismissively. Harvey had warned me against giving the slightest indication that I didn’t take the proceedings seriously, and this case did bring out my perverse streak. But my larger trouble was paying