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“That’s a shame,” said Mrs. Vernon.
“Why?” said Bunny.
Mrs. Vernon lo
oked blankly at Bunny for a moment and then glanced at Mrs. O’Brien, as if to establish that it was all right to continue with this line of talk. The social worker was concentrating on another sandwich. “It’s a shame anybody would feel that way,” Mrs. Vernon said cautiously. “When you think of all God has given us.”
“But he’s deaf,” I said.
“Ha!” said Bunny.
Mrs. Vernon’s eyelids fluttered. She was hurt that I’d sided with Bunny against her. Now I wished I hadn’t said anything. “That he’s deaf shouldn’t make any difference,” she said softly. “God gave us life and faith, and they’re what count. He gave us His only begotten son.”
“Well, whatever God gave Shorty,” said Bunny, “He didn’t give him enough. He can’t hear a thing.”
Mrs. Vernon again glanced at the social worker without getting any help. “It’s a tragedy, then,” said Mrs. Vernon, her voice trailing off.
Bunny sat up. “That’s not tragic,” she said. “Shorty never had a chance. What’s tragic is when you have something and then lose the chance. You do something, and it turns out to be the wrong thing, and everything after that is a little different and a little worse. That’s tragic, and there are tragedies happening every day, but they don’t have anything to do with this God and Jesus stuff.” Bunny paused and looked away. On the far wall was an oil painting of Sissy as a little girl. “And tragedies don’t have anything to do with dying, either,” Bunny added, “at least not always.”
“Well, that seems inconsistent,” Mrs. O’Brien put in. “Under your theory, dying should always be tragic because it always involves a lost chance—the chance for more life.”
“Some people just don’t get that much out of life,” Bunny said.
Mrs. Vernon rocked gently, kneading the apron in her lap. Bunny had gone too far. She realized that and softened a bit. “That’s what I think, anyway,” she added.
Using a cocktail napkin, Mrs. O’Brien removed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Maybe we should get back down to business,” she said.
“Should I leave?” asked Mrs. Vernon.
“No, sit,” said the social worker. “I think you should stay.” She moved back on the sofa, sliding away from the coffee table and the collection of uneaten sandwiches. She settled herself and faced Bunny and me. “Now, tell me, if you can, how the subject of sex was handled in your house.”
Bunny and I looked at each other.
“What do you mean?” asked Bunny.
“I mean just what I said. How was it discussed, what did you talk about? What kind of an education did Martha get?”
“It was discussed,” said Bunny. “I gave her the facts of life, just like any mother would.”
“Did you give her any advice?”
“Of course. I told her she’d ruin her life if she got pregnant.”
“I know this is a difficult subject,” said Mrs. O’Brien, “but please try to be a little more open.”
“About what?” Bunny spread her arms. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Her speech about tragedy had keyed her up. She was jumpy and excited.
“Well, let’s start here,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “When did Martha first menstruate?”
“Early,” said Bunny, smiling.
“I was the first girl in my class,” I said.
“She was very excited,” said Bunny, looking at me and giggling. “She told the whole neighborhood.”
“What?” said Mrs. O’Brien.
Bunny clutched her stomach and doubled over to keep from laughing out loud.
