II

Robert Kennedy Elementary is down the street from where we live, but my mother drives me there just to drop me off a block away every day. She says it’s preparation for my later rejection of her when I enter my precocious teen years – rebel, paint my finger nails black and listen to Bauhaus. I’d never dream of the latter, but the first two always intrigued me to some degree. Perhaps it’s my father’s influence. Especially since he moved in across the street.

But they always didn’t fight. I promise. Mother and father used to be very loving towards each other – at least intensely so, as my mother put. Blind intensity, she would always remind me. They met prep school. A casual glance in chemistry lab set her heart ablaze; along with half of the classroom that day. She’d inadvertently caught her the sleeve of her favorite Casmir sweater while lighting a Bunsen burner. It was love and blame at first sight – something my they both continually do. I’m not convinced they’re out of love with each other. I think the fighting is a mask for some much deeper affectation – two neuroses battling it out to assert a level of sexual dominance.

Why, the other day, my father picked up milk for my mother after he picked me up from school. It all started when my father bought a new pair of binoculars for birding, a hobby of his since he was my age. He’d bought me one as well because he’d wanted me to pick it up as hobby so we’d have something in common. I told him we’d already had lots in common (I’d made a list and given it to him when he moved across the street), but he insisted and I acquiesced. Of course, he had to test them both out the moment he’d purchased them, drove over to my school and checked me out due to a family emergency. He was quite convincing.

“Son, execution is all that matters in this world,” he said adjusting the focus as he stared out of his bedroom window facing mother’s bedroom window. “That and dressing appropriately for the occasion.”
And he was – dressed in a stunning three-piece cage with a bright red tie, which meant only one thing in our family, it was a Monday. I peered through my new pair of binoculars finding focus as my mother was reaching for a new outfit in her large, automated closet. She could be found in some new outfit every four hours during the day, just to keep fresh. Today being Monday, she reached for her favorite red slip.

“Precision as well, son,” he said distracted. “Precision is what makes the world cling and clatter, I promise, and it drives the ladies wild!”

He paused for a moment savoring each of those last words. I looked at him, momentarily admiring him and turned back to window. This time my mother had managed to make her way into the closet and was followed by the loudest shriek I’d ever heard emanate from her mouth.

My father laughed and pumped his fist in excitement. I watched in confusion; finding my mother screaming with red paint all over her red slip and finally turning towards the window to find my father and I, watching with our new binoculars. Her words needn’t be mouthed; we could both hear her quite audibly. The phone rang but my father neglected to pick up. He turned away from the window, gathered me with my binoculars and took me to the park to do some birding.

As we departed from the driveway, my mother came screaming out like a banshee, chasing after us dripping with red paint, promising sweet revenge while wielding a rolling pin. My father smiled a quiet smile as he glanced into the rearview.

“Precision, my son, is the timing of the gods.”