My Stephen King Weekend II

(Continued from the previous entry.)

It took us about 15 minutes to walk to the cemetery, during which time I chatted with "Leah" and "Rachel" (not their real names), who are eight and twelve, respectively. 

As Leah pushed Snookums in the stroller, she confided that she was so glad Snookums was a girl: "If she'd been a boy, I would have been so disappointed." 

Before I even had a chance to ask why, she explained: "In our community, people of the opposite sex who aren't related have to keep at least an arm's length from each other." 

Ohhhh-kay, I thought. From BABIES? 

"Ninety-nine percent of all marriages end after the first year," Leah went on, eerily confident in the way she parroted misinformation. "This is because of all the inappropriate behavior between men and women. You have to keep Snookums away from older men now, so that it doesn't develop into a habit when she's older." 

Uh-huh, I thought. I'll get right on that, sister. 

By now it was pretty obvious that any question these girls asked me was not innocent, but had an I'm-better-than-you-because-you're-a-Godless-sinner agenda behind it. As in: 

"Do you ever let Snookums wear skirts?" 

"Sure," I said. 

"How much of the time?" 

I mean, what kind of question is that? Am I supposed to say I let her wear them 30 percent of the time? 50 percent of the time? 62 percent of the time? 

"Oh, sometimes," I replied. 

"Are you going to let her wear bangs?" 

Here, I wasn't sure what the right answer was. Were bangs good or bad? Somehow the question implied they were bad -- but why, for Crissake? I answered something noncommittal. 

"Do you know how to sew?" 

"Not really," I said. "I mean, I can sew on a button or mend something if it's torn, but I don't really sew." 

"Well," said Leah, very pleased with herself, "when we get back to the house I'll have to show you the dresses I made, and the quilts, and the sweaters. . . " 

We hadn't even gotten to the cemetery yet, and already I was starting to hate this smug, self-righteous little bitch. 

"How can an eight-year-old be a bitch?" you ask. All I can say is, That's what I used to think. 

TO BE CONTINUED