Cutwork by Monica Ferris Page A

snorts of incredulity. “Mickey’s never been innocent in his life!” said Kristal.
    “Yeah!” agreed Kathy.
    “I think perhaps he may be in this case.”
    “I give up, you’re all crazy,” said Kristal, and she left the room, Kathy marching in total agreement behind her.
    “Okay, now the disrupting influences have left the room,” remarked Greg, as if beginning a sentence. But he didn’t finish it, only cast a wary eye on his ex-wife.
    “Do you really believe Mickey is innocent?” Faith asked Betsy, desperate to hear “Yes” in reply.
    “I think perhaps he is. You said you were sure he was at The Common, but he says he wasn’t.”
    “He’s . . . a bit of a liar,” said Faith.
    “He’s a big fat liar,” amended Greg.
    “Why is that?” asked Betsy.
    “Because he wants to be a man, and doesn’t know how,” said Greg. “Faith has no idea how to help a boy become a man.”
    “Not being one yourself, neither do you!” said Faith.
    Surprisingly, Greg didn’t reply, and she continued to Betsy, “Mickey’s just like his father, always trying to prove himself. I tried to tell him that real men have flaws and weaknesses just like women do, but he wouldn’t believe me. He brags about how strong he is, and lies about how well he’s doing, always denying that he’s scared or tired or unable to handle a situation. Greg told him he was the man of the house—”
    “Once. One time,” interrupted Greg.
    “So he started trying to boss us around. I told the girls they don’t have to take orders from him, so he fights with them all the time. And me. And after a fight he storms out of the house, and next thing we know, he’s done something really inappropriate.”
    “Is that what happened last Sunday?” asked Betsy.
    Faith sighed. “Yes. It wasn’t a worse fight than usual, but it ended with the usual slamming door.”
    Greg said, “I think Faith has some kind of notion about ‘testosterone poisoning,’ which started as a feminist joke but has become gospel. She used to get angry with Mickey when he was little because he was loud instead of quiet, messy instead of neat, and ran instead of walked. He was just a normal boy, but she couldn’t see that, all she could see was that he wasn’t like Kristal when she was his age. It got worse, a lot worse, after the divorce. He had just turned twelve and didn’t know how to handle his anger and resentment—and I wasn’t there to show her that acting out is part of the struggle toward manhood, and show him how to handle the feelings he was having. He’s my son, and I was proud to have a son, but we both failed him.”
    “It got worse because of the divorce,” amended Faith.
    “You were the one who wanted a divorce,” Greg reminded her.
    “You were the one who started staying out at night!” she flared.
    “You’re the one who kept running me out of the house!”
    “We’re talking about Mickey,” said Betsy, trying the heading-off technique again.
    “This is about Mickey!” snapped Faith. “It’s about boyhood and manhood and, all right, the whole testosterone thing!” She flung herself down on the couch, propped her head on one hand, and took several deep breaths. “I’m sorry, Greg’s right, it wasn’t just him, we both handled it badly.” She raised her head. “But I can tell you from my heart, I absolutely know that Mickey didn’t murder that artist!”
     
Driving home an hour later, Betsy shrugged several times and moved her head around, trying to make her shoulder muscles loosen up. What a family! No wonder Mickey Sinclair was in trouble, coming from a home like that.
    She grabbed that thought and decapitated it. Plenty of children had come out of worse homes and done well.
    Once, long ago, Betsy had had a friend who was a dog breeder. This friend explained that breeders were—or should be—as interested in behavior as in looks, and could select for both. She told Betsy that the Doberman was bred to guard