Little Children by Tom Perrotta

supermarket. So that was May’s choice: not between Bertha and family, or between Bertha and someone nicer, but between Bertha and no one.
    It wasn’t that hard to choose.
     
    “He knows where the body is,” Bertha insisted. “You can tell by the way he blinks those shifty little eyes.”
    May didn’t even like thinking about Gary Condit, let alone talking about him. The missing girl, the grieving parents, the murderer walking around unpunished—it was just too horrible. Bertha, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough.
    “He might as well have had the word guilty stamped across his forehead. And sweet little wifey standing by his side.”
    What else can she do? May wanted to ask. What else can she do if she loves him?
    “I got news for Congressman Howdy Doody.” Bertha twisted off the cap on wine cooler number two. She could polish off three or four during the average lunch. “His shit stinks like everyone else’s.”
    “Please,” said May. “Language.”
    “I hope she gets to visit him in prison. I’m sure he’ll look very distinguished in his jumpsuit.” Bertha cackled at the thought. “So who spray-painted your driveway?”
    She asked this question so abruptly and matter-of-factly that it took May a couple of seconds to realize that they weren’t talking about Congressman Howdy Doody anymore.
    “Spray paint?”
    “You didn’t know?” Bertha couldn’t quite conceal her pleasure at being the bearer of bad news. “You got some new graffiti last night.”
    “Oh no. Is it disgusting?”
    “Just one word,” said Bertha. “But it’s not a very nice one.”
    May started to rise from her chair, then thought better of it. The word—she could imagine which one it was without too much trouble—could wait. There was no sense spoiling her lunch, getting herself all worked up for nothing.
    “The nerve of these people,” she muttered.
    “The tuna’s good today,” said Bertha, though she’d only taken a few tiny nibbles of her sandwich. “Is it StarKist?”
    “The store brand,” May replied distractedly.
    “I don’t buy the store brands.” Bertha shook her head with great vehemence, as if she’d learned this lesson the hard way. “You save a couple pennies, but I’d rather have the peace of mind.”
    “It’s the same product,” said May. Her heart wasn’t in the argument, which she and Bertha revisited every time they ate tuna fish. “They just slap different labels on the cans.”
    “Don’t be naive,” said Bertha, but her attention shifted suddenly to the steno pad in the center of the table with the red pen resting on top. She picked up the pad and examined it. “What’s this?”
    “Ronnie’s personal ad. I need to find him a girlfriend.”
    “Hmmm.” Bertha seemed impressed. She squinted at the page and read aloud. “‘SWM, 43, nice eyes and smile. Likes biking and long walks on beach. I’m not perfect and don’t expect you to be, either.’”
    “What do you think?” May asked. It sounded pretty good to her.
    Bertha pondered the matter for a few seconds before shaking her head.
    “It’s not gonna work. You need to say handsome. ”
    “I wanted to. Ronnie wouldn’t let me.”
    “Trust me,” said Bertha. “If you don’t, they’re just gonna think he’s ugly.”
    “That’s what I said. But you know how stubborn he can be.”
    Bertha uncapped the pen and scrawled a quick correction to the ad.
    “There,” she said. “He’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”
     
    May stood in the midday sun and stared at the awful word painted on her driveway. It wasn’t the one she’d expected. Her legs felt weak.
    “Where do people learn their manners?” she wondered. “This used to be a nice town.”
    “It was never that nice,” Bertha told her. “It just liked to pretend it was.”
    “But vandalizing someone’s driveway?”
    “Probably teenagers,” said Bertha. “They go drinking in the woods, and then they run amuck.”
    “No,” said May. “It’s