Little Children by Tom Perrotta Page B

Russian epileptic. Her face blossomed into a bright smile at the sight of the visitor; she scampered down the hallway and flung herself into the older woman’s arms as if they were lovers meeting in an airport. Jean sniffed Lucy’s hair, then dropped to one knee and gave her a long, searching look.
    “Did you nap today?”
    Lucy shook her head sadly.
    “Are you sleepy?”
    Lucy shook her head again, this time in fervent denial. Except for a ring of grape juice staining her mouth like a drunk’s lipstick, she looked adorable, a wide-eyed waif in a sleeveless Barbie nightgown (a gift from Richard’s mother that Sarah strongly disapproved of, and that Lucy, naturally, cherished beyond reason).
    “She must have gotten a second wind,” Sarah observed.
    “I’m glad to hear it,” said Jean. “Because if you were tired, I couldn’t give you your present.”
    Lucy snapped to attention. “What present?”
    Jean cupped one hand around her ear, as if she were listening to far-off voices.
    “Do you hear barking? Is there a dog in your house?”
    Lucy checked with her mother, just in case there was a dog she hadn’t been told about.
    “Not that I know of,” said Sarah.
    “Maybe it’s coming from in here.” Jean rotated her extra-large fanny pack—it was an elaborate contraption, with multiple compartments and attachments for carrying two water bottles and a flashlight—so the main storage pouch was facing forward. Sarah didn’t know what possessed her to wear something big and lumpy like that on her ass.
    “Oh my.” Jean tugged slowly on the zipper. With a flourish, she reached in and removed a cute little husky with a heart-shaped tag dangling from one ear. “Look what I found.”
    “A Beanie!” Lucy shouted, as if she needed to notify the whole neighborhood.
    “His name’s Nanook,” said Jean. Lucy released a small whimper of joy as Jean placed the dog in her cupped hands.
    “You didn’t have to do that,” said Sarah.
    “I got one for Tyler,” Jean explained. Tyler was her four-year-old grandson who lived in Seattle. She only got to see him twice a year, but she talked about him every day, and began Christmas shopping for him in April. “And I know Lucy collects them, too.”
    “Well, that was really thoughtful.” Sarah turned to her daughter. “Say thank you to Jean.”
    “Fank you, Jean,” said Lucy, in her softest, sweetest voice. There was a look of ecstatic gratitude on her face that made Sarah cringe. You would have thought she’d never received a gift before in her life.

    What the hell is he doing up there? Sarah wondered, as seven-thirty came and went. She didn’t care how busy he was, it was a simple matter of equity. He’d been out of the house all day, being an adult, talking to people, lunching with clients in a nice restaurant. Couldn’t he just turn off his computer and let her go for her goddam walk, the one thing she looked forward to all day? Couldn’t he spend an hour a day with his three-year-old daughter? Was that too much to ask?
    At least Jean didn’t mind. She’d been kneeling on the rug for the past half hour, helping Lucy introduce Nanook to the rest of her twenty-seven Beanies. (How had she managed to accumulate twenty-seven Beanies, anyway?) Now they were arranging the animals in chronological order, according to the “birthdays” printed on their name tags. No, Jean actually liked Lucy, a fact that struck Sarah as a fresh surprise every time she saw them together. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Lucy, it was just that Sarah wasn’t in the habit of thinking of her daughter as a particularly lovable child.
    It wasn’t Lucy’s fault. She and Sarah just spent too much time together. Of course they got on each other’s nerves. Today, for instance, they’d been stuck together like Siamese twins since 6:13 in the morning. Three meals, two snacks, five diapers, a trip to the supermarket (tantrum on the checkout line), some unproductive time on the