Free Play Dates by Leslie Carroll

between phrases, “Do you know why I asked you to come in this afternoon?”
    I shake my head. “Well, not two seconds ago Nina Osborne tore into me for my daughter’s vocabulary. I try my best not to use swear words at home, and Zoë knows she needs to be more creative with her language. Her grandfather is a poet, you may recall . . .”
    “I remember your father very well, Ms. Marsh. This is not about the use of foul speech.” Her lips press together more tightly; her mouth has become a thin slash, rimmed white with determination.
    “I’m so relieved,” I reply, wishing I had a net for the butterflies in my stomach. My past and present meld uncomfortably; the lines between Claire the child-up-shit’s-creek and Claire the parent-called-on-the-carpet-for-it have blurred completely.
    “It’s . . . nice to hear that my daughter is incorporating the les-

    56
    Leslie Carroll
    sons she learns at home into her behavior at school.” As I look at Mrs. Hennepin, I realize that she has nothing of the divine spark about her. No sense of warmth or humor. What the hell is this woman still doing molding the minds of six- and seven-year-olds?
    “As your father is a writer, you of all people, Ms. Marsh, must be perfectly aware that words don’t have to be swear words to inflict lasting damage,” Mrs. Hennepin says. Then she tells me what transpired during the class recess period at the playground in Central Park that morning. Zoë and Xander Osborne were playing “house” in the sandbox, making “hamburgers” with sand they had dampened with water from the nearby drinking fountain.
    “What’s wrong with ‘house’?” I ask Mrs. Hennepin. “Kids have been playing it since the Ice Age. And if you do it right, it can be a lot more fun than hide and go seek!”
    Clearly, my nemesis does not appreciate my nervous attempt at levity. “They weren’t married.”
    “Huh?”
    “Zoë and Xander weren’t married.”
    She’s got me totally confused. I try to channel my mother.
    What might Tulia have said? “Of course they aren’t married, Mrs. Hennepin. They’re still six years old. I’ve told Zoë she has to wait until she turns seven, at least. I still don’t understand where the problem is.”
    “Xander and Zoë were playing ‘house’ in the sandbox, but they weren’t married. They weren’t husband and wife.”
    I think about this for a moment, trying to suss out what Mrs.
    Hennepin seems to be telling me. “Well, I’m recently divorced, so I can understand why my daughter might have wanted to play the game that way. In the past several months she hasn’t had such a great experience of husbands and wives playing
    ‘house’ for keeps.”
    “I appreciate your efforts at pop psychology, Ms. Marsh.” Mrs.
    Hennepin steeples her fingers and gives me a long look. With PLAY DATES
    57
    her blonde bob and her puff-sleeved dress, she looks like the world’s oldest Sunday schooler. “Here’s the situation .” She makes the word sound like a code red emergency. “Zoë said something to Xander. In the sandbox.”
    I shrug. “What could my daughter have said to the little boy that was so terrible?”
    “She asked him to elope.”
    I let this sink in. Then I begin to laugh, nervously at first because I don’t quite know what to say, and then my laughter changes tones, morphing into a relaxed hilarity because of the situation ’s sheer silliness.
    “I really don’t find the humor in this, Ms. Marsh.”
    “Of course you don’t,” I say, stifling another giggle. “It’s very serious. ”
    “It is very serious,” Mrs. Hennepin says. “After Zoë asked him to elope with her, Xander Osborne tossed sand in her face—”
    “Is Zoë all right?” I interrupt, jolted back to earth.
    “She got a little sand in her eye, but we rushed her to the in-firmary and Nurse Val rinsed her eyes. She’s fine.”
    Nurse Val—Betty Valentine—is another Thackeray mainstay who has been at the school since the dawn of