Free Little Children by Tom Perrotta Page A

and a mean drunk who enjoyed making other people feel small and stupid, and Ronnie was always his favorite target. When he finally left it had seemed like the end of the world to May, but now she saw that it was for the best. Ronnie gave a small shrug of surrender.
    “All right, Ma. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll give it a shot. But just one date, all right? I’m not gonna make a career of it.”
    He was humoring her, but that was better than nothing. It wasn’t natural for a grown man to be living with his mother, no hobbies and diversions, just reading the paper and watching TV all day. It was almost like he was still in prison, except for the long rides he took on his old bike, which made her nervous, since he refused to tell her where he went or what he was doing. But a bike was better than a car, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t want him going around in a car, or in a van, God forbid. Plus, he could use the exercise. He was always complaining about the prison food, but he’d come home fifteen pounds heavier than when he’d gone in.
    What he needed was a girlfriend, and May intended to help him find one. If he had a nice girl in his life, maybe he wouldn’t spend so much time alone in his room, spying on the neighborhood kids through his binoculars. He always denied it, but she knew what he was up to. And if he got married someday—Why not? Didn’t all sorts of people get married: midgets, retarded people, people with missing limbs, whatever?—then she could die in peace, without worrying about what would become of her boy if she wasn’t around to keep him out of trouble. Because she got so tired sometimes and just wanted a little rest, some time to put her feet up. Didn’t she deserve that much, after a long life with so much trouble in it, and so little happiness? She often found herself thinking about the cemetery as she drifted off to sleep at night, and it seemed like a nice, welcoming place, all that grass and those beautiful trees, and neighbors who didn’t make you feel like you had some sort of disease. She flipped open her steno pad and started writing.
    “You have a nice smile,” she said. “Why don’t we start with that?”
     
    As usual, Bertha arrived just in time for lunch, carrying a small brown grocery bag.
    “Here’s the fruit juice,” she said in a loud voice, winking slyly as she handed the bag to May. “I brought the fruit juice like you told me, Mrs. McGorvey.”
    For some reason or other, Bertha insisted on calling the wine coolers “fruit juice.” At first, May had assumed that she did it for the benefit of any neighbors who might be within earshot—not that it was any of their damn business—but it turned out just to be another of Bertha’s private jokes. She had a whole storehouse of them—most were tiresome rather than funny—but May accepted them as the price of her company. God knows she’d put up with worse in her day.
    “Where’s the Prince?” Bertha asked, peering into the living room. “Out gallivanting on his tricycle?”
    Almost as soon as Ronnie had come home, Bertha had nicknamed him “the Prince” in honor of his alleged freeloading tendencies, even though May had explained repeatedly that her son was not unemployed by choice. Bertha scoffed at this claim. In her view, Ronnie had an enviable setup: a grown man with no responsibilities whatsoever, boarding at his mother’s expense, eating chips and watching cable all day, and generally carrying on like a member of the royal family.
    “He’s getting some exercise,” said May, though both women understood that Ronnie despised Bertha and timed his bike rides to coincide with her visits.
    “Something smells delicious.” Bertha sniffed the air as though it were a flower. “What’s on the grill?”
    “Nothing,” said May. “We’re having tuna sandwiches.”
    “And fruit juice,” said Bertha. “Don’t forget the fruit juice.”
    Until she’d struck up her friendship with Bertha, May hadn’t