Free Model Home by Eric Puchner Page B

maybe? One that says BABY ?”
    â€œGood idea,” Wendy Felsher, the Planned Parenthooder, said. “Let’s thoroughly confuse the viewers.”
    Father Gladstone ignored her. “It’s the sense of continuity I’m worried about. We don’t want to give a false impression, like this egg’s going out with the trash.”
    Wendy Felsher scowled. “I don’t think we need to politicize this, Father.”
    His face hardened. “As long as it feels like a permanent choice, that’s all I’m asking. We’re not playing God here.”
    â€œAnd what if this is a rape?”
    â€œThis is not a rape,” Camille said. “It’s an educational video.”
    â€œFather Gladstone’s just trying to be accurate,” Carl Boufis said.
    â€œIn that case,” Wendy Felsher said, “why don’t we have someone come in with a coat hanger T-shirt?”
    â€œHa ha ha ha!” Mikolaj said from the front row, slapping his knees. “This is much more interesting!”
    Camille’s cigarette craving deepened. She looked up at the back row and found Lexie Cross, an eighth-grade teacher and the only member of the committee besides Father Gladstone who was wearing black. She’d moved here six months ago from London, which seemed—at this moment—like the epitome of sophistication.
    â€œMs. Cross,” Camille said, “do you have any input?”
    Lexie lifted her head slowly, as if wishing not to disturb the silver scorpion pinned to the lapel of her jacket. “I don’t know,” she said in her well-dressed British accent. “This whole idea. Isn’t it a bit, um, silly?”
    â€œSilly?”
    â€œI mean, kids dressed as sperms?”
    â€œThey’re not dressed as sperms. They’re wearing T-shirts.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. It still seems a bit juvenile.” She pursed her lips. “These are fifth graders, right?”
    Camille frowned. “Well, I don’t think ‘juvenile’ would be the right term. ‘Interactive,’ maybe. ‘Educationally hands-on.’”
    â€œHave you asked the kids what they think?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe kids. How do they feel about the video? Do they fancy the idea?”
    Camille blinked. She looked at the other committee members, who seemed to find this a reasonable question. “Well, I’m not sure their input’s relevant. I mean, I think we’re better equipped to demonstrate the ins and outs of conception. As adults, I mean.”
    Lexie Cross smiled. “I’m not sure we should go so far as filming the ins and outs.”
    The auditorium rippled with laughter. Even Rabbi Silverberg seemed to enjoy the joke, his beard twitching up and down in the fourth row. Camille did her best to ignore the blaze in her cheeks, wondering how she was ever going to please such a ridiculous group of cretins. She was about to give up, resigned to go back to the drawing board, but the mood seemed to have shifted. With a few concessions to Father Gladstone, Camille’s script was halfheartedly approved, if only because no one could think of a different one. She was too humiliated to feel victorious. She slipped away after the meeting and ducked briskly to the exit. Wasps rose from the Passiflora and buzzed at her face, their hind legs dangling like twigs. Dodging these hideous creatures, she felt like she might cry. Strangely, it was not the laughing faces of the committee members that she pictured but those of her children, their mouths pink with filling.
    She touched her stomach. Even if Warren wanted to start over, a new beginning, she couldn’t imagine going through another love affair with a baby, setting herself up for rejection.
    Someone called Camille’s name, and she turned to see Mikolaj running to catch up with her, panting for breath. The nebula in his eye had spread into a galactic event. Camille glanced