person having any view other than her own. So she heard my offhand joke about the sort of people who slap Jesus fish on their minivans and she stored it away. By the time it got back to me that she was offended, I’d forgotten I ever said anything.
I went to her, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I apologized. I managed to get through it without an implied reprimand too. Nothing about how she should have come to me directly and not told everybody else how upset she was. The next Sunday she presented me with the fish.
“What does she expect?” Rick asked. “You’re not putting that thing on the car.”
“I think she misunderstood the reason I was apologizing.” I started to laugh, but Rick was still angry about the fish. Finally he gave in. “She’s crazy, I know. But if I don’t put it on . . .”
“I don’t care what these people think about us,” he said, though we both knew he did.
“When Pete Waterhouse had to shave his head, you and some of the other guys shaved yours too,” I reminded him. “In solidarity. This is the same kind of thing.”
“That was cancer. This is narrow-mindedness. I don’t want to reinforce this kind of thing.”
“What about your T-shirts?”
Rick had a closetful of kitsch T-shirts emblazoned with breathless religious slogans, most of them freebies from church-sponsored activities. “That’s different. I wear those ironically.”
“Right,” I said. “And the fish will be ironic too.”
Only nobody told the fish. Now, as I push my basket across the Giant parking lot, watching the Jesus fish glint in the afternoon sun, the fish looks awfully sincere. Earnest. He shines evenly in the sun, without so much as the hint of a wink.
Eli doesn’t get out of the car to help with the groceries, naturally. Until I pop the hatch, he’s not even aware of my presence. Eventually he does glance back, but just to make sure I’m not interfering with his bike. The rear wheel is distorted by an aggressive, curb-shaped bend. I fit the shopping bags in where I can, then slam the hatch.
Ordinarily I’d leave the basket in the empty spot next to the VW. But the Jesus fish is watching, so I walk it all the way over to the carousel.
When I get behind the wheel, I set my wallet on the bamboo shelf underneath the dash. (I refuse to drag around a purse because I like them too much. Get on the popular purse train and you never get off.) Eli takes no notice until the big yellow floater on Stacy’s keys catches his eye.
“What’re those?”
“Those are the keys to a beach house in Florida. How would you like to go to Florida for your birthday? The house is right on the beach.”
He pulls the earphones out of his ears and sits up straight.
“For real?”
“For real,” I say.
He slumps back down thoughtfully. “Florida, huh. Cool.”
I’m not immune to the boy’s charm, oh no. I put the plastic shades back on.
“Who’s the Cool Mom now?”
The traffic on the way home is heavy and my luck is such that I seem to catch every red light. Eli’s headphones are still dangling, still hissing his unattended music, while he contemplates the beach house keys in his hand. He sniffs the plastic floaty, trying to catch a whiff of salt water. I can tell the idea intrigues him, which is good. If the birthday boy’s onboard, Rick will have to go along.
Stuck at the light, I start thinking of ways to say thanks to Stacy. I never would have expected something like this from her. And now that I know she thinks of me as her best friend, maybe when I get back I’ll need to pay more attention to her. Maybe a girls’ night out.
The light changes and we get a few cars ahead. It turns red before I can clear the intersection. On the grass verge next to us, there’s a group of people gathered. On top of the noise of the radio and the traffic around us, they add another layer: chanting voices. Even with the window down, I have to pay attention to make out what they’re saying: “End the war, end the war, we can’t take it anymore!”
Some are standing and waving hand-lettered signs that say HONK FOR PEACE. Others sit in folding lawn chairs, shading themselves under wide-brimmed straw hats. They’re an unlikely group of demonstrators, mostly plump, gray-haired white people with sun-pinked skin. Despite