Chapter 1 - The Woman on the Bench
My five-year-old asked me why those women were yelling at the lady with the letters on her arm.
Marcus, both kids, and I were at the summer festival Saturday evening. We'd just gotten food and were looking for somewhere to sit near the food trucks.
A woman sat on the end of one of the benches. Dark hair up, sunglasses pushed on top of her head. Her forearm was covered in a tattoo I'd never seen anything like — rows of squares, each with a letter, running from her wrist up past her elbow. Like someone had inked a keyboard onto her skin.
And I'll admit something I'm not proud of. I noticed it immediately. It was impossible not to. The letters were huge. The squares weren't delicate or artistic in any way. They took up almost her entire forearm.
I remember thinking it was a strange thing to put on your body permanently. I didn't say it. But I thought it.
Her son was maybe seven. Gray tank top, dark shorts, bright green headphones covering his ears. He wasn't sitting with her. He stood beside her, holding her arm with both hands, one around her wrist and one just below her elbow. Every few seconds he pressed one of the letters with his thumb. Then another. He wasn't looking at the tattoo. He was looking up at his mother's face.
At first I thought it was a game. Maybe she'd gotten the tattoo for him. Maybe he liked spelling words on her arm. Maybe that was just their thing.
Then two women came over from the food line. The one in front had blonde hair and sunglasses on top of her head, and she got close enough to lean down over both of them. Her friend stayed a step behind, hand flat against her chest, the way people do when they've decided to be scandalized.
"Mothers shouldn't walk around looking like that."
The mother didn't answer her. She kept her arm still for her son.
The blonde woman laughed. "I'm talking to you. Do you understand what kind of example that is? And you've got him hanging off it..."
"She's letting him play with it," the friend said. "Look at him."
I stopped walking. Marcus took our daughter Ruby's hand. Our nine-year-old, Naomi, nearly walked into my back.
"Mom?"
"Hang on."
I don't know why I stopped. Partly because the confrontation was happening right beside the only empty table. Partly because I'm nosy. And partly because there was something about the boy. He didn't look like he was playing.
The blonde woman apparently hadn't noticed that. "You know children copy what they see," she continued.
Still no response. The mother looked down at her son. He pressed another square. Then another. She nodded.
The blonde woman laughed again. "See? He thinks it's a toy."
That's when the mother finally looked at her. "Please leave us alone." Her voice was quiet. Not frightened. Tired.
That should have ended it. It didn't.
"There's no need to be rude," the blonde woman said.
May you like
Marcus looked at me. I could tell he was deciding whether to step in. Before either of us moved, the boy tightened his grip on his mother's arm. Pressed one square. Moved his thumb. Pressed another. Then went back to the first one. His movements sped up. He made a small sound in his throat. Not a word.
His mother immediately covered his fingers with her free hand. "I know," she whispered.
