On Route 60 bumping through Belmont, Barb drove the car like a swerving drunk, trying to hit every rainwater puddle at the side of the road. She and seven-year-old Jay cheered maniacally at each one. “Rooster tails,” she explained, almost as an aside, as water arc-ed up and out from the puddles, feathering the air. She and Jay cheered again, woo-hoo, the roadway entertainment an intimate joke that they shared. I envied them this zany closeness, and of course started plotting how I was going to create a similar madcap rapport with Zeke.
I made a few rooster tails while driving with him that week, but at five he was already canny and languid about the artifices of adult society. “Stop it mom,” Zeke said, with almost adolescent condescension, as I swerved and cheered. “You’re only doing that because Barb does, and it’s kind of dangerous.”