The Hedge

A boy decided to leave home.

“I’m going to live in a hedge,” the boy told his mother, “but I’ll come back for birthdays and holidays. Will you make me a snack?”

The boy’s mother made three kinds of sandwich — tomato, cheese, and egg salad — cutting thicks slices of bread and using a different knife for mustard and mayonnaise. It occurred to her that she’d be alone in the house. She might even take a nap, she thought.

The boy thanked his mother. He allowed her to hug and kiss him, and left for the hedge.

The boy’s mother tried to take a nap, but she couldn’t fall asleep. The daylight was too bright, even with her eyes closed. She decided to clean the windows instead — a thorough cleaning, on both sides of the glass — but first she’d have a little lunch. She got up from the sofa and ate some egg salad, then collected her cleaning supplies.

She was about to start on the windows when the boy came back.

“I’m not really back,” he said. “I need more sandwiches.”

“Of course,” his mother replied. “I don’t even see you.”

She tried to appear indifferent, but she was satisfied by his request. It was a small victory to feed him anything he liked. She wondered which of the sandwiches he’d preferred, wanting to cater to his tastes, and realized she’d finished the egg salad.

“How’s the hedge?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” the boy said, looking around the kitchen. “It’s a hedge.”

“We’re out of egg salad. I’ve made four sandwiches — two tomato and two cheese. That should be enough.”

The boy thanked her again. Again he allowed himself to be hugged and kissed, and left for the hedge.

The boy’s mother cleaned all the windows. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d given them a good scrubbing. Up close she discovered smudges and smears, and that was inside the house — outside was another layer of grime. The water in her bucket became cloudy and grey. She scrubbed and scrubbed, upstairs and down-, until every window in the house had been transformed.

The boy’s mother was developing a headache. She realized she was hungry. She ate the remaining cheese and stared at her reflection in the glass.

The boy came home.

“You promise a person one bite,” he said, “and then someone else asks for a bite, and pretty soon everyone wants a bite. Can I have more sandwiches?”

“No more sandwiches — you’ll ruin your dinner. Anyway, it’s getting late. Time to come inside.”

“But I can’t,” the boy insisted. “I live in the hedge now.”

“Please don’t argue, it makes my head hurt. And please stop pawing at the windows — I found your dirty fingerprints everywhere. You can play with your friends tomorrow. You can bring them some tomatoes, if you like, but then I expect you back inside, no arguments, getting ready for dinner.”

The boy glared at his mother, but he didn’t protest. He collected the tomatoes and carried them outside — no thank-you for her compromise, no hug or kiss. She hoped his friends appreciated all the food she’d given them. She hoped their parents appreciated the healthy snacks.

It made a startling sound — the first tomato that burst against the windowpane. The boy’s mother jerked with alarm. She watched the ripe tomato smear against the glass, changing the quality of light. Another tomato struck with the same startling sound. She flinched when a third tomato hit, and then a fourth. The glass shook, but didn’t break.

The boy’s mother ran from the kitchen. Thankfully she’d already used most of the tomatoes — for the sandwiches — but soon they were throwing stones.