They’re way at the back of Wild Child Museum, in a windowless room decorated with leprechauns and dinosaurs. The kindergarteners squawk happy birthday and clamor over the corner slice of Costco cake. Occasionally they cover their ears and glance back at Danny, who’s pounding the wall with the plastic hammer he smuggled from the ‘construction zone.’
The parents line the table and hum along, knuckles stretching jean pockets. Their stolen stares at Danny’s mother, crouching beside her boy, are quicker yet more conspicuous. Danny’s mother knows what they’re thinking: That Danny’s imitating what he saw at his Fifth Street apartment, where now only she and Danny live. That Danny’s old upstairs neighbors, the Taylors, did mention something about the ‘frequent picture hanging below.’ The other parents are thinking about that December night when sirens lit up Fifth Street, the day before Danny’s dad disappeared from drop-off. Probably, all the moms’ phones glow right now with why was Danny invited, and why are those apartments even in our district.
Danny’s mother knows she should act. Whack, whack—She should gently pry the plastic hammer from Danny’s hands, gently apologize for ruining the birthday girl’s special moment, gently guide Danny out the door promising Bluey on her phone. Instead she squeezes her earlobes red, pinches her thighs through her pockets, and watches her son with envious awe as he beats plaster specks out of the wall.
Danny’s mother doesn’t move, for she fears what’ll happen once the hammer’s in her grasp. This dad to her left wears the same Old Spice as Danny Sr., and this mom to the right has that same tight cursive tattooed to her wrist. The birthday girl’s uncle sports that identical low fade she’d scratch for hours, post-fight, as she counted the minutes until Danny awoke.
When the singing subsides, Danny’s mother downs a slice of cake with a perky red icing balloon and scrapes raw the roof of her mouth with the plastic fork. She wonders if it’d be worth it, if she’d start with his car or his windows or his teeth. Danny’s whacks grow deafening. She knows she must act. A single, thunderous refrain beats at her thoughts: On the way home, I’ll buy a real hammer.