Ordinary Sins Read Online Free Page A

goal. He would be sweet—and stylish. He wore a pinstriped suit and a jaunty white hat in public, and he spoke in a gentlemanly fashion. And always with a smile.
    The strange combination of his endearing cordiality and pig face fascinated people.
    I know, he’s weird looking, but what a sweet person!
    I thought he’d be shy with that face of his, but look what he gave me!
    He’s really quite delightful once you get to know him. And such a gentleman.
    An extraordinarily attractive woman found him irresistible. He’s not like the others, she said. He is the first man who is interested in the part of me that doesn’t greet your eye.
    Give me a break, said a jealous cynic. The guy’s got the face of a pig!
    Today the pig-faced man and the beautiful woman are happily married. For reasons they don’t disclose, they have decided not to have children of their own, but they have something that makes many ordinary couples jealous.

WHAT’S CANDY TO AN ARTIST?
    The baby decided to cry in public. She was at that blissful stage before words were needed to create a policy. She didn’t have words, but she did have a policy. For nearly a year she had taken the matter under nonverbal consideration and had decided, without saying so, that actions spoke louder than the babble she heard around her. She listened to the grown-up babble around her and witnessed how talking was getting no one anywhere.
    Crying was a reasonable alternative. She test-marketed her nonverbal deduction in supermarkets and restaurants. Leading indicators pointed in one direction: Cry in public!
    Crying in public was bliss. It scrambled people more than pulling thirty books off a bookshelf. It made their faces light up like rain on the sidewalk. Crying in public worked. If a bit of a good thing worked so well, how much better would an abundance of a good thing be? She resolved to work on her policy until she had it right.
    Crying at the family reunion photo session one day was nothing compared to the next day at the airport. She wailed and screamed until a whole concourse of men and women and ageless genderless beings recoiled in nonverbal submission. More than submitting, some were transformed. An announcer unearthed a smile, while a janitor swept up his remnants of pity. A lethargic clerk declared early departure. A man in a pinstriped suit inquired about the convenience of buses.
    At the airport the baby cried as if the sky were the limit. Cried to the escalators, the baggage carts. She cried to the metal detectors and the boarding ramp tunnels. She cried to the seat belts and tray tables. She cried to the televised instructions for safety. She cried until the desperate flight attendants brought out the toys, the ridiculous non-chokable toys. Toys—and then candy.
    Would this candy be all right? they asked the mother.
    The mother, already sagging into herself, nodded weakly. The attendants handed the magical red, green, and blue sweets to silence the siren of wailing. But what’s candy to an artist? To one who has been transfixed by the glory of being one with her work? Crying in public! The resonant joy of screaming and wailing.
    But look: whose face is that submitting above her? Whose eyes are those filling with tears? Whose trembling lip? Is this the final reward of practice, the gift of these deepening wrinkles of fear and regret? For these, above all, the baby is crying in public.

DAYCARE
    This mother was so loving, so caring, so adoring, so gentle and considerate—and so encouraging and supportive that her son did not have the slightest idea what evil was. The little boy took such unreserved pleasure in the world that he acquired an expression so sweetly placid that neighboring parents who came into his presence cowered with guilt. Or resented him: He’s like a cake with too much frosting.

    Then one day the good mother brought her son to daycare.
    For this wonderful smiling little boy, going to daycare was