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want”?
    I clasp my hand over my eyes.
    “Is something wrong?” asks Charlotte.
    I yank my hand away, startled. “It’s the filing,” I lie. “I hate the filing.”
    “Poor sweetheart. We must talk about that. We must think of something you can tell those monsters who are exploiting you. But right now supper is ready, so why don’t you go wash your hands and come sit down like a good little boy.”
    “Yes, Mommy,” I say, to please her.
    I go sit down.
    “You forgot to wash your hands,” she says.
    “No I didn’t.”
    “Yes you did. You forgot to go to the bathroom and wash your hands. You got up from the bed and you came straight to the table and sat down. You must be a little dazed from all that filing, Jeremy. Now run along and wash your hands before the chicken gets cold.”
    “Charlotte, I did not forget to wash my hands. I didn’t do it because I didn’t feel like it.”
    “You can’t eat without having washed your hands.”
    “Is that a new thing with you? You never talked about washing hands before.”
    “That’s because I always thought you did it.”
    “Charlotte, I have a confession to make. I never wash my hands after I go to the bathroom.”
    She looks at me in silent amazement for a while and then slowly says, “That is totally gross.”
    “But I wash my hands after I file. Does that make up for it?”
    “No. That is totally gross,” she repeats.
    “To please you, I will go wash my hands.”
    I get up and wash my hands. I come back and sit down. She is still standing there, staring down at the table.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask.
    “It is totally gross, Jeremy. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat now.”
    “Relax,” I say, tapping her elbow. “A little shit on your hands once in a while isn’t the end of the world. It’s healthy.”
    “It’s abnormal. I’m worried about you, Jeremy,” she says, shaking her head slowly.
    “Oh well, let’s eat,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Come sit down, sweetheart. The chicken’s getting cold.”
    She remains standing, still shaking her head.
    “Are you okay?” I ask.
    “No, not okay at all. I’m worried about you, Jeremy.”
    “Why? You think I have a psychological disorder?” I chuckle. She stops shaking her head and stares at me without answering.
    “What?” I say defensively, my mouth full of chicken. “You think I have a psychological disorder? Is that what you think?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because I don’t always wash my hands?”
    “After going to the bathroom, Jeremy. It’s a sign. It means something.”
    “Would you like me to leave? Perhaps I need to be punished to be cured. Would you like to spank me?” I say, smiling mischievously to relax her.
    She looks at me sadly. “No punishment can cure you. You must find the strength within yourself.”
    “I’ll work on it. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what. Let’s play pretend. Let’s pretend I’m wearing that nice blue tie you like so much. I must be careful not to drip any grease on it, now mustn’t I? And let’s pretend I always wash my hands before and after going to the bathroom and that my paper cuts have been disinfected three times with alcohol. I even used the nailbrush. Look,” I say, holding out my hands. “You can still see the redness around the nails.”
    She sits down and starts eating her chicken.
    “It’s very good,” I say.
    “Thank you,” she replies.
    After the chicken, she brings dessert, a big, rich lemon chocolate cake. It’s something she hasn’t made for me very often, because she says it’s very difficult and complicated, but I must say that chocolate cake is the best I have ever eaten.
    “Do you want to cut it, or do you want me to cut it?” she asks.
    “It looks wonderful, but unfortunately I don’t think it would be wise of me to have any of that cake tonight. I’m on a di—I have stomach troubles.”
    “You’re on a diet? If you’re on a diet, just say so. You don’t have to pretend you’re having