It didn't take long for my mother to find sabotage boring. She preferred direct wormholes. Bernie was unlucky. He could sabotage himself as well as my mother could. Fortunately he wasn't too successful at it. My mother might walk into a shop with attitude. "Hmph," she'd say and pick up a pillbox from Bernie's line. "Not his best," she'd say. The owners were used to her. Maybe her judgment worked subtly, but probably not enough. Bernie's lack of enthusiasm was more effective. He was no Axel. He walked into shops with a here-I-am-again expression, or so I imagined. We were doing all right, but just all right. I didn't mind. One night I asked Bernie what he'd expected as a boy. "My mother called me her little professor," he said. I asked if that was what he expected. "I don't think you can separate what your parents expect from what you expect," he said. I had to mull that one over. Darby was almost ten.
