Fiction: Buttony

Fiona McFarlane

THE CHILDREN WANTED to play Buttony. “All right,” Miss Lewis said, and she clapped her hands five times, in the rhythm that meant they must be quiet and copy her. They were quiet and copied her. “All right,” she said, with that smile she reserved for the sleepy, silly midafternoon. “We’ll play. Joseph, get the button.” The children approved the justice of this appointment; that was apparent in the small, satisfied sigh they made together. They watched Joseph walk to Miss Lewis’s desk. Joseph was a compact, deliberate boy, and his straight black hair fell to his shoulders. He wore his uniform in a way that seemed gentlemanly but at the same time casual. He was both kind and beautiful, and they loved him. The button lay in a special tin in the…

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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, March 7, 2016

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