Another day, and my diastolic is back in double digits. If you could pick a time for your son's friend to find a cache of knives and Go Zorro on the furniture, the weekend before Thanksgiving would be a very good choice. Normal weekly rituals have shut down for the holiday, so maintaining radio silence seems perfectly understandable.
I doubt this is the end of the friendship, although I can't be sure. Moxie and I have had far more contact with the mom, who is a terrific person; the dad's a bit of a nutball who works crazy hours, so we don't see him as much. This is bound to change, however, because he recently decided he hated his job and flat-out quit, with no prospects of a new gig on the horizon. This is the sort of thing you can do when 1) you've got savings and 2) your spacious, two-bedroom duplex in the West Village is already paid for. (You might think this is reason enough to hate them. And you would be right.)
I'm pretty sure we'll smoothe it over soon, even if all future playdates are in neutral territory. Raising kids in the city without piles of cash lying around can be challenge, and friends are a valuable resource not to be taken lightly. And I'm encouraged by a case precedent. After my mom read yesterday's post, she helpfully reminded me that when I was 7 she left me with the neighbors two doors down, and when she came back their two daughters were chasing me with a hatchet. But everything worked out OK; the adults stayed friends (and cut-throat, trash-talking bridge partners) for years, and I learned early how to lust after warrior princesses.