A Song in the Daylight. Paullina Simons
go back to having them. “I didn’t see much of that. Neither did my husband. Make the next right on Summit.”
Gary laughed. “No, the husbands never saw much good in him, that’s true.”
What was she going to do? After she was dropped off, she rushed to Michelangelo’s school; she was the mystery reader that afternoon and had plumb forgot.
Of course the car was fine. “I can find nothing wrong with it, miss,” said Brian when he called later. “You gonna come pick it up?” She thought about asking Maggie to drive her to the dealership, but didn’t want it to get back to Jared that there might be a problem with the car. Gary came to pick up her and Michelangelo, and Larissa had to pay a hundred and thirty dollars to Brian for doing nothing.
Afterward she took Michelangelo for ice cream at Ricky’s. The boy had yum-yum bubble gum and she a crazy chocolate; they sat at one of the outdoor tables and licked their cones and chatted. It was an unseasonable sixty-four degrees, sunny, windy. Michelangelo talked about Jumanji, the book his mother had picked to read to his class. He didn’t understand why so many kids were scared by it, because he wasn’t scared at all, and he watched the movie like thirty-one times. Well, you are a good brave boy, Larissa said, licking her crazy chocolate through clenched teeth, through a tight throat.
He might not be coming back. That was something she wasn’t ready to get used to, the suddenness of it. Sitting next to Michelangelo in his blue camo pants, dripping melting bubble gum ice cream on them and licking his fingers, Larissa watched her son for a while with her arm on his back. Kai wouldn’t leave his bike behind. She was sure of that. He wouldn’t leave his Ducati Sportclassic behind.
But what if he didn’t leave it?
On the one hand, such a welcome breath of liberation.
On the other, emptiness that felt like pale death.
Monday morning she met Maggie for a quick coffee before her play meeting at ten. They discussed Dylan, who was demanding drums for his birthday, and Maggie, usually indulgent, this time was terrified. “Drums, Larissa. Do you understand?”
Larissa understood. Drums were loud.
“No one else in the house will be able to live.”
“There’s no one else in the house.”
“Ezra likes it quiet so he can read.”
“Frankly a little less reading … perhaps drums are exactly what you need.”
“Don’t joke, it’s not funny.”
“You’ll be fine. Put Dylan in the basement.”
“The basement is where our whole life is! Our pool table is there. Our air hockey. My treadmill. I know I never go on it, but it’s still there. My washer and dryer.”
“So don’t get the drums.”
“He says he can’t live without them.”
“We say that about a lot of things.”
“He doesn’t.”
“So? He’ll learn not to be able to live without something else.”
“Hah.”
“Seriously, divert him. When Michelangelo wants a lollipop three minutes before dinner, I don’t give in. I give him a crayon instead.”
“I hope your child doesn’t suck on too many of those,” said Maggie. “Because how long can you fool a six-year-old? Soon he’ll figure out a crayon is not a very tasty substitute. Dylan is sixteen. He can’t be talked out of things that easily.”
“Easily? You have met Michelangelo, right?” Larissa got up. “So offer Dylan something else. I gotta go. Creative meeting with your husband and Leroy.”
Maggie laughed. “Ah, yes. Waiting for Godot. Ezra is treating this like a Shakespearean tragedy in and of itself.”
“Isn’t it?” Larissa was wearing jeans, a jeans jacket, a white T-shirt, a bandanna around her hair.
“Who’s going to take you seriously at this meeting?” said Maggie. “You look twelve.”
Why did she beam? It was too late for that.
Atensely waiting Ezra pulled her aside as soon as she entered the school lobby. “I have to talk to you,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“Not here. My office.”
“No.”
“No, we can’t go to my office?”
“No to whatever it is you want to ask me in it.”
They walked speedily down the hall and into Ezra’s comfortable, chaotic, book-lined chambers. It must be nice to be head of the department.
She fell into his visitor chair. “Whazzup?”
“I’m not asking you anymore. I’m begging you. You have to save us.”
“Ezra, I told you a thousand times. I’ve thought about it. I talked to Jared about it. To you. To Maggie. To Bo. I’ve written to Che about it.”
“How is our little professional protester?”
“Not pregnant. But I’m talked out.”
“Will you hear me out?”
“Ezra, you got Leroy. What’s wrong with him?” She smirked. “Besides wanting to stage a two-man play for spring?”
“Leroy said he’d prefer not to do it,” admitted Ezra. “His kid is failing math.”
“So you want me to do it so my kids will fail math? My kid is already failing English!”
“They’re honor students!”
“Not Asher. Not Michelangelo. He glues all day. Can’t get far in life with glue, Ezra.”
“Bring him. Bring them both. I’ll tutor them.”
“You’ll tutor Michelangelo.” Larissa looked down into her hands with incredulity. “Tutor him in what? Obstinacy? Sculpture?”
“We’ll pay you.”
“Jared works his ass off all week. We can’t both be away from the kids.”
“You won’t be away. Studies have shown that children benefit from seeing their parents be successful at something other than parenting.”
Larissa stared at him. “Are you making this crap up?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Ez, what am I supposed to do when Emily has cello in Chatham, and Asher a track meet in Maplewood, and I’m in Short Hills in the afternoon directing Godot? You haven’t thought this through.”
“I have, too. We’ll rehearse on Saturdays. And please, not Godot.”
Larissa said nothing. Ezra took that as encouragement.
“It’s just for two, three months. Play goes on in June. If you don’t want to continue next fall, we’ll get someone else. I promise. Denise will come back.”
“Denise is going to leave her baby and come back?”
Straightening his red tie, Ezra adjusted his falling-down crooked glasses, beaming at