A Song in the Daylight. Paullina Simons

of dengue fever, of the horrid water; Che’s stories of never being able to drink the water without boiling it first filled her with dread. That’s why the children couldn’t come with her. She was scared for their safety. And for her own, though she wouldn’t confess that to Kai, who didn’t seem the type to be easily spooked, riding around on a speed-demon bike and having friends who were in prison. Besides, her best friend lived in Manila and was not afflicted, other than with childlessness, so it may have been in Larissa’s head. But then, much of life was in her head. Didn’t make it any less real.

      Time to go.

      Next.

      Next.

      Next.

      Why did she sit? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she sat with him for a few fine merry moments, and then it was over. Which was a good way to describe many things you did that didn’t involve routine or work. For a few fine moments, Maggie painted, Emily played volleyball, Evelyn sipped her wine and read her books, Tara walked and complained. Jared played basketball with Asher in the front drive. Ezra read tomes on existential materialism. Larissa dreamed of the joyous moments of a spring play from high school, intoning, “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?” Except all those other things didn’t involve pushing open the closed door that in red block letters said, DANGER: LIVE ELECTRIC CURRENT. ENTER AT OWN RISK.

4

       Waiting for Godot

      “You don’t do theater anymore?”

      “What makes you say that? I do. I just …” Larissa broke off. “I do.” Just not like before. “I was director of the theater department at a private school in Hoboken for many years.”

      He grunted. “Many years, you don’t say.”

      Oh, why, why did she have to say many. Since when did hated pride come before puffed-up vanity? She’d rather be young and talentless than impress him with how many long years she’d been director of a theater department at a school where he could’ve tried out for a school play. “I once belonged to a theater troupe called The Great Swamp Revue. We were excellent.” When he chuckled, she, encouraged, asked, “Are you interested in theater?”

      “Nah,” he said. “I was always more of a music guy.”

      “Music, really?” Mental note to thyself: less about self and theater. Nothing more tedious than a woman basking in the deluded glory of former theater days, convinced she is the center of the universe.

      “What, you don’t believe me?”

      “Of course I do. What do you play?”

      “A little of everything. Guitar. Harmonica. Drums. In Hawaii every boy plays the ukulele, so I did too. So how come you don’t do theater anymore? No time?”

      She nodded; indeed there was no time. “I barely have time to paint the sets these days.”

      “You went from director to set decorator?”

      “Less stress,” she said almost without a beat.

      He smiled. “Kids seem like a lot of stress to me.”

      This was where the whole thing became so bogus. You just knew it was bogus.

      “Hey,” he said suddenly, “ever been on a bike?”

      “What, a bicycle?” A bicycle built for two. “Sure, who hasn’t? Many times. You?”

      He laughed. “Are you being funny?”

      She didn’t know. She didn’t know if she was being funny.

      He pointed out of her Jag to his Ducati. “I brought my bike today. Want to go for a ride?”

      Larissa couldn’t remember the last time she became this flustered. Not looking at him, hemming, hawing, she said, “No, thank you, but, uh, maybe another time. Seems too cold anyway. Well, it actually is cold. Windy. I don’t know how you do it, I mean, it must be even colder on the bike. And look at the breeze, it’s nippy. It’s like a squall.” Her cheeks were burning as she ruffled her napkins, stuffing them into the brown bag. “Maggie, my friend,” she said, just throwing it out there, “is taking me to lunch tomorrow.”

      “The curly one from the mall?” Kai opened the car door and got out, leaning in. “You two have fun.” His face was smiling at her, his small brown eyes dancing, his kinky hair blowing about; he had a manner about him of boyish sweetness, of youthful pride, of innocent joy when he said, “There’s nothing like being on a bike, going fast. You sure you don’t want a spin?”

      She shook her head mutely.

      She tried to think of something that might be like being on a Ducati going fast, in spring, with the wind in her hair, but couldn’t.

      On Thursday Kai wasn’t at Stop&Shop. One o’clock, 1:30. She bought paper towels and cereal, wandered the aisles, paid, sat in the car until two.

      Friday he wasn’t there either. Larissa didn’t know what to make of it.

      One thing for sure, whatever she couldn’t make of it, she spent all weekend not making anything of it. Every conscious minute, she spent getting her mind away from it.

      The school report cards arrived in the mail. They weren’t good. Emily’s was okay, but Asher was doing dismally in English, and Michelangelo couldn’t spell. Larissa pretended to deal with it, and on Saturday night she and Jared went over to Maggie and Ezra’s for dinner and games, and the only person who noticed that things were not all square with her was Ezra, who said, to no one in particular, “Boy, is Lar ever in her own world. What are you thinking, Lar? Illuminate us.”

      “I’m fine, Ezra. What do you mean?”

      “Are you thinking of accepting the job? Because Leroy wants to stage Waiting for Godot for the spring play. I’m going to shoot myself.”

      “Waiting for Godot, good play. Good choice,” Larissa said.

      “A nihilist two-person play? For spring!” shouted an aggrieved Ezra.

      She came out of it a little. “Uh, no, it’s terrible. Impossible. Put your foot down, tell him he can’t.”

      “What’s wrong with you? Why would you say it’s a good idea?”

      “How was your doctor’s appointment?” asked Maggie. “I forgot to ask on Wednesday.”

      “What doctor’s appointment?”

      “Yeah, what doctor’s appointment?” asked Jared. He was shuffling cards, trying to teach them how to play blackjack since they were planning a trip to Atlantic City for Memorial Day weekend. But it wasn’t taking. They were readers, not mathematicians.

      “She went to the doctor on Tuesday,” Maggie said.

      “She did?” Jared glanced at Larissa. “You did?”

      “I’m fine,” she said. “Just the dermatologist.”

      “Ooooh!” said Maggie. “Dermatologist. Lar is getting Botox! No wonder she looks to be in the first flush of youth.”

      “Do I?” Larissa asked quietly.

      “No wonder you kept asking me how young you looked. Now I know your secret. How much does he charge?”

      “No Botox, Mags, sorry,” Larissa said, “just a routine checkup of moles and things.”

      They discussed this for an inordinately long time. Moles and cancers, what they were supposed to look like,