A Song in the Daylight. Paullina Simons

cheap wine. I’ll introduce you to Father Emilio and to Lorenzo, if we’re still together, God help me. I can’t believe last time I saw you was before you were ever pregnant. I like the last picture you sent, though I don’t think you’re right, that your boy looks like an angel. His eyes are too mischievous. He looks like he rules your house. And angels don’t look like that, like kings. I should know. Lorenzo looks like that, and he’s definitely not an angel.

      What Che didn’t write to Larissa, but which was the impetus for the letter and the slight anxiety underneath the placid epistolary demeanor, was that the night before, Che thrashed herself awake from a terrible black vision in which she saw Larissa in a yellow dress, walking away, while Che was running, calling, Larissa, Larissa … Finally out of breath she caught up with her fair friend and grabbed her by the arm. Larissa spun around. Her face was pallid and wizened, more like the face of a flightless bird long dead. Che cried out, and then Larissa spoke, not in her voice, but a dead stranger’s voice. She said, “Che, what if everything in your life had turned to ashes?”

      Che could only shake her head.

      “Everything,” Larissa repeated. “Every good thing, every terrible thing, just burned to the ground?”

      No, Che mouthed.

      “What if there was nothing left?”

      That’s impossible, Che wanted to say. There is always something left. She reached out. Always.

      But Larissa, like fine wet sand, shivered and dissolved to the earth, in a small damp heap of blackened shavings.

      Che screamed—in the dream, in real life. For a long time she couldn’t get back to sleep and, because of that, today was exhausted. Nothing in Larissa’s previous letter gave Che any indication that everything was not, as always, joyous. The dream was incongruous. Che couldn’t put it out of her heart.

      The door swung open, and a young swarthy Filipino man stood at the jamb, his hand on his impatient hip. He was attired like her, freaky clothes and rips and rags. He had a look on him of a thing untamed. “What are you doing?” he said. “We’re going to be late. We’re starting in a half-hour.”

      “I’ll be right there,” said Che, turning her gaze away from his brooding face down to the white paper with roses on it. It was Epiphany today. So they were protesting. That’s what they were, Che and Lorenzo: professional protesters. For every major holiday and every major feast day, for every international visit and every small item of government policy, for every break in the political climate or even just the status quo, Che and Lorenzo protested. They worked for a company of subcontracted protesters. Whenever there was a demonstration that needed an increase in numbers, they were hired to paint the placards and then walk the streets and shout. “No More War! Separation of Church and State! No American bases! No Blood for Oil! Green Today and Every Day! Fur is Wrong! War is Wrong! Crossing Picket Lines is Wrong! No New Taxes!”

      For this Che was paid, poorly. But then she didn’t need much. When she needed extra money, she worked for Father Emilio. The nuns grew the fruit, and she sold it at a morning street market in Parañaque, shouting. “Peaches! Ripe, Excellent! Pears! Fresh, Succulent! Tomatoes, from the Vine! Mangoes, in Season!” Che was an excellent shouter, ripe and fresh from the vine and always in season.

      Amiga, thank you for the box of Nutella jars you sent me. It has nothing organic in it, right? So it’ll last me a good long time. Like Oreos. You and Nutella is what I miss the most. Can you send me a little of yourself too, in a box? Sorry this is so short. We have a “God is Dead!” demonstration in thirty minutes. Lorenzo is waiting.

      When she wrote his name, Lorenzo, something hot ran through her insides, from the center of her brain through her lungs and heart, through her abdomen, down to where children might come from, in other people, though clearly, not in her.

      “Che!”

      How endearing he was when he shouted for her. Not her Christian name, Claire, that would be too conventional, but Che, a non-conformist shortening of her last name, Cherengue.

      “I’m coming. Just …” She pondered. “One more word. One more sentence, Lorenzo. Wait.” After all, how long have I been waiting for you? A long time, right?

      Maybe one day you can come. I know it’s hard to leave the kids. You can tell them it’s for a good cause. They know how much their mommy likes hopeless causes, the more hopeless the better.

       Don’t worry about me. I know you think I’m doing crazy work, but these are just rumors of danger, of violence. Like you, I’m living exactly the life I chose. (Almost.) A little anti-God demonstration never hurt anyone. God will forgive me, right? He knows what’s in my heart. Last week I went to a pro-war demonstration. The anti-war people set us on fire. I mean, really on fire. Poured gasoline onto the street and lit a match. I’m fine, not a scratch on me. Dear Jesus. It’s not the work, it’s Lorenzo that’s giving me agita. You don’t know how lucky you are, not having to think about all this B#$%&!t. This is what we used to obsess about when we were in junior high. So how is it that you’ve got a hubby and three kids and I’m still obsessing about it? You’re living your happily ever after, but, Larissa, am I hopeless?

      “Coming, Lorenzo!” Che hurried out of the bedroom. Hear those bells ringing? How could you not? They’re as loud as the bells of Notre Dame. The bells of impending non-motherhood.

3

       Maggie and Ezra

      “This longing for immortality, Maggie,” said Ezra, as the DeSwanns got ready in the morning, “don’t you think it’s a bit compulsive? Consuming? A little like mental illness? Do you think Larissa bothers with this?”

      This was said in response to Maggie’s informing him that in addition to her other numberless interests, she was now enrolling in an art class.

      “What are you talking about, Ezra? It’s not for immortality. It’s for fun.” She snorted. “So I can teach my kids to paint.” By kids Maggie didn’t mean her own son who was fifteen and way past painting, but the pre-schoolers she taught three mornings a week at the local church day school.

      Ezra shook his head. “Thank goodness you’re just trying to ruin other people’s children. Larissa doesn’t bother yearning for the impossible.”

      “How do you know? I thought you said we all yearn for the impossible? Make up your mind.” She scrunched up her wet, curly hair.

      Ezra continued to struggle with his bow tie. “Do what I do to make life more fun,” he said. “Read. Try to understand the workings of the universe.” He had just last week become the head of the English Department at Pingry, the tony private prep school in Short Hills, after the previous department head had finally retired, at seventy-seven.

      “You are the most miserable son of a bitch I know,” said Maggie. “Why in the world would I want to be like you?”

      “I will become happy once I understand.”

      “Tell me, Professor Smarty-pants—all that reading, doing you any good? Happy yet?”

      “Who can tell?” said Ezra. “What is happiness anyway?”

      Maggie laughed. “See, unlike you, I already believe in my own immortality. I just want to make the flesh have a little more fun. Would you prefer I paint or take a lover?”

      With amusement, Ezra glanced at her. “I believe it’s a false choice, Mrs. DeSwann,” he said. “But enough. Do what you like, of course.”

      He changed the subject. “Did you know,” he said, “that if there were one fewer electron in the hydrogen atom, one less negative charge, nothing we know would exist? Not us, not the universe, not the galaxies, nothing.”

      “Huh,”