Paullina Simons - A Song in the Daylight

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.

“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,” said Maggie, straightening out the collar on his white shirt; 7:30 in the morning and he was already looking so disheveled. His brown shirts never matched his taupe jackets, and he frequently wore maroon or green pants that matched nothing. He was so eccentric, she couldn’t believe he was hers. Yet Larissa perversely adored him and thought Maggie married well, so he must be worth keeping. Or did Larissa think that Ezra had married well?

“By the way,” said Ezra, “I need to talk to Larissa about a very important matter.”

“Every quantum thing with you is an important matter.”

“Yes. But this …” He shrugged her off. “Denise’s leaving for maternity as soon as Othello opens. And we’ll have no one to direct our spring play. I’m hoping Larissa will be interested.”

“I dunno. Once, perhaps. I don’t know about now.”

He seemed surprised. “Well, I think she’ll be over the moon. I think this is what she’s been waiting for.”

“You think she’s been waiting ?” Maggie chuckled.

“You’re wrong. Besides, I’ve already recommended her to the headmaster.”

“Without talking to her first?” She tapped her husband scoldingly on his head.

“Theater is her life.”

“Was.”

“You don’t know everything, Margaret. You’re totally off the mark.” But he became flummoxed, as if Larissa’s refusal was the last thing he had expected. “She’ll say yes. And she’ll be excellent.”

“Our cat compared to Denise would be excellent. What a disaster that has been. She should direct The Poseidon Adventure .” Maggie shook her head, then remembered something. “Speaking of disasters, we’re having an ice cream party today. Except three of my kids are allergic to peanut butter, and I got notes yesterday asking if the vanilla ice cream was made with peanut oil. Turn to me.” She redid his fire-red bow tie to go with his wine-colored jacket and green slacks.

“The parents are asking the wrong question,” Ezra said sonorously.

“Of course they are!” Maggie laughed, kissing him on the cheek. “If the vanilla ice cream had one less electron in it, we wouldn’t be here at all, right? The question they should be asking is not about peanut oil. It’s about the existence of anything as delectable as vanilla ice cream.”

“Ah,” said Ezra, “you’re mocking me.” His eyes twinkled at her.

“Not mocking. Teasing.” Her eyes twinkled at him.

“Confound them completely by telling them vanilla ice cream is made not with peanut oil but peanut butter.” They both laughed. “Tell them also, Margaret, that if the gods are indifferent to us, then that leaves us also free to be indifferent to the gods. If there is no immortality, we have so much less to worry about. Paint, don’t paint. Read, don’t read. Direct spring plays. Vanilla ice cream, peanut butter. It’s all good, Curly. Do whatever you like without thought to consequence. Tell your worried mothers that. I’m going to tell Larissa that. That’s what I’m learning from Epicurus. Let’s go. We’re late.”