A Song in the Daylight (10 page)

“A
Jaguar
?” Larissa shook her head with an incredulous titter. “I don’t think so.”

“You sure?” He was smiling.

She squinted at him. It occurred to her that they’d been standing entirely too long, standing, not moving, standing, not shopping. Their carts were touching, his against hers, kind of bucked up, backed up. His front to her back. “Are you shilling for work in the supermarket?” Larissa asked. “Drumming up business in the produce aisle? First stonework, now Jags?”

“First of all, we’re in plastic and paper, and I don’t know what you mean. Just asking. Making small talk.”

“We’re not in the market for a car either. But thank you.”

“Well, if you change your mind and do come in, don’t forget to ask for me. Here’s my card.” Proudly he pulled out a stack of them from of his pocket and handed her one. He
was
shilling!

Gingerly she took one, glancing at the name. “KAI PASSANI. SALES REPRESENTATIVE.”

“
Kay
?” She’d never heard that before. “What kind of name is that?”

“Well, mine for starters. And it’s not
Kay
. It’s Kai. Rhymes with guy.”

“Oh, of course. I knew that.” She nearly stammered.

He had mercy on her. “Hawaiian.”

“Passani’s Hawaiian?”

“French. My old man was French. And Vietnamese.”

That explained the striking, non-Jersey nature of his appearance.

“Your mom is Hawaiian?”

“We lived in Hawaii. Is that the same thing? She’s actually from Canada, I think.”

“You lived in Hawaii? Lucky you.”

“Nah. Rock island fever from the time I could crawl.” He half shrugged, half shuddered. “Glad I’m out.” He looked so casual when he spoke about a place so extraordinary. And she glimpsed that he
was
exotic, though on the surface, without a second glance, he looked almost ordinary. Unthreateningly friendly, unmenacingly young, just a kid with a motorbike and jeans and boots and kinky hair, not especially well-kept, a little out of place in her part of the world. He had an amiable smile, a relaxed manner. But there was something else too, behind the dancing eyes and the straight spine. A peculiar way his attention was laser-focused on the supposedly slapdash chatter with her.

“Glad you’re out in
Jersey
?” She bestowed him with her most skeptical expression.

“Especially in Jersey.” His eyes scrunched up. He tucked his wiry hair behind his baseball cap. “Bruce Springsteen made me love it. And what is
your
name, miss?”

“Larissa. And it’s Mrs.”

“Hmm,” he said, nodding in approval. “You look like a Larissa.”

They did not shake hands, he didn’t extend his, as if he had read Emily Post and knew that a young man did not offer his hand to a married woman unless she offered hers first. And Larissa, who
had
read Emily Post, did not presume for a second
to extend her hand to him. In fact, Emily Post said you’re supposed to just wave or say hi when you’re introduced to children.

“Do I?” What did a Larissa look like?

“Yes. There’s something elegant and feminine about that name. Straight-haired.”

She looked into her cart. His low-frequency voice kept fooling her. His was not a child’s voice with that timbre, that out-of-state elocution She didn’t know what to do next. The awkwardness!

She decided to pass him, the wheels of her cart screeching a bit, and as she was flush with him, her shoulder to his chest, distinctly and unmistakably she heard him inhale. As she passed by him, he drew in a soft breath; why?

“Is that you?” he asked. “Coconut and lime?”

She didn’t look up from her paper towels. “I guess. Vestige of summer.”

“Yeah. Like a drink. With a little umbrella.” He smiled, nodding. “Nice.”

Larissa didn’t want to make a crack, to ask if he was old enough to drink. “So what kind of business are you thinking about going into?”

He walked alongside her to the tissues. “I want to run sightseeing tours.”

“Where, in New York?”

“Nah. Right here.”

“In
Jersey
?”

“Sure.”

“In
Summit
?”

“Why not? I get one tour bus to start, one of those 1930s National Park open utility vehicles. I show the travelers the Short Hills Mall, a decent attraction. I show them Deserted Village. That’s a whole day right there. The Great Swamp. What an adventure, especially if it rains in the marshes. Then
we move to the snowy valleys and the skiing slopes. The factories. The outlet shops. The Jersey Turnpike. The amusement park. The Atlantic. Lots to see. We finish in Atlantic City on a blackjack run. I make them pay me first, though.”

Larissa couldn’t help herself, she laughed. And he laughed too.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m dead serious.” His eyes were jovial, so merry.

“Well, I have to go. Excuse me.”

He moved his cart out of her way, let her pass this time for good. “See ya, Mrs. Larissa.”

And she, without looking at him again, forcefully pushed her cart forward, and in a business-like manner clopped toward the milk and honey.

7
Ezra’s Boredom

L
arissa, I told my mother.

You what?

I had to. I was losing my mind
.

You told your mother? Why?

I needed help
.

I told you I would help you
.

I needed a different kind of help, Larissa. I needed counsel
.

I gave you counsel
.

I needed…different counsel. You’re my only friend. You’re like my sister. I love you. But you’re not hearing me
.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why would you tell your mother?

Because there are things you don’t understand, Larissa
.

What are you talking about? I understand everything
.

No
.

Che, you just don’t want to listen to me. That’s not the same as me not understanding
.

It is. I don’t want to listen to you because you don’t understand
.

Che, you’re sixteen years old and still in high school!

I know
.

You think I don’t know how hard this is?

No, I don’t think you do. I think you would do what had to
be done and wouldn’t lose a minute’s sleep over it
.

Because I knew it had to be done!

I also know this. But I just can’t do it. You can. Not me
.

Holy cow. What did your mother say? Oh, I can’t even imagine
.

She cried. Then she prayed. For, like, three hours. Then she cried some more. She refused to talk to me until we went to church. Then she still refused to talk to me. She just kept crying. I said I know how you feel, Ma
.

Larissa was now the one with her head in her hands, curled over a desk in her room
.

My mother said she couldn’t believe I would be so reckless
.

I told you that, too
.

I know. You’re both right. Doesn’t help me much, though
.

Did she say anything helpful?

She said she didn’t know I was being bad when I was out—she thought I was a good girl. She was so upset. How could I have been so careless with my life, she kept repeating
.

I said that to you, too. But how is that helpful?

She beat her hands against her chest. Did you do that? I said to her, Ma, what are you so upset about? This is about me, about my plans. You should have thought about that before, not after, she said
.

Okay, Ma, I said. I made a mistake. I was dumb. Can’t I be smart now?

It was too late for smart, she told me. Now it was time for action. Che bowed her head. My dad is semi-retired. Ma said he would take his retirement early and watch the baby while I finished school
.

Che, no. Oh, my goodness. No. Don’t
you
count at all? What about
you
?

She said I could still go to college and leave the baby with them. They would help me
.

But you’d never be free, said Larissa with fear and emptiness
.

Ma said life is a bitch, Claire. Should’ve thought of that earlier. Now it’s too late
.

It’s never too late. That’s the beauty of it. You make a little mistake, and three hundred bucks later everything can still go back to how it was before
.

Che bowed her head
.

It’s not too late!

My mother wouldn’t even discuss the other thing
.

Why did you have to tell your mother?

If this happened to you, wouldn’t you tell your mother?

Never, said Larissa. And who says it hasn’t happened to me?

Now it was Che’s turn to gape at her friend
.

Just kidding, Larissa said. But even if it did, I’d never tell my mother
.

Che stared at Larissa. Larissa stared at Che. You have to think about it harder, Larissa said. Think about your life. It’s your life, not your mom’s, not your dad’s. Yours. You only have the one. Is this what you want?

No, said Che
.

You’re sixteeen! It was a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes. You’re allowed one do-over
.

Who said?

Oh, come on
.

The baby is not going to get a do-over, though
.

Yes, but you are. It’ll be like it was before. Nothing will be any different
.

Larissa, come on, you don’t really believe that, do you?

With all my heart
.

The whole universe will be different, said Che
.

No, it won’t. And you’ll have your whole life to have another baby. Please
.

Che kept staring at Larissa. You don’t think it’s wrong, Larissa, that a baby be sacrificed so I can live as I like?

You’ll have another baby!

You didn’t answer my question, Larissa
.

“Ezra,” Larissa asked her friend on Saturday night, “why do we sit here every week and regurgitate the same old questions on the unfathomable workings of the bottomless universe? Are we really trying to figure it out? Or do you think we’re bored?”

Why did she sound hopeful? Did she
want
Ezra to be bored? Ezra, who had an opinion on every subject, could debate good and evil with the devil himself, could talk to an engineer about bridges, to a scientist about quantum mechanics; economists had to defend the margin of low supply side against him and Ayn Rand her objectivism and Christians their faith in the Triune nature of God and the nominal reasons behind the Great Schism. He was a linguist, a scholar, he loved movies and semiotics. He knew the differences between communism, socialism and collectivism, and could ask you fifteen questions about evolutionary theory for which you had no answer, not a single one. He could recite the Bill of Rights from the heart, knew the Declaration of Independence, and most of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
By heart
. His favorite writers were Dante and Donne. (“That’s because he hasn’t read past the Ds,” quipped Jared.) He thought
Paradise Lost
was the greatest work of literature in the English language. He spoke fluent French. No one could out-argue him. Ezra watched movies like Aronofsky’s
Pi
and said it was his favorite film of all time. To defy classification he also said
Bachelor Party
was his favorite film of all time. Larissa loved Ezra. He defied classification.

Could this Ezra be bored?

He looked slightly liquid, funny, completely engaged. “Yes,” he said cheerfully.

“Oh, Ezra, just stop it,” said Maggie, laying down her
letters. “You’re not bored in the slightest. All you do is stir up trouble. Stop it. It’s your turn. You’re losing, darling, you’re last at Scrabble, Professor Bored. You have 80 points, while your uneducated wife and her over-theatrical though under-ambitious best friend have 120 and 113 points respectively. It’s your turn, sweetheart, the great conversationalist.”

Ezra put his letters down.
Colloquy
was his word. Bingo, plus 50 points, with Q on triple letter. Ezra was no longer last. Maggie snorted in derision and annoyance. Glancing sideways at a laughing Larissa, Ezra put his hand inside the letter bag. “All we think about is ourselves, Larissa. This breeds boredom. And unhappiness. We become like sharks, always needing to keep moving or we die.”

“Ezra,” cut in Larissa, “but last week you told me and Evelyn and Malcolm that we needed to think
more
of ourselves, remember?”

Ezra drew a blank look, and Maggie laughed. “I told you, Lar, he is nothing but a sophist,” she said. “Advocating only for the position you don’t happen to hold on this particular evening. Don’t listen to anything he says, darling.”

“I can’t imagine myself saying this,” said a defensive Ezra. “Since I think we’re spilling out our own ears. We are stuffed to the gills with ourselves.”

“Last week you said we were unknowable!”

“Yes? And how is that incompatible with what I’m saying tonight?”

“I’m not unknowable to myself,” bristled Larissa.

“You sure about that, Lar?”

“Positive.”

“Describe yourself in five phrases.”

“Fine. Um. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a set decorator. I am a good cook. I am a lover of books.” She said the last one sheepishly.

Ezra drew a laugh. “No, Larissa. Not who you are.
What
you are.”

Less certainly she said, “I am neat. I am orderly. I am meticulous.”

“Ah,” said Ezra. “Three different words to say the same tedious thing.”