A Song in the Daylight (8 page)

“You can’t possibly,” said Maggie. “You would look beautiful no matter what. Your hair looks so pretty now.”

“Took me forty-five minutes. Thirty to blow dry and fifteen more to get it into a bun that looks casually messy.” Larissa gracefully moved on from the freeform poetry of hair. “Why do you
want
me to be dry, disheveled, down?”

“Because I want you to direct the spring play,” said Ezra. “Why do you spend five minutes on jewelry? You don’t need jewelry to go to the supermarket, do you?”

“More than anywhere else,” Larissa replied. “Obviously you’ve never been to the supermarket. Do you know how many times I hear, I like your necklace, your earrings, your bracelet?”

“No, how many?” asked Jared, poking her, his eyes glinting.

Pinching Jared’s arm, Larissa went on. “How many times I hear, where did you get that beautiful necklace and I say I got it from Jean. Is that what you want, Ezra? Frump me up and run Jean’s business out of Summit? Besides,” she continued, on a pleasant, non-defensive roll, “Jared buys me my jewelry. You want me not to wear his lovely gifts? Some wife I am.”

“You don’t wear
everything
I buy for you,” Jared said with a wink.

Stop it, she mouthed to him, winking back. It was Saturday night, after all and Larissa had a fair amount of liquid Eros in her.

They worked on her like this the rest of the evening. Here in her present external life, the minutia of hairspray was scrutinized: should she spritz once or twice, and why moisturizer
and
foundation, while in the other past life, one evening she and Maggie and Ezra, and Evelyn and Malcolm, and even her beloved Jared, had spent 1 hour, 55 minutes figuring out why Psalm 23 sounded so sublime in its King James rendition but less so in successive, though (possibly) more accurate versions.

One version read:
You moisten my head with lubricant
instead of,
You anoint my head with oil
.

“
Moisten
? Who says that? It sounds…I don’t know,” Larissa had said with distaste she was unable to hide. “Slightly sexual.”

Ezra had chuckled, adjusting his red plaid blazer. “Well, in the original Hebrew, the word had no sacramental connotations,” he said. “The words were
lubricate with pleasure
.”

“
You lubricate my head with pleasure
?” Larissa had said incredulously. “That’s better than
anoint
?”

“No, quite right,” agreed Ezra. “Which is why we use
moisten
.”

So Larissa could conclude now in the fullness of time that in the end all philosophical discussions, past and present, were about lotion.

“I
anoint
my body with oil,” Larissa said to Ezra and Maggie this evening.

“You
what
?”

It was pleasant to sit, to chat. There was no denying the delights of her subzero freezer and canyon-capacity washing machine and her funny loquacious friends. It was only when she stood at her books and touched the spines of the unread memoirs and comedies before she boxed them all to be donated, it was only when she was saying no to Ezra for something so outlandishly magical as to live on the stage, that Larissa fleetingly thought that though she looked so rad in her glad rags, perhaps the books weren’t getting read and
Othello
wasn’t getting directed by her because she was taking 1 hour, 55 minutes to moisten her head with lubricant.

5
Between Childhood Friends

L
arissa, you look great, let’s go. Just one more coat of mascara, Che
.

No, seriously, let’s go. My mom won’t let me go out with you if she sees you with globs of makeup
.

It’s your prom. She’ll let you
.

Come on, enough. You’ve been at this for an hour
.

No, I haven’t. And it’s the prom!

I know. But we’ll miss the whole thing if you don’t hurry up. Look, you’re not even dressed yet
.

Che…why don’t you want to talk about the other thing?

Put on the corsage and let’s go
.

I need the dress on first
.

So put it on
.

Che…

Larissa, I don’t want to talk about the other thing
.

But we have to do something
.

I’m hoping it will just go away
.

By itself?

With God’s help
.

Oh, Che
.

Look, I know. But I can’t deal with it, okay
.

But you’re not alone. I’ll help you. I’m here. I’ll go with you
.

I’m not ready
.

Why don’t you want to go to at least get the test?

Because then I’ll have to deal with it
.

You don’t want to wait too long…

What does it matter?

Because up to thirteen weeks costs three hundred bucks, but after thirteen is six hundred
.

How do you know this? Che squinted at her friend
.

Casually Larissa shrugged, standing in front of the mirror in her black bra and high heels, her young legs looking like impossibly long marshland reeds. I looked into it
.

Why does it cost more?

I don’t know
.

Oh, didn’t look into that part? Che paused. Maybe because there’s more to scrape out?

Che…come on
.

Okay. Like I said, let’s not talk about it. It’s prom night. Are you done yet?

Che…don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’m always here for you
.

Larissa, you can’t help me with this
.

I can. I will. I am
.

No. Don’t you understand? I can’t do what I know I must do. I must do it, but I can’t do it. Quite a pickle, isn’t it? Enough lipstick. You look like a streetwalker in daylight. Wipe it off before my mother comes in. You want her to like you, don’t you? Get dressed
.

Well, you can’t have a baby, Che
.

Shh!

You can’t
.

There’s a lot I can’t do
.

You want my advice?

No. I know your advice. But you’re not me. You’re not my mother’s daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter
.

We’re not telling your mother
.

I’m still her daughter. I’m still Filipino. I’m still Catholic. I’m still what I am. Telling her, not telling her, won’t change any of those things. Won’t change the truth of things, Larissa, no matter if it’s three hundred dollars or six thousand
.

Except I don’t have six hundred dollars. I have three-fifty
.

Okay. I won’t need it
.

Oh, Che
.

And Che cried again, in her silk blue gown, her white orchid corsage, her waterproof mascara enduring, but streaks remaining in her foundation when the doorbell rang, and her mother yelled up that their young men were here
.

All right, Ma. Stop shouting, I’m not deaf
.

Please. Just take the test
.

What good will it do?

Let’s go to Planned Parenthood like we planned
.

What good will it do?

You’ll talk to someone
.

What good will it do?

So what are you going to do? You gonna have that baby?

I can’t have it
.

Exactly
.

I can’t do the other thing either
.

How are you going to explain it to Maury?

I can’t explain it
.

Exactly
.

Right. Are you going downstairs in your bra or are you finally going to put some clothes on? Che wiped her face, wiped the blush and foundation off her wet cheeks, straightened up, pretended to smile
.

How many weeks are you late now?

Eight, mouthed Che, in terror, into Larissa’s sinking heart
.

Dear Che,

Why did you return the money order I sent you? Come on, it’s like a birthday gift certificate. I’d send you
stuff
but besides Nutella I don’t know what else you need. And anyway, how much Nutella can a girl eat? Please. I’m resending the money order, happy birthday, merry Christmas. Accept. Please.

Why are you worried about me? I should be worried about you. Everything is good here. Same as always. Nothing to report. I’m not aggrieved. I’m whole, not wanting. My temperature is as always climate-controlled, why are you anxious about me?

Larissa stopped writing. She couldn’t put into words what she was feeling. Highway 24 ran between the golf course and the shopping mall. Golf course—beauty. Shopping mall—luxury. But between them one hundred and twenty feet of concrete, and cars whizzing by.

Where were they going? East, they were headed to New York. But the other way, west. Where were
they
headed? Pennsylvania? Ohio, to visit relatives? Or somewhere farther? Farther where? Kansas? Colorado? California? Where after that? She would listen to the cars, racing as if rushing, hurrying along, hastening away, faster, faster away, out of New Jersey, beyond, far, away, and gone.

It got to be so that every time Larissa opened her front door, every time she got into her ivory Escalade or walked down the driveway to get the mail, or opened the windows, or stood briefly to take in the view from the slope of her property, all she heard was the madlong rush of cars.

Che, I know you’ll think I’m crazy for wondering this, but though I think you’re nuts for having that awful protesting job, sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be you. To have
your life. What is it like to worry about Lorenzo, to sleep late if you want to, or get up early, or have your own schedule? I read your letters with such fascination. Human beings are perverse, aren’t they?

I sometimes wonder how your day breaks down into its many hours.

You know I’d love to come. Michelangelo won’t spare me. But I think the rest of them can take me or leave me. Especially Emily. She’s becoming so snotty. The hormones are going straight to her mouth. She can’t say anything to me without her hand on her hip like a kettle. Remember when we were the same way with our mothers? I miss you so much. Whenever I think of you, I picture us only as kids. You’re the only one who knows me from back then.

Dear Larissa,

I’ve decided to keep your Christmas gift. Thank you. I want to get a manicure and buy new sneakers but I think I’ll just pay my three months’ back rent, if it’s all the same to you.

You want to know about my day? Okay, I’ll tell you about yesterday. What you do is, you take yesterday and multiply it by 365, and you’ll get the picture.

I woke up at seven, because the outdoor market was opening at eight, and I had to go get the fruit baskets from Father Emilio. I got to him by 7:30, but he made me go to Mass first, which is okay, but Lorenzo and I have been fighting so much I didn’t think I deserved communion for all the nasty things I kept yelling, but when I told Father Emilio this, he said that was my pride talking. He said to me, “You’re going to keep yourself away from God’s sacrament because you think you’re not perfect? When do you think you’ll ever be perfect enough,
sinless enough, to receive the Eucharist?” So…I went to Mass, and felt a little better about things, and then carried thirteen bushels, one by one, of mangoes and tomatoes and pears and spent till noon selling them, and when I got back home, having made a thousand pesos, I found Lorenzo still sleeping! And you know, we’re so broke, and he needs to work, ride a rickshaw in Manila, which he hates to do, so instead he goes out drinking with his derelict radical buddies and then sleeps till noon, and, like I said, we haven’t paid the rent for three months, living hand to mouth (without the rent).

We had a fight that lasted till one, but then made up nicely, till two, and he got hungry, so we went to San Agustin and had lunch with Father Emilio and his orphans, for free, and then made copies of our leaflets at the mission because Father Emilio lets me use the copier, for free, and afterward went to Manila City Hall Square and distributed them at a joint rally with the Manila Police and the Philippines Motorcycle Association in support of our current president. Imagine us in a joint rally with the police. It ended peacefully at 6:30, and we met up with some friends and went out drinking but I left because I didn’t want to hang out with his loser friends, and besides, I was three days late and wanted to take a pregnancy test. The test cost me 750 pesos. It was negative. I took it at 9:00 p.m., and then cried until Lorenzo returned at eleven, too drunk to care that we weren’t having a baby, but he did get blazing mad that I spent 750 pesos on a stupid test. Oh, to think that once upon a time, I avoided the test like the Black Death, and now I spend money I don’t have to take it randomly throughout the month, just in case.

So…we had another fight, this time till well after midnight, when the neighbors finally called the police
because it was getting ugly, and the cops we had rallied with wanted to arrest Lorenzo, but I said no. After they left, I left too, and went to sleep in one of the rooms at the orphanage. Father Emilio keeps telling me that I can come and live with him. He doesn’t have enough hands to take care of the kids. But I said being around so many unwanted children would make me feel even worse about my life, if that’s even possible, because there I am,
wanting
a baby, and unable to have one. Lorenzo came to get me at three, and we lay in the twin bed together, and had sex under God’s eyes at San Agustin. I wondered if Father would still think I was worthy of communion. To test him, I came to him this morning, and challenged him with the truth of last night. And you know what he said? God never turns away from you. He is longing for your heart, Che. Yours and Lorenzo’s.