A Song in the Daylight. Paullina Simons

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СКАЧАТЬ a word of the Constitution. Not a word. He couldn’t tell her what Plymouth Rock was, or the Pilgrims. Or Mayflower.

      Ah. Except Emily had a science quiz, and Asher a clay project on the Egyptians, and Michelangelo his beloved art class. So she cajoled them into rising, herself dreaming of falling back into the down quilts after they left for school.

      Would it all be different had she let her children stay home for gray snow day? Even the inscrutable atoms moving doggedly on their inexorable path through the universe were occasionally given to unexplained and random swerves—jumps and diversions from the steady path, unpredictable yet permanent. Was letting her children stay home a break in the pattern of the atom? Or was sending them to school the break? There was no way to know.

      They got ready for school.

      The next forty minutes, a litany of supplication. “Asher, take your glasses from the bathroom.” “Em, remember your cello.” “Michelangelo, drink your milk.” “Asher, brush your hair.” “Em, I don’t know where your shoes are. Probably where you left them.” “Michelangelo, drink your milk, we have to go.” “Asher, take your Egyptian pyramid. Yes, the thing we were working on all weekend, that one.” They named him Asher because it meant happy. The placid boy looked like his mother, tall and lean with a steady gaze. “Asher, have a yogurt.”

      “I hate yogurt, Mom. It’s disgusting.”

      “Since when? You used to love yogurt.”

      “Yeah, and I used to suck my thumb. Things change, Mom.”

      “No, you can’t have a cookie. Have apple sauce. Emily, so put on a different pair of shoes. You must have another pair or two, don’t you?” Emily looked like her dad, but with a round face and pixie bangs. “Michelangelo! Finish your cereal.” They broke the mold to make their youngest son with his mystifying blond curly mop of hair and the most unaccommodating demeanor. “Riot! Stop jumping!”

      Jared was long gone. Then the two older younglings were running through the wind, running up the long narrow street for the middle school bus at the corner of Bellevue and Summit. It was a three-minute Olympian sprint, for which they left precisely ninety seconds. Like Larissa said, getting to school, a (perhaps not such a minor) miracle. She herself limped down the driveway with Michelangelo in tow with his bookbag, though without a scarf or gloves (the absence of which would dub her a bad mother in the parents’ lounge, which she didn’t frequent). She drove him the mile and a half to Lincoln, parked and limped alongside him, holding his small cold hand.

      The crossing guard asked her how her leg was. “Getting better finally?”

      “Yes, thanks,” she said, though it wasn’t, not at all. That it was her left leg and not her right was the only good thing you could say about it. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to drive.

      Michelangelo was only ten minutes late. “Oh, good morning, Michael. So nice of you to stop by,” said the passing principal, and he turned, smiled impishly at his wan, waving mother, and gunned it down the hall even though he wasn’t supposed to gun.

      It was in the hours between the missed Pledge of Allegiance and the afternoon food foraging that Larissa stood with her freshly made cardboard boxes near the windows where she put on her makeup. The leg was still too sore to stand on for long even after four weeks. Her bedroom faced the front of the house, and past the tall bare oaks she could see the rolling sloping hills of the golf course, and beyond them the highway, and the mall. The view so convenient: beauty and utility, both natural and man-made. Larissa placed her palm on the cold window, to feel the life outside.

      Stepping away, she glanced at her books. They’d been freshly dusted and stood spines out and shiny. Ernestina was so meticulous. In three hours she and her team of two licked the house clean. Muy limpio. The books were never dusty. There was never a speck on them.

      Or, for that matter, a dog’s ear.

      Larissa had forty shelves of books in her house, not including those of her children, not including those of her husband. One for every year of her life. Twenty-four shelves held books she’d already read. The other sixteen …

      In her bedroom four shelves housed just the books she was meaning to read. They had to be cast into categories finally, into a hierarchy of value, like castes of Punjabis, so it would be easier to know in what order not to read them. There was the non-fiction subsection, itself separated into memoirs, general interest, religion and philosophy. There was a section of commercial fiction, enough for the next two years. There was serious hardcover fiction she was planning on not reading in the next three. It had been four, five years since she touched a book on these shelves. She bought the books and cataloged them like an efficient librarian, hoping that someday she would have the time, find the time. Her house was impeccable and the children were in school and the husband would have dinner tonight, and clean white ironed shirts, and every project would be on time, and each drawer organized. How was she ever going to find the time to open One Hundred Years of Solitude, the annotated Lolita, The Executioner’s Song?

      But on the plus side, there were no miscellaneous drawers in Larissa’s house! The bed was made like the presidential four-poster at the Ritz-Carlton. All five beds in the house. Beautifully made.

      The books had no hope of being read. Jared, because he thought he was so funny, called them her non-reading list. The only books she attempted to read were the ones that came fresh in a UPS box to the red front door. She thanked Dominick, the UPS man, glanced over his head to the golf course across the narrow street, past the oaks, the manicured lawns like a valley, and then slammed shut the door and opened the cardboard box, efficiently discarding it to stay neat and on top of things. First she placed the book on her side of the bed where it had a slim chance of being opened. If it fell off the bed onto the treadmill, its chances weakened considerably, because on the treadmill the newly arrived books became covered by gossip magazines, by People, by Entertainment Weekly (though EW had a lot of words in it, didn’t it?); they became covered by used eye-makeup remover pads and discarded bras, by shirts and socks, cardigans, often earrings, sometimes earphones, three pairs of them, and printed pages of nonsense off the Internet on the latest current event she pretended she might catch up on under her Ralph Lauren quilt. Her side of the bed was the only place in the house where chaos reigned.

      So today, Larissa took firm charge of the last unruly vestige of her ordered life. Book by book, shelf by shelf, she worked her way from top to bottom, placing the books inside boxes that would be donated to St. Paul’s Thrift Shop in Summit.

      Had she read Lord of the Flies by William Golding? Through books I can be someone else, she thought. She didn’t need to read books about it; it was Lord of the Flies every night in her house. When reading books, she wanted to be far removed from herself.

      Fear of Flying by Erica Jong? No; too much sex. It would just rile her up, inflame her unnecessarily.

      Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks? Love! World War I! She knew nothing about the latter; it was perfect. It was also a little too removed. Reluctantly she dropped it in the box, recalling with a twinge of regret that that was why she had bought the book in the first place—so she could read about something she knew nothing about.

      Lonesome Dove? Too Texan. Once she had wanted to read it. But once she had wanted to read everything.

      Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf? Wait, she’d read that! How did that get up here? Yes, she was almost sure she’d read it. There was a line in it she kept coming back to. She devoted herself to that line until it was carved into her СКАЧАТЬ