“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.”
“As usual. You should be thanking God I’m taking up painting and not the piano,” said Maggie, grabbing her bag and heading downstairs. “Pam has suddenly and inexplicably started playing the piano at the age of forty-four. It cost her husband thirty thousand dollars—so far—for an upright that doesn’t offend her delicate hearing. But, Ezra, riddle me this, Batman …” Maggie got into their old Subaru and cranked the keys in the ignition, while her husband leaned into the window to peck her goodbye. “What if the gods aren’t indifferent to us?”
Jared walked in, as usual, to an internal crisis. Well, why not? It was Monday. Crisis was a reaction to Monday. There was no crisis on Wednesday, Thursday, even Tuesday. Only right before a weekend, to sour things a bit, and right after, to let you know no one wanted to be back at work. This particular Monday, Jan showed up to the morning meeting smelling distinctly not of a double latte.
It was one thing for Jan to be incapacitated at 9:30 on a Monday, but Jared had an analyst meeting to run, which involved not just Jan, but fifteen sober individuals. And there was Jan, belligerent, inappropriate and loud, interrupting measured voices.
After the hastily aborted meeting, Jared called Jan into his office. His space at the Newark headquarters had a great view of New York City from floor-to-ceiling windows. Unfortunately they were always behind him, and the only time he allowed himself a glance at the Big Apple skyline was when he called Larissa. He would whirl his chair around and chat to her, dreaming of Sunday brunches at the Plaza, the violinist and the pianist playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. Just thinking about the music trilling in his ears made him want oysters and waffles. He shook his head to rid himself of melodies and wives.
“Jan, it’s like this,” he said. “I’m not going to accuse you, and you will have nothing to deny. We’ve been through this before; the company has been more than lenient. It’s paid for your rehab—twice—and has given you three warnings instead of two, and put you on probation four times, not three. I don’t have to remind you that you’re still on probation. Which means, if you’re caught drinking on the job—again—you can and will be fired summarily, no more warnings, no more meetings, no more rehab.”
“But I’m not drinking on the job,” said Jan. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was thirtysomething, a single mother of two boys, almost well-dressed if you didn’t notice the fraying around the edges, the shirt not quite tucked in, the strap of one Mary Jane unbuckled, the hair not washed this morning. She was in a cavalcade of certain destruction and her breath was stinking up his paneled office, yet she sat saying she wasn’t drinking on the job.
“I didn’t accuse you of anything,” said Jared. “But if I can smell it, other people can smell it, including Larry Fredoso, the CEO. If I can tell you’re not acting normal on a Monday morning, other people can, too.”
They eyeballed each other, with hostility, with resignation.
Jared lowered his voice. “I can smell it.”
“I didn’t have any carbohydrates this morning,” Jan suddenly said. “That’s why my breath is bad.”
“Your breath isn’t bad! It smells like vodka.”
“Well, must be the Dayquil,” she mumbled. “I haven’t been feeling well. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Not feeling well. She’d been wired, jumpy, loud, straining to listen, to comprehend; she’d been leaving ostentatiously early with no explanation or defense. “The signs are everywhere,” Jared said. “There are no more chances.” He paused. “I want to help you save your job. For your kids. Who else do they have to depend on? You’re all they got.”
“That’s right,” she barked. “I’m all they got.”
“Right. So the responsibility is greater, not less, when it’s all on your shoulders.”
Jan muttered something he didn’t hear, that sounded like perhaps too much responsibility on her sagging shoulders, and then asked if she was being dismissed. He didn’t know what she meant. Dismissed permanently? Or just out of his office? Jared turned away to the window so he wouldn’t see her stumbling out. After sitting for a few minutes, he dialed home. He wanted to talk to the mother of his own kids.
The phone rang and rang.
Iwant to be neither in pain nor terror, she thought, her palms out flat against