He would leave a note for the maid. When the children left town she was to leave their rooms as she found them. He would tape them off like a crime scene if he had to, anything to make the house feel more alive.
He called Maggie from the kitchen. The clock on the stove read 6:14 a.m.
“We’ve been up for an hour,” she said. “Rachel’s reading. JJ is seeing what happens when you pour dish soap in the toilet.”
Her voice was muffled as she covered the mouthpiece.
“Sweetie,” she yelled. “That is not what we call a good choice.”
In New York, David mimed drinking and the housekeeper brought him more coffee. His wife came back on the line. David could hear the frazzled energy she got in her voice when she spent too long parenting by herself. Every year he tried to get her to bring Maria, the au pair, with them to the island, but his wife always refused. Summer vacation was for them, she said, family time. Otherwise, Rachel and JJ would grow up calling the nanny Mommy, like all the other kids in their neighborhood.
“It’s super foggy out,” his wife said.
“Did you get the thing I sent?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, sounding pleased. “Where did you find them?”
“The Kiplings. They know a guy who travels the world collecting old-world clippings. Apples from the eighteen hundreds. Peach trees no one’s seen since McKinley was president. We had that fruit salad at their place last summer.”
“Right,” she said. “That was yummy. Were they—is it silly to ask?—were they expensive? This seems like something that you’d hear on the news is the price of a new car.”
“A Vespa, maybe,” he said.
It was just like her to ask price, as if part of her still couldn’t fathom their net worth, its implications.
“I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a Danish plum,” she said.
“Me either. Who knew the world of fruit could be so exotic?”
She laughed. When things were good between them, there was an easiness. A rhythm of give-and-take that came from living in the moment, from burying old grudges. Some mornings when he called, David could tell that she had dreamed about him in the night. It was something she did from time to time. Often she told him afterward, biting off her words, unable to look him in the eye. In the dream he was always a monster who scorned and abandoned her. The conversations that followed were chilly and brief.
“Well, we’re going to plant the trees this morning,” Maggie told him. “It’ll give us a project for the day.”
They made small talk for another ten minutes—what his day looked like, what time he thought he’d be out tonight. All the while his phone chimed, breaking news, schedule changes, crises to be managed. The sound of other people’s panic reduced to a steady electronic hum. Meanwhile the kids buzzed in and out of Maggie’s end of the line like yellow jackets scouting a picnic. He liked hearing them in the background, the melee of them. It was what set his generation apart from his father’s. David wanted his children to have a childhood. A real childhood. He worked hard so that they could play. For David’s father, childhood had been a luxury his son could not afford. Play was considered a gateway drug to idleness and poverty. Life, Dad said, was a Hail Mary. You only got one shot at it, and if you didn’t train every day—with wind sprints and grass drills—you would blow it.
As a result, David had been burdened with chores at an early age. At five, he was cleaning the trash cans. By seven he was doing all their laundry. The rule in their house was that homework was done and chores were completed before a single ball was thrown, before a bike was ridden or army men were dumped from the Folgers can.
You don’t become a man by accident, his father told him. It was a belief that David shared, though his was a milder version. In David’s mind, the training for adulthood began in the double digits. At ten, he reasoned, it was time to start thinking about growing up. To take the soft-serve lessons about discipline and responsibility that had been fed to you in your youth, and cement them into rules for a healthy and productive life. Until then you were a child, so act accordingly.
“Daddy,” said Rachel, “will you bring my red sneakers? They’re in my closet.”
He walked into her room and got them while they were talking so he wouldn’t forget.
“I’m putting them in my bag,” he told her.
“It’s me again,” said Maggie. “Next year I think you should come out here with us for the whole month.”
“Me too,” he said immediately. Every year they had the same conversation. Every year he said the same thing. I will. And then he didn’t.
“It’s just the fucking news,” she said. “There’ll be more tomorrow. Besides, haven’t you trained them all by now?”
“I promise,” he said, “next year I’ll be there more.” Because it was easier to say yes than to dicker through the real-world probabilities, lay out all the mitigating factors, and try to manage her expectations.
Never fight tomorrow’s fight today, was his motto.
“Liar,” she said, but with a smile in her voice.