“When? Unlock your door.”
“You said when the fish died, we could get a dog,” he says. “And the fish is dead.”
“He is?” I say, hoping I sound surprised. I tap the “unlock” button on my door panel, and the elderly woman tries the handle again, but Aja promptly pushes the lock back into the down position.
I give her a forced smile and hold up one finger.
“Yeah. I don’t know how you didn’t notice that when you were feeding him this morning.”
“Huh,” I say.
The driver behind us leans on the horn. I glance in the rearview and see a mother glaring back at me. My heart starts thudding. “We’ll talk about this later. You gotta go into school.”
Aja adjusts his glasses and crosses his arms. “Not until you say we can get a dog.”
The horn blares again.
“Aja! We don’t have time for this.”
I press the unlock button again. Aja relocks it. The attendant looks perplexed, as if she’s never encountered a child who won’t get out of the car before. I look past her and see the principal start to walk toward the car. A bead of sweat runs down my forehead.
And then I remember the wheelchair, and I’m struck with inspiration. Or at least another bargaining chip.
“How about I find the wheelchair and I’ll think about getting the dog?”
Beep-beep-BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. I resist the urge to roll down the window and scream for the driver to keep her pants on by gripping the steering wheel so tightly all the blood leaves my fingers.
Aja’s face lights up and I think I’ve won. But then he crosses his arms again and settles his butt more firmly in his seat. “The wheelchair and the dog,” he says over the sound of the horn that is now just a constant tone. I had no idea suburban carpool lines were so aggressive.
“Aja! Get. Out. Of. The. Car.” My teeth are so clenched it’s like my jaw has been wired shut.
He doesn’t budge—just looks at me, uncaring that an entire line of carpool parents are cursing us. I know that I shouldn’t budge, either. That a good parent would stand his ground, not reward such manipulative behavior by letting the child get his way.
Other horns join in. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
But screw parenting—all I want in life right now is for that goddamn horn to stop blaring.
“Fine!” I say. “The wheelchair and the fucking dog!” At the same time Aja pops up the door lock and swings the car door open, letting the F-word fly loud and free into the school-zone air.
The principal stops in his tracks and the attendant’s gray, squirrely eyebrows jump halfway up her forehead.
The horn is quiet, the air is still, and everyone congregated in the school entrance is staring at me. Aja, unruffled, hops out of the car and hooks his backpack over his shoulder, striding toward the front door.
I take a deep breath, my face bright red with embarrassment. “Knock ’em dead, tiger!” I yell at Aja’s back. Then I reach over and grab the handle, slamming the door shut, and throw the gearshift into drive.
BACK HOME, I pour a third cup of coffee and sit down at the kitchen table where Aja attempted to ignite the Rice Chex box just an hour earlier. In exhaustion—though it’s not even eight thirty—I rub my jawline with my hand, against the grain, already feeling the stubble emerge from my pores. My five o’clock shadow appears around noon, and I have yet to find a razor to combat that no matter how “cutting-edge” the shaving technology claims to be. (And really? Razor technology? Who’s inventing these things—NASA scientists?) Work doesn’t start until next week, but I almost want to go into the office, so I can at least feel competent at something.
Based on the morning’s events, parenting isn’t going to be that thing today.
And because things on that score can’t get much worse, I pull out my phone and tap out a text message to Ellie. She hasn’t responded in more than four months, but that doesn’t keep me from trying.
Just accidentally dropped the F-bomb, shocking Aja’s new principal and a grandmotherly crossing guard. Thought that might amuse you. Love you, sweet cheeks. Dad
I know I don’t need to sign texts—Ellie taught me that two years ago when she looked over my shoulder at a message I was sending and had ended with Eric. “Daaa-aad,” she said, in that new You’re the stupidest person on earth way she had begun drawing out my name. “You know that when you send a text, your contact info automatically pops up? Everyone knows it’s from you?” This was also around the time she started ending every sentence with an upward lilt, as if every statement were, somehow, also a question. I soon learned from listening to her friends speak that this was typical adolescent-girl linguistics, and I wondered if they were handed an instruction book when they got to middle school on how to talk and dress and patronize their parents.
Anyway, I did not know about the redundancy of signing texts and was happy for the lesson—even if its delivery was a touch condescending.
But I still sign my texts to Ellie because now I like picturing her rolling her eyes at her dad’s buffoonery. I hope it might even make her giggle a little. And maybe I also like reminding her that that’s who I am. Her dad. Even if she doesn’t want to talk to me.
I hit “send.” And then I pour another cup of coffee.
Tomorrow. I’ll start cutting back on coffee tomorrow.
three
JUBILEE
THE MAILMAN IS late.
I’m trying to pay attention to the Jack the Ripper special on PBS, but my eyes keep roving to the clock on the wall. It’s 1:17. The mail comes every day between 12:00 and 12:30.
And I’m worried about him. The mailman. Even though I’ve never once talked to him. And I don’t even know his real name. I call him Earl, because one time I heard him through the door, belting out in his baritone: “Duke, Duke, Duke . . . Duke of Earl, Earl, Earl.”
Maybe he witnessed a purse-snatching and chased the would-be robber down on foot, tackling him to the ground to retrieve a stranger’s bag. That seems like something Earl would do—he has that kind of face. Decent. Good.
But what if it’s something worse? Like a stroke? Or a blood clot that traveled up his leg and went straight to his heart? He could be lying helpless on the street right now, under the vibrant blue sky, envelopes and packages spread beneath him like flotsam haphazardly floating in the sea.
Just as I begin to panic, I hear it. The unoiled hinge of the metal mail slot on my front door eeking open and the cascade of envelopes and advertisements as they slide through and fall to the floor below.