“She’s done something,” he says, and I can see the tension in his eyes, the shame. “A couple nights ago. Tuesday,” he explains. “Somehow or other she got ahold of the car keys,” he says, and already I know where this is going. He goes on to tell Clara and me how Izzy wasn’t home at the time—it was nearly bedtime, and so Tom had sent her home for the night—and he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Late afternoons and evenings are always hardest on Louisa, when the confusion seems worst. It was nearing eight o’clock that night, and, thanks to Louisa’s intermittent sleep schedule, Tom was tired. She was restless all night, every night, stricken with insomnia, which meant that Tom also didn’t sleep. I could see it in his eyes. He was exhausted. “She thought she needed to make dinner,” he says, “but there was no milk. I don’t know what I was thinking leaving the car keys in my coat pocket, within reach,” he goes on, his words running over with shame and guilt, and Clara croons, “It’s okay, Daddy. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”
As it turned out, Louisa managed to take the keys and walk right past Tom and outside. She managed to find her old car in the garage, one she hadn’t driven in years, get the keys in the ignition and put the car in Reverse. She managed to drive a block or two until she swerved, crashing into Ed Ramsey’s garbage bins that were lined up in preparation of garbage day. “Thank God no one was hurt,” he says. “Ed found her sitting there in the car, completely out of her mind. All she kept saying was that she needed milk, and so Ed thought for sure she was thirsty and brought her a glass of milk from inside while he waited for me to arrive. I should be mad at her—I could be mad at her. And yet she just can’t help herself,” he says.
“Oh, Daddy,” says Clara. It’s all she can say.
“Thank God no one was hurt,” he says again, and we all agree.
We’re standing two feet into the kitchen so that Louisa can’t hear. And yet we won’t leave Louisa and Maisie together unattended, not after what happened last time. I still can’t get the image out of my mind, Louisa coming after Maisie with a pair of scissors. It happened so fast.
It’s about that time that Maisie loses the ability to sit still and rises up from the sofa to do a series of poorly executed ballet leaps across the room. Tom, Clara and I step back into the living room to watch the performance, and Clara, clapping her hands at Maisie’s moves, says that Maisie has begun taking dance classes at one of the nearby studios on Tuesday afternoons. She goes on to tell them about the studio on the lower floor of an old refurbished furniture factory; about Maisie’s teacher, Miss Becca; about the fact that in Maisie’s class there are ten girls and one boy, a detail that Maisie repeats every time she comes home from class. She’s taken with his footless black tights and his white T-shirts, and the fact that he is a boy. Maisie has never seen a boy ballerina before. A danseur, it’s called, not a ballerina, which we only know because Clara searched the word on the internet. We’re sure Maisie has her first crush.
“Pretty soon,” says Tom, eyes focused on me, “you’ll have to step up and help out with these tasks, son.” Tom has called me son approximately four times in our marriage, and each came with a scolding, often directed at the amount of money we’ve invested in my practice. But this time, it’s my parenting of which he speaks, my perceived disinterest in taking Maisie to ballet. “With a new baby, everything will change. It won’t only be Clara and Maisie anymore. Clarabelle will have her hands full,” he says, and at this he winks in Clara’s direction, as if this conversation was preordained.
But Clara leaps to my defense. “Nick is so busy,” she tells him, “supporting our family,” and I die a little bit inside, wondering what Clara and her father would think if they knew the truth about my crumbling practice. “And besides,” she says, “he helps. He helps whenever he can.”
“You ever take Maisie to ballet?” he asks as Izzy hovers in the background, wishing like me that she could become one with the wallpaper and disappear. “Go with Clara to all those prenatal appointments?” and his insinuation that I’m an absentee father strikes a nerve with me because that’s the one thing in the world I never wanted to be: my own father, who always put his career before our family.
“I would like to,” I assert, but it’s a pathetic excuse. Clara comes to my aid again. “I love taking Maisie to ballet, Daddy,” she says. “Watching her with her friends. Dancing. Talking to the other mothers. It’s therapeutic,” she claims, “having other mothers to talk to. Parenthood can be lonely,” she says, and this is the first time she’s mentioned it before, the suggestion that at home alone with Maisie, she feels lonely. Alone. I reach out my hand to touch hers in a silent acknowledgment. I heard her; I will do better. I will make every attempt to be around more.
It’s the first time Louisa opens her mouth to speak.
“My Clara never could dance,” she says, her tone bitter and vitriolic. Except her eyes aren’t watching Clara, but rather Maisie as she leaps gracelessly around the room. “The poor thing,” she says. “So ungainly. She was born with two left feet. Clara,” she snaps then at Maisie as she leapfrogs across the room, more of a toad than a graceful ballerina, landing on the flats of her feet and losing balance, tumbling to the ground in a stop, drop and roll fashion. “Clara! Stop doing that, why don’t you. You look like a fool. Like a goddamn fool. Don’t you know you can’t dance worth a damn,” she growls, humiliating both Clara and Maisie at the same time.
Only one of them cries.
Before we leave, Tom calls Maisie to his side, and again leans down to her height, pressing his lips to her ear. More secrets. She giggles merrily, as he wipes a tear from her cheek, forgetting already about her sadness of only two moments ago. As he speaks, her eyes stray to mine, and she smiles. What’s this got to do with me? I wonder. What in the world is he saying to her about me?
In the car on the way home I try to talk to Clara about it. Maisie is in the back seat, reading a book, and the baby in my wife’s womb is punting her insides. Clara has her hands folded around her midsection and from time to time flinches in pain. I reach with a single hand to lay it on top of her own and ask, “Do you want to talk about it?” meaning her mother’s dance commentary, her father’s car keys, the neighbor’s upended garbage cans, the fact that no one ever ate the cinnamon crumb cake and that at home, being a stay-at-home mother, she’s lonely.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, though her hand binds to mine.
I try Maisie instead. “What did your grandfather say to you inside?” I ask.
Her leafy-green eyes peer up to mine. “When?” she asks—either naively or defiantly, I don’t know.
“When he leaned down and whispered in your ear. Just thirty seconds ago,” I tell her, and she’s quiet for a minute, but then she smiles and says, “Boppy said that secrets aren’t for sharing,” and focuses her attention out the window, already at the age of four, learning to tune out the sound of my voice.
“Look there,” she says. “An airplane’s in the sky.”
Both Clara and I look, but we see nothing.
CLARA
I set the dinner table for three.
Maisie comes bounding to the table, declaring jubilantly, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” and it’s only then that I realize my mistake.