I laugh, pressing a finger to my lips to quiet her down. “Today is Monday, silly,” I say, taking her by the hand and drawing her away from Clara and Felix, who are sleeping. I heft her into my arms and carry her from the room. “Tomorrow is ballet,” I say, but I have another idea, a way to freeze frame this moment in time. Seven thirty is usually Maisie’s bedtime; somehow or other, in the excitement and delirium that follows childbirth, we forgot to put her to bed. I haul her into the kitchen and set her on a kitchen counter where she sits, little piggies kicking the cabinet while I rummage around for the things I need. A glass jar and a pair of sharp scissors. As I use the pointed end of the scissors to poke holes in the stamped steel lid, Maisie asks, “What are you doing, Daddy?” and, “Why are you doing that?” but I tell her simply that she’ll see. I want it to be a surprise.
We find her pink sandals and step outside. Oftentimes Harriet would follow, but today she has a far greater task to do: protect Clara and the baby, and so her ears don’t budge; nor do her eyes look to Maisie and me as we go. Outside, Maisie and I become enfolded in the heat of the day. Though the humidity has relented somewhat, the evening remains hot. A couple of American goldfinches perch on the birdbath, taking the last few sips of green algae-tinged water. I make a mental note to clean the birdbath soon, to refill the birdseed, and then I hoist Maisie onto my shoulders with the jar in hand, and she asks of me, “Where are we going?” and I say again that she’ll see.
I lead Maisie into the thicket of trees that surround our yard, where the fireflies like to frolic at this time of night, playing with their friends. “What are they doing?” asks Maisie as she points her fingers intermittently at the light as it appears and then disappears, appears and then disappears, and I say to her, “They’re talking. This is how they talk with their friends,” and I see Maisie contemplating that, thinking what fun it would be if some part of her lit up to say hello. Her head or her hands or her toes. I lift her up into the trees and tell her to grab a handful of leaves, and she does—asking, of course, “Why, Daddy, why?”—and together we drop down onto the earth to fill the glass jar with sticks and leaves. The grass doesn’t grow here, where we sit, and is always austere, just a few blades poking out of the parched dirt. The tall trees prevent the sunlight from reaching the grass, preempting it from growing tall and strong. “There are things,” I tell Maisie as she helps me stuff handfuls of leaves into the jar, “that every creature needs to live. Food, shelter and oxygen are a few. We put holes in the jar so that the firefly can breathe, and these leaves are for food.”
“Can we catch one?” she asks, and I ruffle her hair and tell her, “Of course we can,” and then we rise from the earth, and I show her how. Darkness closes in quickly, though the moon is bright, a crescent in the nighttime sky. The black-blue sky abounds with stars, helping us see, as somewhere off on the horizon, the sun fades away, leaving only faint traces of light, which will soon disappear, too.
“Cup your hands together,” I tell her, “like this. But not too tightly,” I caution. “We don’t want to hurt the firefly. We only want to catch him for a little while, and then we’ll set him free.” I spy a light radiating through the air, and I catch it, this beautiful beetle that climbs easily across my hand. I show Maisie, and she giggles as the firefly spreads its forewings and flies, and she chases it through the yard, the skirt of her tutu fluttering in the nighttime air.
“My turn! My turn,” she says, skipping back to me, and again I show her how to cup her hands. She tries, but her movements are too slow, too timid, the firefly always one step ahead of her unwieldy hands. And so I catch it for her, and let it climb onto Maisie’s tiny hand. She laughs. “That tickles,” she says, as six jointed legs creep across her skin. I’m not sure whether or not she likes it, not until she says, “Hi there, Otis,” pressing her face close to the bug’s tiny face to greet him in the eye.
“Who’s Otis?” I ask, and she raises her hand so that I can see.
“This is Otis,” she says. “This is Otis, Daddy. Can we keep him?” she asks, and I nod my head as I help Maisie set Otis in the jar and screw on the lid.
“Just for a little while,” I explain, as Otis clambers on a stick and drops down into our glass house, making himself comfortable in this temporary home. “But then we’ll have to set him free. It’s fun for a little while, but Otis doesn’t want to live in a jar forever.”
“Why not?” Maisie asks, staring curiously at me. This one is an easy one.
“Would you want to live in a jar forever?” I ask, and she shakes her head a firm, decisive no. “Why not?” I ask, and she happily explains, “Because I want to fly!” as she twirls around and around through the yard, arms extended, until she becomes dizzy and falls.
“Daddy, fly with me?” Maisie begs, and I can’t help myself. There’s nothing I’d rather do than fly around the backyard with my girl. I help her rise to her feet and set her on my shoulders, spinning around and around through the lawn. Around us fireflies dot the sky as Maisie calls out, “We’re flying! We’re flying, Daddy,” and I laugh and tell her that we are. We’re flying. For just one minute I imagine our feet leaving the earth, Maisie and me soaring together through space.
“Look at the stars,” I tell Maisie as if she and I are one with them, the stars and us, and Maisie exclaims, “There’s the moon!” and we make believe we’re in a space shuttle of some sort, circumnavigating the moon. We laugh, giddy, silly, happy.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever felt so happy.
How long we fly, I don’t know. Until I’m wobbly on my feet and Maisie has had her fill. “That’s the best thing,” Maisie says, and I ask, “What is?”
“Flying!” she screams.
“Can I bring Otis to my bedroom?” Maisie asks as I return her to the ground and she sits cross-legged on the lawn, leaves in her hair, and I mull this over, thinking Clara wouldn’t like it in the least bit if I let Maisie bring a bug into her bedroom. But Otis is in a jar, completely harmless. And it’s only for one night. If she were awake, I’d ask her. I’d plead Maisie’s case, about how we should let her keep Otis in her bedroom for one single night, and then tomorrow we’d set him free, return him to the trees to play with his friends. But Clara isn’t awake, and I don’t want to wake her. I picture her in my mind’s eye sleeping serenely with Felix in her arms. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Clara so peaceful, so relaxed. The last thing in the world I want to do is wake her, and so I make a judgment call and tell Maisie yes.
“Yes,” I say. “We can keep him for one night,” I tell Maisie, and I hold out a pinkie finger for her to grasp with her own, “but we can’t tell Mommy. Okay? Pinkie promise we won’t tell Mommy about Otis,” and she does.
“Why not, Daddy?”
“Mommy doesn’t like bugs,” I say. “This time tomorrow night, we’ll set Otis free. Deal?” I ask, and she says, “Deal,” as we tiptoe back into the house, up the wooden stairs and into Maisie’s bedroom where we set Otis in his jar on the edge of her dresser, and I tuck her into bed. It’s a compromise; Maisie would like for Otis to sleep under the covers with her, but I smile and say no. “This way,” I say, “he can watch you sleep.” I pull the blanket clear up to Maisie’s chin and say to her, “Snug as a bug in a rug,” and she laughs and reminds me of Otis the bug in a jar, in case I’ve somehow already forgotten about Otis.
“Sweet dreams, my love,” I whisper to her as her eyes drift sleepily closed. “Good night,” I say as I stand in the doorway, watching as a chemical reaction from inside Otis’s abdomen illuminates Maisie’s night.