“Heard it went great with Talbot and Jacobs,” he says, then gives me the Richard Nixon victory sign, a long-standing joke between us.
“Yeah, they’ll sign,” I reply. Carson nods at Greta, and she smiles back at him.
“Mr. Davenport was great.”
“Always is, dear,” Carson says. “That’s why I keep him around.” He looks at me. “You going out to Hewitt?”
I nod.
“We were just talking about that,” Greta says. “It’s on the schedule for this afternoon.” I’m relieved she doesn’t mention the fact that she’s joining me.
“Great,” he says. “Let me know how it looks.”
“We will,” Greta says. I cringe inwardly as Carson shoots me a strange look. He nods his head once and shrugs.
“Good. Great. Yeah, okay, so call me tonight when you’re done.”
“Don’t you have that dinner thing?”
I don’t want to call him tonight. I know why he’s asking me to, and I resent it.
“Yeah, no, I do. Dinner with four members of the city council. Going to be about as much fun as a root canal. Call me if for no other reason than to give me a break from those jerk-offs.”
“Okay.”
Carson nods again, then heads for his office.
Greta turns to me and smiles. “Leaving at four?” she asks.
“Yes. Traffic will be bad, but I don’t think I can get out of here any sooner.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind traffic. That’ll give us time to talk.”
“About what?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“About anything,” Greta replies. She takes another nibble of her sandwich and grins playfully at me.
I set down my sandwich, my stomach suddenly uneasy. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Might be better if we caravan,” I suggest. “So we can both head home from there.”
She tries not to look disappointed. “You’re the boss.”
FORTY-ONE
RACHEL
I arrive at the school five minutes after kinder pickup, cursing myself for being late. Jonah is one of the last kids remaining behind the gate. When Eden was in the lower grades and I arrived late, she would be angry and unforgiving, glaring at me as I waved to her teacher and punishing me long into the evening. But Jonah is happily chatting with another kindergartner, gesticulating like an Italian mama and clutching a stuffed monkey to his chest. He doesn’t even notice me as I toss a greeting to his teacher. When Mrs. Hartnett calls to him, he turns toward me and gives me a beatific smile, and my heart seizes in my chest.
“I won, Mommy! I won! I won the egg hunt!” He barrels into me, throws his arms around my waist and squeezes me tight while managing to keep a firm grasp on the monkey. “I get to keep Marco for the whole vacation!” he tells my stomach.
I peel him away, then kneel down and grasp his face in my hands. “Congratulations, my guy! That’s amazing!”
“I found forty-seven eggs!” he cries. “Forty-seven! Jesse found forty-six. I thought he found more than me when I looked at his pile, but I found one more than him and I won and I get to keep Marco! Mrs. Hartnett said I should take pictures of Marco and us and then I can share them with the class when vacation’s over.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I tell him. I stand, and he instantly laces his fingers in mine. “I’m sorry I’m late, honey. I was working.”
“You’re not that late,” Jonah says. “It’s okeydokey, artichokey. Work is important.”
I smile down at him. “Not more important than you.”
“Oh, sure. I know that. Nothing’s more important than me, right?”
“Right!” I lead him to the minivan.
“But I knew you’d be here and anyway I was talking to Joey M. about vacation and he said his family is going skiing and he thought that was the best way ever to spend vacation, and I think it is, but then he told me his dad isn’t going and that his mom’s friend is going instead and his brother is going somewhere else, and I thought maybe it wasn’t that great because he’s not going to be with his whole family, and I told him I didn’t know what we’re doing for vacation and he said that was stinky, like that we weren’t doing anything, and I told him it didn’t matter ’cause we were going to be together as a family so whatever we do will be the best ’cause we’ll all be together.”
Finally, Jonah takes a breath, and I use the break to strap him into his car seat.
“We’re all going to be together for vacation, right, Mommy?”
“Absotively,” I say.
“Posolutely,” he finishes.
“So, wow, forty-seven eggs, huh?” I ask.
“Oh my gosh, yes! And lots of each kind. I got . . .” He scrunches up his face and thinks hard. “Fifteen cookies-and-cream—Eden’s going to be so happy. She said we’d split ’em fifty-fifty, but I’m going to give her more because I don’t need them all. And I got thirteen chocolate ones and nine Butterfinger ones and ten peanut butter ones for Daddy.”
“He’ll be so happy,” I say.
“I can’t wait to give them to him,” Jonah says as I pull out of the parking lot.
“Well, unfortunately, Daddy has to work late tonight,” I say, “so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
I glance in the rearview mirror. Jonah is frowning.
“Can’t we go to his work now, Mommy? So I can give ’em to him? If he has to work late, he might need the eggs to help him have energy.”
I bite my lip and watch the road. My five-year-old son has more compassion and caring than most people I know. It makes me proud—I must be doing something right. But also, I recognize that he is a force unto himself, and perhaps I only deserve partial credit. He came out of my womb a smiling, effervescent, joyful presence. Perhaps Sam and I can only take credit for not squashing that energy, for not suffocating his innate goodness.
“If we go see Daddy, we won’t have time for the playground.”
Jonah gets out of school exactly one hour before Eden. Our routine is to go to the park on the next block, where he can play for forty-five minutes. The younger students who get out early aren’t allowed on the school jungle gym due to some ridiculous district mandate, but the park is close by and has an even better play area than the school. Usually, other kinder moms are there, waiting for their older offspring, and Jonah and I both enjoy the camaraderie of our individual age groups.
“I think giving the eggs to Daddy is more important. What if he doesn’t have time for dinner?”
I check the clock on the minivan. Sam’s office is ten minutes away. Ten-minute return trip.
“Okay, but we can’t stay long. We don’t want to be late picking up Eden.”
“No, we don’t,” Jonah says. “She’d be way mad at you.”
I punch the button for the CD, and Jonah and I sing “The Green Grass Grows All Around” together—his favorite. I forget where I am in the lyrics nearly every verse, but Jonah patiently corrects me.
“No, Mommy, the wing . . .”