A Song in the Daylight (2009)

by Paullina Simons

  “Larissa?”

  “Oh, what, sorry?” She hadn’t been paying attention. She had been catching, through the semi-private partitions, the desks, the chairs, a glimpse of the tailored white shirt, the pressed jeans, the hand on the phone, the back turned to the dealership, wild hair slicked down.

  “Chad wants to know if you’re interested in the advanced technology package?”

  “A what?”

  “A navigation system.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She didn’t want to spend a minute thinking about it. She tuned out but after a few minutes something in the conversation between the two men brought her back. Jared was asking Chad about Kai.

  “Is he on the up and up?” Jared lowered his voice. “Seems awful young to be selling cars of this caliber.”

  “This is what we all thought,” said Chad, also lowering his voice. “He’s new. Still on probation. But he’s impeccable. Punctual, hard-working, never a bit of trouble. And he’s been salesman of the month both months he’s been here.”

  “He’s only been here two months!”

  “Exactly. And let me tell you, the runner-up sold one car. Kai sold seven.”

  “Seven?” Jared whistled. “Seven altogether?”

  “No. Seven in one month. Yours will be eight.”

  “No…”

  “Eight this month, five last month. That’s over a million dollars to this dealership.”

  “Wow.” Jared glanced over the cars to the cubicle where Kai stood working the phone, with an expression of surprised and grudging respect, as if for some reason Jared didn’t want Kai to be a successful salesman. “What’s his secret? How does he do it?”

  “No one knows. He’s a bit of a loner, keeps to himself. Perhaps he’s got great closing game?” Chad grinned affably at Larissa. “How did he close it with you?”

  Larissa shrugged. “He showed me a beautiful car. I was won over. What’s so hard about that?”

  “Yeah. It does help that the cars are nice.” Chad pointed to a middle-aged man behind the business office counter. “But Gary over there, our senior salesman, with us twenty years, with us as long as Kai’s been alive, sells the same merchandise. Yet, he can’t move ‘em.”

  Oh dear God, he was twenty!

  “Must be the youth,” said Jared.

  Larissa looked down deeply into her lap, her fingertips not flushed this time but draining of blood.

  “Must be.” Chad leaned forward. “You know what I think? Kai just won’t take no for an answer. If he sees a potential sale, he will not quit. But he also doesn’t waste time on those who’re just window-shopping. Maybe that’s his gift. He can instantly tell the browsers from the buyers.”

  Now Jared shrugged. “He seemed shifty. Like he was trying to get one over on me.”

  “He wasn’t, though. You saw. He’s a superb closer. He’s got end game.”

  “No, I know. The price was fair. With all those options and packages, I was afraid were we getting snowed.” Which was ironic, for how you can be snowed when the party doing the snowing wasn’t doing any talking? “But Kelley Blue Book said good price. I’m satisfied.” Relaxed, Jared smiled at Larissa.

  “It’s a great car, darling,” said Larissa, glancing at her watch, forcing a toothy smile. “What wife wouldn’t want a 420-horse-power Jag convertible?”

  They signed off on the terms of the lien, the amount of the down payment, the interest rate, the taxes and delivery charges. Before he left, Jared shook Chad’s hand. He did not seek out Kai, nor seek out his hand to shake. He didn’t even nod in his direction as he was leaving.

  2

  Winter Gold

  Othello was sold out for all three performances. On Saturday night they brought the kids, sat in the second row, admired the actors, the well-rendered words, the superb set decoration. Michelangelo told his mother that she had painted a beautiful death scene.

  Jared, leaning into Larissa, sitting by his side, said during the intermission, “I know that Shakespeare must have considered Desdemona and Othello’s marriage a good one, noble and decent and all that, but what if, I mean, wouldn’t it be funny if Desdemona actually did sleep with Cassio?”

  “Dad’s right. This play is not appropriate for children, Mother,” said Emily, leaning over Michelangelo. “You should not have brought him.”

  “She shouldn’t have brought you,” said Michelangelo, shoving away his sister.

  “Perhaps Emily is right,” Jared said. “This play is not appropriate for adults or children.”

  “What kind of a tragedy would it be if Desdemona was righteously killed?” asked Larissa. “This is like the things Leroy says when he wants to revise the script by ‘improving’ Shakespeare’s words.”

  “Who the hell is Leroy?”

  “You know. Leroy.” She pointed. “Standing with the script in his hand on the other side of Fred.”

  “Who the hell is Fred?”

  “Oh, darling, I told you about Fred.” Larissa sighed. “You never listen to me. He’s the annoying one, the theater department head wannabe next to the stage director wannabe.”

  “You have to be more specific than that, Lar.” Laughing, Jared put his arm around her. “Hey, why can’t it still be a tragedy?” He kissed her temple. “To love, to be betrayed. That’s not tragic?”

  “Not for Shakespeare. It’s par for the course.”

  Asher leaned over his father. “When is this over? I really have to go home.”

  “It’ll be over when everybody is dead, son. That’s how you’ll know it’s over.” Jared turned to Larissa. “What’s the spring play?”

  “No one’s decided yet,” said Larissa as the curtain rose. “Much to Ezra’s torment, Leroy thinks it’ll be up to him.”

  “Hmm,” Jared said. “You should be the director. You can drive to work in your little gold Jag. So zexy. When’s it coming?”

  “I don’t know. Two weeks?”

  “Did he say he was going to call you when it was in?”

  “He didn’t say. I assume someone will call.”

  “Usually the salesman calls.”

  “Well, I guess then he’ll call.”

  “He hasn’t called yet?”

  “Jared, no, he hasn’t called. You know how you know? I’m not driving a little gold Jag.”

  “Hmm. I guess. God, he was so pretentious,” whispered Jared. “Reading Felix Krull. Who does he think he is?”

  “Who are you talking about?” Larissa said mock-tiredly, amazed at Jared’s visceral inexplicable hostility to Kai’s stoic silence in one ten-minute car ride.

  Act III began. Enter Cassio and some musicians. “Masters play here. I will content your pains.”

  At the end of February, the Jag came in. A momentous occasion like this deserved Jared taking time off work, but he was busy restructuring the fixed retirement instruments department and couldn’t. Larissa had to wait, but she did drive over in the afternoon to take a look at it.

  “Winter Gold is nice, ey?” Kai said, beaming to a beaming Larissa, who put both palms on the hood, both forearms on the hood. It was magnificent. She wanted to lie down on it. She wanted to sleep inside it.

  “Certainly better than the blue,” she said with spectacular regret, wishing she could drive it off the lot that very second. She settled for tuna and rice in the Escalade with Kai from 1:25 until 1:55.

  After dinner Jared drove Larissa to the dealership, where the release paperwork was signed for the plates and the temporary registration, where the keys were exchanged and keyless combinations revealed. The car was so spanking, Jared even shook Kai’s hand! Larissa kept saying thank you. There was a lot to be grateful for. The Jaguar brought Jared and Kai together! Maybe they could be friends. Perhaps Kai could come over in the summer, reseal the walkway from the garage to the front door, and then have a frosty glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in her kitchen.

  “So all is forgiven, darling?�
�� Larissa said quietly and teasingly to Jared, while Kai went inside to grab the second set of keys. The situation was so diffused, she could even tease!

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jared said. And then louder, when Kai returned, “The color is fantastic. Perfect for Larissa.” And Kai agreed; Winter Gold was perfect for Larissa.

  He showed her things: how to put the top down, how to adjust the power seat, control the automatic climate buttons, work the stereo and the menu buttons. They spent forty minutes in the car, him patiently explaining, while Jared sat in his Lexus tapping his fingers. “Lar, ready to go?” he asked, finally getting out and walking over to the Jag window. “It’s getting late.”

  “Just a few more minutes, honey,” said Larissa. “I have to figure out when to use the third gear.” She looked at Jared brightly. “You can go home, if you want. I’ll follow you in, like, five minutes.”

  Jared looked from Kai to Larissa and back again. “If it’s really going to be five minutes, I’ll wait,” he said.

  Finally they left, Larissa as excited as a boy with trains on Christmas morning. She drove her Winter Gold Jaguar twenty miles an hour down Main Street with Jared behind her in his Lexus, honking at her to hurry it along. There was no putting down the top, since it was drizzling freezing slush. When she got home and pulled the car into the garage, she took out a roll of paper towels, went out and started drying the car by hand. Jared laughed at her.

  “The children all want a ride, Lar,” he said. “Better keep that paper towel roll handy.” Since the car was a two-seater, she had to take them one by one, though Michelangelo made do with the tiny back seat, scrunched up, and went along with both Emily and Asher.

  “Mom, that is the cooliest car I’ve ever seen,” Asher said. “I want you to drive me to guitar in it every week.”

  “Yes, but we’ll have to get another mother with another car to drive the other two children to their activities, won’t we?” said Larissa. “We won’t all fit in this one.”

  Jared put his foot down. “This is not a mother car,” he said. “This is a Larissa car, okay, guys? When you want a mother, she drives you in the Escalade. Larissa drives the Jag. Got it?”

  That Saturday night they invited themselves to Maggie and Ezra’s just so Larissa could drive her Jag. Even the unflappable Ezra looked impressed.

  “Happy now?” Ezra said, walking around the car, patting its trunk and windows.

  “Delirious. But careful. You’ll scratch it with your ring.”

  “Why would I scratch your car with my wedding ring?” said Ezra, taking his hands off it. “So has the Jag provided you with all the answers?”

  “Give it time, Ezra. I’ve only had it two days.”

  “What about the theater, Larissa? You’ve been thinking about it a lot longer than two days. I’m about to offer the job to Leroy.”

  “Don’t threaten me with Leroy, Ezra. Offer him the job if you want.” She paused. “He is a fine man and a single dad. Don’t let his theatrical incompetence stand in your way.”

  “Come inside.” Ezra prodded her away from the Jag. “I will ply you full of liquor and terrorize you with stories of Leroy. Do you remember how he decided to change the ending of Hamlet? He thought Hamlet shouldn’t die in the end, but rather learn the error of his ways and be redeemed with pompous self-discovery?”

  “Ezra!”

  “What about when Desdemona and Othello kissed and made up at the end? And Juliet woke up just in time to stay Romeo’s hand.”

  “All right, enough.”

  “Caesar lives!”

  “Ezra!”

  “The people forgive Antony and Cleopatra for their decadent ways!”

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Ivan Ilyich gets better!”

  “Well, how can it be called The Death of Ivan Ilyich then?” said an exasperated Larissa.

  “My point exactly. Only you can save us from Leroy, Larissa.”

  “I said no.”

  “Come inside. Drink till you say yes.”

  “That’s how she got three children, Ez,” piped up Jared, pulling a reluctant Larissa away from the Jag. All she wanted to do was ride it on the open road.

  But not alone.

  After the first time of sitting in a car and eating sushi, an illusory world was established in which it was possible for Larissa to sit with Kai, first in her cream SUV and now in her Jaguar, in the middle of a bright day parked near a chain-link fence separating the parking lot from the cemetery and, without looking at each other, eat raw seafood.

  His age was the most ridiculous thing, and upsetting to her at first, but almost immediately the knowledge that he was not even in the flush of young adulthood—but at the end of adolescence, at the very beginning of the beginning of the rest of his life—liberated her from worry. Fretting about propriety had vanished and was replaced by an amused banter, a cheerful demeanor and a guiltless heart. Since any acknowledgement of his maleness and her femaleness on terms approaching equality either of body or of spirit was beyond the realm of possibility (his being twenty and all), having a quick lunch with him was pushed beyond the realm of anxiety. It was just a way to pass a few minutes in the afternoon, nothing more, and Larissa thought no more of it. No further justifications were needed. When she recalled her weeks-long agonizing over going to the dealership to look at a car, she was embarrassed at her own silliness. How overwrought! It was outlandish to be concerned about such trivial things. Illusion versus reality. The reality was, he was a boy barely out of high school and needed to have lunch in the afternoon. She was a grown woman with three children and a busy life who needed to have lunch in the afternoon. End of story. Jeepers.

  They sat in her Jag as the breeze rustled her hair and blew their napkins around, and the sound of the road was like a soundtrack of her life. Police sirens, honkings, cars pulling in and out, wheels screeching, life buzzing on, while they sat facing tombstones laid out amid slushy grounds and bare trees, not yet greening, not yet budding. The temperature rose, and once in the middle of March it got to sixty-six degrees! Larissa didn’t wear a coat, just a blouse with a denim jacket over it and jeans. This is what she wore now in these afternoons of her life. Jeans. Because jeans were the wardrobe of the young.

  They rolled down their windows, she turned on the CD player, they listened to the Doors and Minnie Riperton. She dis covered Kai knew by heart some of Jim Morrison’s poetry. She was surprised by that; often he would do that: say things that surprised her. “Huh. Impressive,” she said when he told her that the grand highway was crowded with searchers and leavers.

  “Jim Morrison or me?” He blinked cheerfully.

  She didn’t have an answer, and he didn’t want one. “I know a lot of Morrison,” he said. “There was a point in my life when The American Night was all I read. Wonderland Avenue used to be my favorite book.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Yeah…I’m less interested in that heroin culture now.” He stuffed his empty plastic containers into the paper bag and refused to say more. “Still a good book, though. Have you read it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s by Danny Sugerman,” he said, and the next day brought her a copy, all weathered and frayed. “You can borrow it,” he said, “but careful, okay, it’s a first print edition.”

  “You shouldn’t give it to me, then. I’m apt to leave it somewhere.”

  “Like where?”

  She took it. “Did you want to be like Morrison?”

  “Nah. In Hawaii, we’re more mellow. But Morrison rocks. Just listen to his lyrics, to his voice. I was more into Mahalo music, ukulele riffs, island chants, you know?”

  She didn’t know. She wanted to hear more of Morrison’s poetry.

  “I liked that he wanted to expand the bounds of his reality,” said Kai, “expand it beyond all limits trying to find the sacred. You know how that can be?”

  She wasn’t sure she did but she wanted to hear more Morrison through Kai�
��s lips.

  3

  Perpetual Change

  Larissa knew she might be in a spot of trouble when Maggie called about lunch the following week and Larissa lied. Actually lied. Said she was busy. A doctor’s appointment, blah blah, couldn’t make it, and Maggie said, how long is this doctor’s appointment, I’ll meet you after, and Larissa said, no it’s in Morristown, and this doctor always runs late, and Maggie took no for an answer, rescheduling for Wednesday from noon to two, and Larissa didn’t know how to or what to say to Kai, because to say she was busy tomorrow was ridiculous! But to say nothing might mean—would mean—that he’d be waiting for her, and she couldn’t just not show up.

  What would Emily Post say about the etiquette on that one?

  Dear Abby:

  I have this problem. For forty minutes a day I sit in my car with a young man not my husband and we have lunch. We talk about the most trivial nonsense, we are barely acquaintances, but we do this nearly every day. Tomorrow I can’t make it. I don’t know if it’s appropriate to tell him I can’t make it. I don’t want it to seem like there’s an obligation or like I owe him an explanation, because clearly I do not. Yet to not show up seems odd.

  Dear Abby:

  Yesterday afternoon, a young man not my husband held open for me the door of the car he sold me, and as I got in, I inhaled to smell him.

  Question: Should I now try to smell random men on the streets of my sleepy little town to prove to myself that it was an aberration and that sometimes this is what women of a certain age do? Smell male strangers?

  She was eating tuna and cucumber, he a rainbow roll with eel and salmon. His hair was especially kinky today, covering much of his face.

  “Masonry is hard work,” he was saying. “But I love being outdoors all day in the summer. Selling Jags is actually harder work for me.”