I looked in the rearview mirror. Robby was glaring at me through his orange-tinted wraparounds, one eyebrow raised, while tugging uncomfortably at his crewneck merino sweater, which I was certain Jayne had forced him to wear.
“I can see that you’re very cold and withdrawn today,” I said.
“I need my allowance upped” was his response.
“I think if you were friendlier that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doesn’t your mom handle your allowance?”
A huge sigh emanated from him.
“Mommy doesn’t let me sit in the front seat,” Sarah said again.
“Well, Daddy thinks it’s okay. Plus you look quite comfortable. And will you please stop eating the Skittles that way?”
We suddenly passed a three-story mock-colonial monstrosity on Voltemand Drive when Sarah sat up and pointed at the house and cried out, “That’s where Ashleigh’s birthday was!”
The mention of that party in September caused a surge of panic, and I gripped the steering wheel tightly.
I had taken Sarah to Ashleigh Wagner’s birthday party as a favor to Jayne, and there was a sixty-foot stegosaurus balloon and a traveling animal show and an arch made up of Beanie Babies framing the entrance and a machine spewing a continuous stream of bubbles around the backyard. Two weeks prior to the actual event there had been a “rehearsal” party in order to gauge which kids “worked” and which did not, who caused trouble and who seemed serene, who had the worst learning disability and who had heard of Mozart, who responded best to the face painting and who had the coolest SCO (special comfort object), and somehow Sarah had passed (though I suspected that being the daughter of Jayne Dennis was what got her the invite). The Wagners were serving the lingering parents Valrhona hot chocolate that had been made without milk (other things excised that day: wheat, gluten, dairy, corn syrup) and when they offered me a cup I stayed and chatted. I was being a dad and at the point at which I vowed that nothing would ever change that (plus the Klonopin was good at reinforcing patience) and I appeared hopefully normal even though I was appalled by what I was witnessing. The whole thing seemed harmless—just another gratuitously whimsical upscale birthday party—until I started noticing that all the kids were on meds (Zoloft, Luvox, Celexa, Paxil) that caused them to move lethargically and speak in affectless monotones. And some bit their fingernails until they bled and a pediatrician was on hand “just in case.” The six-year-old daughter of an IBM executive was wearing a tube top and platform shoes. Someone handed me a pet guinea pig while I watched the kids interact—a jealous tantrum over a parachute, a relay race, kicking a soccer ball through a glowing disc, the mild reprimands, the minimal vomiting, Sarah chewing on a shrimp tail (
I turned to look at her as she innocently nibbled a prawn. “Who did, honey?”
“Grandpa.”
“Grandpa Dennis?” I asked.
“No. The other grandpa.”
I knew that Mark Strauss (Sarah’s father) had lost both parents before he met Jayne and that’s when the anxiety hit. “What other grandpa?” I asked carefully.
“He came up to me at the party and said he was my grandpa.”
“But honey, that grandpa’s dead,” I said in a soothing tone.
“But Grandpa isn’t dead, Daddy,” she said happily, kicking the seat.
It was silent in the car—except for the Backstreet Boys—as that day came rushing back and I forced myself to forget about it while I cruised onto the interstate.
“Daddy, why don’t you work?” Sarah now asked. She was making satisfied smacking sounds after swallowing each Skittle.
“Well, I do work, honey.”
“Why don’t you go to an office?”
“Because I work at home.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a stay-at-home dad,” I answered calmly. “Hey, where are we? A cocktail party?”
“Why?”
“Please don’t do this now, honey, okay?”
“Why do you stay at home?”
“Well, I work at the college too.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, honey?”
“What’s a college?”
“A place I go to teach singularly untalented slackers how to write prose.”
“When do you go?”
“On Wednesdays.”
“But is that work?”
“Work puts people in bad moods, honey. You don’t really want to work. In fact you should avoid work.”
“You don’t work and you’re in a bad mood.”
Robby had said this. Tensing up, I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He was staring out the window, his chin in his hand.
“How do you know I’m in a bad mood?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything. I realized the answer to that question required an elaboration that Robby wasn’t capable of. I also realized: Let’s not go there.
“I think I come off as a pretty happy guy,” I said.
A long, horrible pause.
“I’m very lucky,” I added.
Sarah considered this. “Why are you lucky, Daddy?”
“Well, you guys are very lucky too. You lead very lucky lives. In fact you’re even luckier than your dad.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“Well, Daddy has a very hard life. Daddy would like snack time. Daddy would like to take a nap. Daddy would like to go to the playground.”
I could see in the rearview mirror that Robby had clamped his hands over his ears.
We were passing a waterslide that had closed for the season when Sarah shouted, “I want to go on the waterslide!”
“Why?” It was my turn to ask.
“Because I wanna slide down it!”
“Why?”
“Because it’s fun,” she said with less enthusiasm, confused at being on this side of the questioning.
“Why?”
“Because . . . I like it?”
“Why do you—”
“Will you stop asking her why?” Robby said fervently, pleading.
I quickly glanced in the rearview mirror at Robby, who looked stricken.
I averted my gaze to where the Backstreet Boys CD was spinning. “I don’t know why you kids listen to this crap,” I mumbled. “I should buy you some CDs. Make you listen to something decent. Springsteen, Elvis Costello, The Clash . . .”
