“What kind of emergency?”
“Look, Miss…”-he checked the envelope-“Lawson, I’m sorry for the error and inconvenience. I’m sure a photograph from another set fell into your packet. I can’t recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect. Oh, wait.”
“What?”
“May I see the photograph in question please?”
Grace was afraid he’d want to keep it. “I didn’t bring it,” she lied.
“What was it a picture of?”
“A group of people.”
He nodded. “I see. And were these people naked?”
“What? No. Why would you ask that?”
“You seem upset. I assumed that the photograph was in some way offensive.”
“No, nothing like that. I just need to speak to Josh. Could you tell me his last name or give me a home phone number?”
“Out of the question. But he’ll be in tomorrow first thing. You can talk to him then.”
Grace chose not to protest. She thanked the man and left. Might be better anyway, she thought. By driving here she had merely reacted. Check that. She had probably overreacted.
Jack would be home in a few hours. She would ask him about it then.
• • •
Grace had homebound carpool duties for the swim practice. Four girls, ages eight and nine, all delightfully energetic, piled two into the backseat and two into the “way, way” back of the minivan. There was a swirl of giggles, of “Hello, Ms. Lawson,” wet hair, the gentle perfume of both YMCA chlorine and bubble gum, the sound of backpacks being shucked off, of seat belts fastening. No child sat in the front-new safety rules-but despite the chauffeur feel, or maybe because of it, Grace liked doing carpool. It was time spent seeing her child interact with her friends. Children spoke freely during carpool; the driving adult might as well have been in another time zone. A parent could learn much. You could find out who was cool, who was not, who was in, who was out, what teacher was totally rad, what teacher was most assuredly not. You could, if you listened closely enough, decipher where on the pecking order your child was currently perched.
It was also entertaining as all get-out.
Jack was working late again, so when they got home, Grace quickly made Max and Emma dinner-veggie chicken nuggets (purportedly healthier and, once dipped in ketchup, the kids can never tell the difference), Tater Tots, and Jolly Green Giant frozen corn. Grace peeled two oranges for dessert. Emma did her homework-too big a load for an eight-year-old, Grace thought. When she had a free second, Grace headed down the hallway and flipped on the computer.
Grace might not be into digital photography, but she understood the necessity and even advantages of computer graphics and the World Wide Web. There was a site that featured her work, how to buy it, how to commission a portrait. At first, this had hit her as too much like shilling, but as Farley, her agent, reminded her, Michelangelo painted for money and on commission. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Who was she to be above it?
Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. That done, she started bathing the children. Emma went first. She was just getting out of the tub when Grace heard his keys jangle in the back door.
“Hey,” Jack called up in a whisper. “Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin?”
“Children,” she said. “Children are still awake.”
“Oh.”
“Care to join us?”
Jack bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house shook from the onslaught. He was a big man, six-two, two-ten. She loved the substance of him sleeping beside her, the rise and fall of his chest, the manly smell of him, the soft hairs on his body, the way his arm snaked around her during the night, the feeling of not only intimacy but safety. He made her feel small and protected, and maybe it was un-PC, but she liked that.
Emma said, “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, Kitten, how was school?”
“Good.”
“Still have a crush on that Tony boy?”
“Eeuw!”
Satisfied with the reaction, Jack kissed Grace on the cheek. Max came out of his room, stark naked.
“Ready for your bath, mah man?” Jack asked.
“Ready,” Max said.
They high-fived. Jack scooped Max up in a sea of giggles. Grace helped Emma get in her pajamas. Laughter spilled from the bath. Jack was singing a rhyming song with Max where some girl named Jenny Jenkins couldn’t decide what color to wear. Jack would start off with the color and Max filled in the rhyme line. Right now they were singing that Jenny Jenkins couldn’t wear “yellow” because she’d look like a “fellow.” Then they both cracked up anew. They did pretty much the same rhymes every night. And they laughed their asses off over them every night.
Jack toweled Max off, got him into his pajamas, and put him to bed. He read two chapters of
When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page. Jack stayed firm. It was getting late, he said. Max grudgingly acquiesced. They talked for another moment or two about Charlie’s impending visit to Willy Wonka’s factory. Grace listened in.
Roald Dahl, both her men agreed, totally rocked.
Jack turned down the lights-they had a dimmer switch because Max didn’t like complete darkness-and then he entered into Emma’s room. He bent down to give Emma a kiss good night. Emma, a total Daddy’s Girl, reached up, grabbed his neck, and wouldn’t let him go. Jack melted at Emma’s nightly technique for both showing affection and stalling going to sleep.
“Anything new for the journal?” Jack asked.
Emma nodded. Her backpack was next to her bed. She dug through it and produced her school journal. She turned the pages and handed it to her father.
“We’re doing poetry,” Emma said. “I started one today.”
“Cool. Want to read it?”
Emma’s face was aglow. So was Jack’s. She cleared her throat and began:
Grace watched the scene from the doorway. Jack’s hours had gotten bad lately. Most of the time Grace didn’t mind. Quiet moments were becoming scarce. She needed the solace. Loneliness, the precursor to boredom, is conducive to the creative process. That was what artistic meditation was all about- boring yourself to the point where inspiration must emerge if only to preserve your sanity. A writer friend once explained that the best cure for writer’s block was to read a phone book. Bore yourself enough and the Muse will be obligated to push through the most slog-filled of arteries.
When Emma was done, Jack fell back and said, “Whoa.”
Emma made the face she makes when she’s proud of herself but doesn’t want to show it. She tucks her lips over and back under her teeth.
“That was the most brilliant poem I’ve ever heard ever ever,” Jack said.
Emma gave a head-down shrug. “It’s only the first two verses.”
“That was the most brilliant first two verses I’ve ever heard ever ever.”
“I’m going to write a hockey one tomorrow.”
“Speaking of which…”
Emma sat up. “What?”
Jack smiled. “I got tickets for the Rangers at the Garden on Saturday.”
Emma, part of the “jock” group as opposed to the group who worshipped the latest boy band, gave a yippee and reached up for another hug. Jack rolled his eyes and accepted it. They discussed the team’s recent performance and set odds on their chances of beating the Minnesota Wild. A few minutes later, Jack disentangled himself. He told his daughter that he loved her. She told him that she loved him too. Jack started for the door.
“Gotta grab something to eat,” he whispered to Grace.
