A Song in the Daylight Read Free Page B

her first?” She tapped her husband scoldingly on his head.
    “Theater is her life.”
    “Was.”
    “You don’t know everything, Margaret. You’re totally off the mark.” But he became flummoxed, as if Larissa’s refusal was the last thing he had expected. “She’ll say yes. And she’ll be excellent.”
    “Our cat compared to Denise would be excellent. What a disaster that has been. She should direct The Poseidon Adventure .” Maggie shook her head, then remembered something. “Speaking of disasters, we’re having an ice cream party today. Except three of my kids are allergic to peanut butter, and I got notes yesterday asking if the vanilla ice cream was made with peanut oil. Turn to me.” She redid his fire-red bow tie to go with his wine-colored jacket and green slacks.
    “The parents are asking the wrong question,” Ezra said sonorously.
    “Of course they are!” Maggie laughed, kissing him on the cheek. “If the vanilla ice cream had one less electron in it, we wouldn’t be here at all, right? The question they should be asking is not about peanut oil. It’s about the existence of anything as delectable as vanilla ice cream.”
    “Ah,” said Ezra, “you’re mocking me.” His eyes twinkled at her.
    “Not mocking. Teasing.” Her eyes twinkled at him.
    “Confound them completely by telling them vanilla ice cream is made not with peanut oil but peanut butter.” They both laughed. “Tell them also, Margaret, that if the gods areindifferent to us, then that leaves us also free to be indifferent to the gods. If there is no immortality, we have so much less to worry about. Paint, don’t paint. Read, don’t read. Direct spring plays. Vanilla ice cream, peanut butter. It’s all good, Curly. Do whatever you like without thought to consequence. Tell your worried mothers that. I’m going to tell Larissa that. That’s what I’m learning from Epicurus. Let’s go. We’re late.”
    “As usual. You should be thanking God I’m taking up painting and not the piano,” said Maggie, grabbing her bag and heading downstairs. “Pam has suddenly and inexplicably started playing the piano at the age of forty-four. It cost her husband thirty thousand dollars—so far—for an upright that doesn’t offend her delicate hearing. But, Ezra, riddle me this, Batman…” Maggie got into their old Subaru and cranked the keys in the ignition, while her husband leaned into the window to peck her goodbye. “What if the gods aren’t indifferent to us?”

4
Jared
    J ared walked in, as usual, to an internal crisis. Well, why not? It was Monday. Crisis was a reaction to Monday. There was no crisis on Wednesday, Thursday, even Tuesday. Only right before a weekend, to sour things a bit, and right after, to let you know no one wanted to be back at work. This particular Monday, Jan showed up to the morning meeting smelling distinctly not of a double latte.
    It was one thing for Jan to be incapacitated at 9:30 on a Monday, but Jared had an analyst meeting to run, which involved not just Jan, but fifteen sober individuals. And there was Jan, belligerent, inappropriate and loud, interrupting measured voices.
    After the hastily aborted meeting, Jared called Jan into his office. His space at the Newark headquarters had a great view of New York City from floor-to-ceiling windows. Unfortunately they were always behind him, and the only time he allowed himself a glance at the Big Apple skyline was when he called Larissa. He would whirl his chair around and chat to her, dreaming of Sunday brunches at the Plaza, the violinist and the pianist playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. Just thinking about the music trilling in his ears made him want oysters and waffles. He shook his head to rid himself of melodies and wives.
    “Jan, it’s like this,” he said. “I’m not going to accuse you, and you will have nothing to deny. We’ve been through this before; the company has been more than lenient. It’s paid for your rehab—twice—and