The fifth poem concerns the pleasure the narrator takes in artifice and orifice (artifizio e orifizio), and his concern, the perennial concern of the male lover, over his lady’s pleasure: Is it real or is it Memorex?
Charming. This was what Romei wanted to share about his wife? I couldn’t imagine why.
But I was troubled by something else. I went through the pages again — slowly — and counted seven images and ideas familiar from my stories: stone hitting bedroom window, woman helped off a bench, a first kiss to the back of the neck, roast chicken on a plate … They weren’t extraordinary, I held no patent. But stilclass="underline" coincidence?
Disgusted, I stuffed the pages into my folder and reached for last week’s puzzle. There was still the betrayal of the husband to look forward to.
I couldn’t wait.
•
My crossword was a patchy mess when I realized it was time to go home. I looked over at the playground to call Andi.
She wasn’t there.
She wasn’t running in circles, I couldn’t see her on the swings or on a seesaw. I couldn’t see her anywhere.
Andi! I shouted, grabbing my mom-bag, but leaving Romei’s pages, Andi’s shovel and pail on the bench. Andi! I screamed, and ran barefoot from the fountain. Andi! I screamed as I ran around the jungle gym.
And saw there, behind a tree, the edge of a Marimekko dress. And there, by the whirligig, a science girl, face hidden in her hands, counting to one hundred.
23. OH HAPPY DAY!
I was surprised on returning home to detect the unmistakable scent of an Oh Happy Day Cake. An upside-down macaroon concoction Joe made us on special occasions, as when Ahmad published another book or Andi found a dollar on the street. I guessed that this was yet more camp-graduation nonsense, but resolved to be chipper.
Tradition mandated that the cake be eaten before dinner, because that’s the way God intended it, and served with as many candles as the frosting could support, so that Andi, acting as proxy for the celebrant, could blow them out as a way of sharing the joy. Which she did tonight, in just four tries.
Hooray! we cried, and passed around slices, admiring the cake’s macaroon lightness, its admirable upside-downness. Then Ahmad stood and clinked his glass with a fork.
Friends, Romans, and country girls. I have an announcement.
Announcement? He must have heard from Mirabella. He must be about to tell Andi she has a brother — or rather, a half-brother half of the time.
A pause as he allowed suspense to build. Andi didn’t care: she was eating her cake.
I have decided, he said,… to buy a house!
A house?
You’re kidding! Where? I asked, thinking, let it not be Brooklyn! The Village would be a drag, but Brooklyn — impossible!
Connecticut! he said, and named a town, a hamlet known for its green lawns and polite Republicans. It was on the commuter line, but only barely.
Oh, an investment! I said. I was confused for a minute! Good thinking!
We’ll need a bigger place, he said, and looked at me meaningfully.
Have you …?
He shook his head one degree: he hadn’t heard from Mirabella.
But wait, I said, you want to move there? To Connecticut?
I’m hoping, assuming, that you’ll join us … me there. There will be lots of room.
You’re assuming what? I asked. We’ll move to Connecticut?
What’s Connecticut? Andi asked, having finished her cake.
A stupid place very far from here, I said. Nowhere you’d ever want to live.
A wonderful place very close to here, Ahmad said, looking at me in disbelief. With lots of kids, plenty of room in which to ride your bike …
I don’t have a bike.
We’ll get you a bike.
You’re not getting her a bike! Ahmad, that’s enough!
I want a bike! Andi cried.
Jesus, Ahmad! I understand that you might need … space, but Connecticut? We are not moving to Connecticut. You can find a bigger place here. What about the university?
They’ve already given me three bedrooms. If the number of my, uh, dependents goes up, technically we’d still only need three bedrooms. Given that you and I are …
I get it! We’ll figure something out.
I can’t buy an apartment big enough for us all, not even on my enormous professor’s salary. And last I knew, you weren’t able …
I get it! I said. We’ll rent. I’ll contribute.
In Forest Hills, maybe. If we have to go that far, I’d rather buy. Something nice. With space out back for a studio. And a pool, he added, looking at Andi.
A pool! Andi said.
Ahmad, we can’t just pick up and go!
I don’t think you’re trying to understand my situation.
I understand your situation but aren’t you acting a bit rashly, considering …
Ahmad’s face went hard.
Say it.
Nothing, Ahmad. Sorry. I didn’t mean it.
Considering I don’t know the outcome of current events?
I hope it works out, really I do! Why doesn’t he take my study?
Why doesn’t who take your study? Andi asked.
Ahmad shot me a warning look.
We’re just talking options, sweetie. Ahmad, we have a life here.
You have a life here. If you can call it that.
If you can call it that? What’s that supposed to mean?
SuperTemps has a branch in Fairfield County, Ahmad said. I checked.
I stood, glaring. To Ahmad, I would always be underachieving Shira, Shira-going-nowhere, never-realizing-her-potential Shira. When I published stories, Ahmad didn’t like how I portrayed his precious Jonah. When I temped, he said I’d earn more translating for the UN. Nothing was good enough for his high-achieving highness, not even translator to the stars.
When do I get my bike? Andi asked.
We’ll talk about this later, I said, and began bringing dishes to the kitchen. No seconds for anyone — I was too angry.
Ahmad followed me to the kitchen.
That was snide of me, he said. I’m sorry. But you can’t actually expect Hassan to live in a pantry.
You’re not sorry, I said, slopping Tibetan takeout into bowls and bringing it to the table.
Andi, Ahmad said after we’d passed the food in silence, tell us a story from school.
So Andi talked about Pammy, who’d insisted that if Andi didn’t start wearing a bra very soon, her bosoms wouldn’t grow. Andi concluded that Pammy wasn’t quite “right in the head,” but she’d put up with her “for the moment.”
Ahmad laughed in all the right places.
Mo’ momos? he asked. Andi giggled.
Dump me momo dumplings! she exclaimed.
I got up with my plate; I’d had enough. Celebrating with an Oh Happy Day cake, as if it were a done deal! Did he no longer even feel the need to consult with me? Apparently not, because he knew what I’d say: Connecticut? It was unthinkable!
Moving was easy for Ahmad: he was attached to people, not places. Well, bully for him! With the exception of a few sad years in Suffern and some sadder years in Rome, I’d lived my whole life in Manhattan; it was the only home I’d ever known. I had no family left to speak of, other than what I’d managed to create for myself; I had only this city: New York was witness to most of my past, and the only place I could imagine myself — packing Andi’s lunch for Bronx Science, organizing Bloomsday pub crawls for the Translators of Note, bringing grandchildren to the planetarium, watching the lively world from Slice of Park, eventually joining the alte kockers on the Broadway island. When I tried to imagine going back to the ’burbs, I felt panic, as if the world had run out of air. As if I were still married, still oppressed by my husband’s unimaginative good intentions, anxiously comparing lawncare products at Herb Groh’s UGrohIt, saying silent prayers over stunted shrubbery. What could life offer me there, what could life offer us? A place where each day, if we played our cards right, would be just like the day before. I could never let Andi live like that, her horizon no farther than the next picket fence. Could I afford to support her here on my own? Of course not. Is that what Ahmad was counting on? Undoubtedly.