Читать книгу A Song in the Daylight - Paullina Simons - Страница 20

“Do you refuse to give me an answer?” said Ezra incredulously, cornering her in the kitchen after another late January week passed. Her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies would burn if she didn’t take them out right now.

“Ezra, excuse me.” Oven mitts on, Larissa opened the oven door. Damn. Overdone by two minutes.

He sighed behind her. “I thought you were going to think about it.”

“I have thought about it.” She took out a clanging metal cookie rack.

“Well, think some more. Think until you give me the answer I want.”

Giggling, she started to scrape the cookies onto a cooling rack. “I can’t do it. I don’t have the time.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You have from eight till two each and every day to dedicate to the unfailing pursuit of theatrical excellence.”

“Only in your limited and one-dimensional world,” said Larissa, “do I have nothing to do from eight till two.”

“Lar,” said Jared, pouring drinks and always ready to instigate, “tell our friends how long it takes you to get out of the house.”

Larissa stayed quiet!

“How long?” said Ezra. “Thirty minutes?”

“Thirty?” said Jared, raising his eyebrows. “Tell him, Lar.”

After veal shank and rice with corn, and everyone full and relaxed at the table, Larissa told them.

Did this seem unreasonable?

Brushing teeth, etc.	5 minutes
Shower	15 minutes
Drying	5 minutes
Drying smaller parts, like ears	5 minutes
Lotioning	10 minutes
Makeup	20 minutes
Getting dressed	10 minutes
Hair	30 minutes
Jewelry	5 minutes
Misc tasks, e.g. shoes, purse	10 minutes
Total:	1 hour, 55 minutes

“That’s without dawdling, making coffee, or doing a single thing for any of the kids,” Larissa finished.

“Is this a joke?”

“I don’t see what’s so funny.”

Ezra stammered. “Jared, you allow this?”

“I don’t allow it, that’s just how long it takes.” Jared gazed at Larissa.

“But it takes me fifteen minutes!”

“Ezra,” Larissa said calmly, “I’ve seen you spend longer in the bathroom when you have company.”

Ezra whirled to Maggie. “How long does it take me?”

“Fifteen minutes,” replied Maggie.

“I shave, five minutes, shower, five minutes, I put on my clothes, five more minutes. Done.”

“Yeah. So? What does your business have to do with my business?”

“You weren’t always like this. You weren’t like this in college!”

“In college, Ezra? We walked around in the same pair of jeans for weeks! We were theater hippies. We prided ourselves on not washing. Things have changed.”

“Clearly.”

They all tried that Saturday night to make Larissa more efficient at getting beautiful so she could become a drama director for Pingry.

“Why do you have to put lotion on?”

“You want me to have scaly skin, Ezra? Like a snake?”

“I don’t care either way, but you won’t be scaly.”

“I will be. My husband likes touching soft skin.”

All inebriated eyes turned from wine to the husband.

“I do like the soft skin,” admitted the sheepish, grinning husband, his shaggy gray-brown hair falling over his forehead, his hand reaching out to scrub Larissa’s cheek.

“Why can’t you let your hair dry naturally?” suggested Ezra. “You’ll cut thirty minutes right there.”

“Because I will look a fright.” Larissa suddenly remembered the bike dude’s disquisition on women and hair, and became uncomfortable, in her own home, recalling laughing at a stranger in the parking lot.

“You can’t possibly,” said Maggie. “You would look beautiful no matter what. Your hair looks so pretty now.”

“Took me forty-five minutes. Thirty to blow dry and fifteen more to get it into a bun that looks casually messy.” Larissa gracefully moved on from the freeform poetry of hair. “Why do you want me to be dry, disheveled, down?”

“Because I want you to direct the spring play,” said Ezra. “Why do you spend five minutes on jewelry? You don’t need jewelry to go to the supermarket, do you?”

“More than anywhere else,” Larissa replied. “Obviously you’ve never been to the supermarket. Do you know how many times I hear, I like your necklace, your earrings, your bracelet?”

“No, how many?” asked Jared, poking her, his eyes glinting.

Pinching Jared’s arm, Larissa went on. “How many times I hear, where did you get that beautiful necklace and I say I got it from Jean. Is that what you want, Ezra? Frump me up and run Jean’s business out of Summit? Besides,” she continued, on a pleasant, non-defensive roll, “Jared buys me my jewelry. You want me not to wear his lovely gifts? Some wife I am.”

“You don’t wear everything I buy for you,” Jared said with a wink.

Stop it, she mouthed to him, winking back. It was Saturday night, after all and Larissa had a fair amount of liquid Eros in her.

They worked on her like this the rest of the evening. Here in her present external life, the minutia of hairspray was scrutinized: should she spritz once or twice, and why moisturizer and foundation, while in the other past life, one evening she and Maggie and Ezra, and Evelyn and Malcolm, and even her beloved Jared, had spent 1 hour, 55 minutes figuring out why Psalm 23 sounded so sublime in its King James rendition but less so in successive, though (possibly) more accurate versions.

One version read: You moisten my head with lubricant instead of, You anoint my head with oil.

“Moisten? Who says that? It sounds … I don’t know,” Larissa had said with distaste she was unable to hide. “Slightly sexual.”

Ezra had chuckled, adjusting his red plaid blazer. “Well, in the original Hebrew, the word had no sacramental connotations,” he said. “The words were lubricate with pleasure.”

“You lubricate my head with pleasure?” Larissa had said incredulously. “That’s better than anoint?”

“No, quite right,” agreed Ezra. “Which is why we use moisten.”

So Larissa could conclude now in the fullness of time that in the end all philosophical discussions, past and present, were about lotion.

“I anoint my body with oil,” Larissa said to Ezra and Maggie this evening.

“You what?”

It was pleasant to sit, to chat. There was no denying the delights of her subzero freezer and canyon-capacity washing machine and her funny loquacious friends. It was only when she stood at her books and touched the spines of the unread memoirs and comedies before she boxed them all to be donated, it was only when she was saying no to Ezra for something so outlandishly magical as to live on the stage, that Larissa fleetingly thought that though she looked so rad in her glad rags, perhaps the books weren’t getting read and Othello wasn’t getting directed by her because she was taking 1 hour, 55 minutes to moisten her head with lubricant.