Lunar Park

“I brushed my teeth,” Sarah said again, and when that got no response from Jayne she turned to me. “Bret, I know the alphabet.”



“Well, you should by now,” I said encouragingly but also confused about why a girl so proud of having learned the alphabet should be reading Lord of the Flies.



“I know the alphabet,” she stated proudly. “A B C D E F—”



“Honey, Bret has a big headache. I’m gonna take your word on this one.”



“—G H I J K L M N—”



“You can identify the sounds letters make. Sweetie, that’s really excellent. Jayne?”



“—O P Q R S T U V—”



“Jayne, would you please give her a sugar-free doughnut or something?” I touched my head to indicate migraine approaching. “Really.”



“And I know what a rhombus is!” Sarah shouted gleefully.



“Fabulous.”



“And a hexagon!”



“Okay, but take pity on me just now, munchkin.”



“And a trapezoid!”



“Honey, Daddy’s grouchy and sleepy and about to throw up so couldn’t you keep it down a little?”



She immediately turned to Jayne. “Mommy, I’m keeping a journal,” she announced. “And Terby’s helping me with it.”



“Maybe Bret can get a little help from Terby with his writing,” Jayne offered caustically, without looking up from the notes she was going over with Marta.



“Baby, my novel is so happening right now I can hardly believe it myself,” I droned, flipping through USA Today’s Sports section.



“But Terby’s sad,” Sarah said, pouting.



“Why? I thought he was doing okay,” I said, partially disinterested. “Is he having a bad fur day?”



“He says you don’t like him,” Sarah said, twisting in her chair. “He says you never play with him.”



“The thing is lying. I play with him constantly. While you’re at school. In fact, Terby beat me at backgammon on Tuesday. Don’t believe a thing Terby—”



“Bret,” Jayne snapped. “Stop it.”



“Mommy?” Sarah asked. “Does Daddy have a cold?”



“Honey, your daddy’s contaminated right now,” Jayne said, placing a bowl of oatmeal topped with raspberries in front of Sarah.



“And Mommy’s all bitched up,” I muttered.



Jayne either didn’t hear me or pretended to ignore that one. “And we’ll all be late if we don’t hurry.”



And then I zoned out on everything surrounding me until I heard Jayne say, “You’ll have to ask your dad.”



When I snapped out of it, Robby was looking at me anxiously.



“Forget it,” he mumbled.



“No, come on,” I said. “Ask me what?”



His face was so troubled that I wished I knew the question myself and could simply answer it without Robby having to ask it.



Dreading this, he asked, “Can we get The Matrix DVD?”



Quickly, I thought this through. He braced himself for my answer.



“But we already have it on video,” I said slowly as if answering a trick question.



“Yeah, but the DVD has extras and—”



“Of what? Keanu—”



“Bret,” Jayne said loudly, interrupting her discussion of Sarah’s ballet schedule with Marta, then turned on Robby. “Why are you wearing that T-shirt?” she suddenly asked him.



“What’s wrong with it?” I interjected, trying to save myself.



“We can’t wear costumes to school, remember?” Robby darkly muttered. “Remember?” he asked accusingly.



He was referring to the e-mail sent out to parents about Halloween this year. Even though there would be parties in the afternoon, the school was warning against costumes, preferring that the kids come as “themselves.” The school originally had okayed “appropriate” costumes while actively discouraging anything inappropriate (nothing “violent” or “scary” or “with weapons”), but predictably, the children, even on all their meds, started to freak out en masse, so costumes were simply banned (exhausted parents pleaded for a compromise—“Nominally frightening?”—which was rejected). This disappointed Robby gravely, so while Jayne was inspecting glasses that had just been in the dishwasher, I tried to console my son. In a fatherly way I assured him that going without a costume was probably in everyone’s best interest, offering as a cautionary tale my own seventh grade Halloween when I’d gone to school as the Bloody Vampire and wasn’t allowed to march in the annual parade for the elementary students because I had slathered so much Fun Blood on my mouth and chin and cheeks that it was certain to frighten them, according to the principal. This had been so deeply embarrassing—a pivotal moment, really—that it was the last time I ever wore a costume. It was that shameful. The memory of sitting alone on a bench while my classmates marched in front of the delighted elementary students still burned. I suddenly expected Robby to find me far more interesting than he previously had.