“Of course you are. She’s our daughter. She’s struggling.”

“One time,” I said. “She had a temper tantrum because you were out of town.”

“No. She was upset because her entire world has changed, and now you want to make it even worse. I can’t understand why you think it’s such a great idea to dump her. Don’t you like spending time with her?”

I felt my jaw clench and I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Of course I do. But you said I would have to watch her for a week, two at the most.”

“What I also said was that I wanted to do what’s best for our daughter! I haven’t had the time to find the right place, and now by the time I do find it and get her signed up, school will be about to start and what would be the point?”

“She’ll still need a place to go after school lets out,” I said.

“I’ll talk to London about it, okay?”

“You’ll talk to London about day care?”

“I assume that you haven’t. I have no idea how she’d feel about it.”

“She’s five years old,” I said. “She doesn’t know enough to know what to think about day care.”

“Mommy? I’m hungry.”

I turned and saw London in the doorway of the kitchen. Vivian glared at me and I knew we were both wondering how much she’d heard.

“Hey sweetheart,” Vivian said, immediately lightening her tone. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Want to help me set the table?”

“Okay,” London said, and Vivian moved to the cupboard. She and London set the table; I served and brought the food over.

After London had taken a few bites, she smiled at me.

“Dinner is really good, Daddy.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said, feeling my heart warm just a little.

My marriage with Vivian might be a little shaky at present and my business going nowhere fast, but at least, I thought to myself, I was learning how to cook.

It didn’t make me feel any better.

CHAPTER 10

Moving Forward

When I was a kid, summers were the most glorious time of life. Because my parents believed in hands-off, free-range parenting, I’d usually be out the door before ten and wouldn’t return until dinner. There were no cell phones to keep track of me and whenever my mom called a neighbor to ask where I was, the neighbor was often just as clueless as to her own child’s whereabouts. In fact, there was only one rule as far as I could tell: I had to be home at half past five, since my parents liked to eat dinner as a family.

I can’t remember exactly how I used to spend those days. I have recollections in snapshot form: building forts or playing king of the hill on the high part of the jungle gym or chasing after a soccer ball while attempting to score. I remember playing in the woods, too. Back then, our home was surrounded by undeveloped land, and my friends and I would have dirt-clod wars or play capture the flag; when we got BB guns, we could spend hours shooting cans and occasionally shooting at each other. I spent hours exploring on my bicycle, and whole weeks would pass where I’d wake every morning with nothing scheduled at all.

Of course, there were kids in the neighborhood who didn’t lead that sort of carefree existence. They would head off to camp or participate in summer leagues for various sports, but back then, kids like that were the minority. These days, kids are scheduled from morning to night, and London was no exception, because parents demanded it.

But how did it happen? And why? What changed the outlook of parents in my generation? Peer pressure? Living vicariously through a child’s success? Résumé building for college? Or was it simply fear that if their kids were allowed to discover the world on their own, nothing good would come of it?

I don’t know.

I am, however, of the opinion that something has been lost in the process: the simple joy of waking in the morning and having nothing whatsoever to do.

“What’s the problem with the commercials?” Joey Taglieri asked, repeating my question to him. It was Tuesday morning, tennis lesson number two. Still angry at me from the night before, Vivian had left that morning without speaking to me.

“The problem is they’re boring,” he said. “It’s just me, talking to the camera in an overstuffed office. Hell, I fall asleep watching them and they cost me a fortune.”

“How would you make them different?”

“When I was a kid, my family lived in Southern California for a few years when my dad was still in the Marines. Hated it there, by the way. So did my mom. As soon as he retired, my family moved back to New Jersey. Both my parents were from there. You ever been to New Jersey?”

“I think I flew out of Newark a couple of times.”

“That doesn’t count. And don’t believe all that crap you see on reality TV about Jersey either. It’s a great place. I’d raise my daughter there if I could, but her mom’s here and even if she’s a coldhearted shrew, she’s pretty good as a mom. But anyway, back to Southern California. There was this car dealer named Cal Worthington. Ever heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Old Cal Worthington had the greatest commercials of all time. Every commercial would introduce him and his dog Spot – except that Spot was anything but a dog. Spot might be monkey or a lion or elephant or whatever. There was even a killer whale once. Old Cal had a snappy little jingle that was impossible to forget, with a refrain that went, Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal. Hell, I was eight years old and didn’t give a crap about cars and I wanted to go to the dealership just to meet the guy and maybe see a few exotic animals. That’s the kind of commercial I want.”