A Song in the Daylight Read Online Free PDF Page A

chances weakened considerably, because on the treadmill the newly arrived books became covered by gossip magazines, by People , by Entertainment Weekly (though EW had a lot of words in it, didn’t it?); they became covered by used eye-makeup remover pads and discarded bras, by shirts and socks, cardigans, often earrings, sometimes earphones, three pairs of them, and printed pages of nonsense off the Internet on the latest current event she pretended she might catch up on under her Ralph Lauren quilt. Her side of the bed was the only place in the house where chaos reigned.
    So today, Larissa took firm charge of the last unruly vestige of her ordered life. Book by book, shelf by shelf, she worked her way from top to bottom, placing the books inside boxes that would be donated to St. Paul’s Thrift Shop in Summit.
    Had she read Lord of the Flies by William Golding? Through books I can be someone else, she thought. She didn’t need to read books about it; it was Lord of the Flies every night in her house. When reading books, she wanted to be far removed from herself.
    Fear of Flying by Erica Jong? No; too much sex. It would just rile her up, inflame her unnecessarily.
    Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks? Love! World War I! She knew nothing about the latter; it was perfect. It was also a little too removed. Reluctantly she dropped it in the box, recalling with a twinge of regret that that was why she had bought the book in the first place—so she could read about something she knew nothing about.
    Lonesome Dove ? Too Texan. Once she had wanted to read it. But once she had wanted to read everything.
    Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf? Wait, she’d read that! How did that get up here? Yes, she was almost sure she’d read it. There was a line in it she kept coming back to. She devoted herself to that line until it was carved into her memory. But today, as she sat on the floor and leafed through the book in vain, Larissa couldn’t even remember what the line was about , much less the actual words. All she recalled was that it had meaning, and now she couldn’t recall a word of it, a whiff of it. Disgusted, she threw the book in the box, and then the thumb of her memory ran over I Am Legend by Richard Matheson. Jared loved that book when he was young(er).
    The phone rang; she didn’t answer. The doorbell rang. Two men were delivering a dishwasher. She had to leave her book project half completed and babysit Chris the installer and his non-speaking companion, who shook their heads at her dicey kitchen cabinets and said the new machine might not fit without tearing up the floor. “But we’re jacks of all trades,” hefty Chris said with a smile. “We know what we’re doing.”
    She smiled wanly.
    She didn’t want to go out today. Hobbling down to the basement, she opened the freezer to see if there was any dubious forgotten meat she could defrost. Maybe they could go vegetarian tonight, fettuccine Alfredo. With bacon bits. Almost vegetarian, that is, if you didn’t count the chunks of smoked pig. She could mask the lack of food with garlic bread, except she didn’t have any bread. Or garlic. Or bacon bits.
    The stainless-steel, smart-wash, nine-cycle machine with sanitized rinse and heated dry hadn’t arrived until noon. By the time the crack installers left—without tearing up her floor—it was almost one. She had planned to take a shower before she went out, but now there was no time. She had to pick up Michelangelo from school at 2:40. Besides, to have a shower, she needed Jared to tape her casted leg inside a plastic bag. She didn’t think asking Chris and his buddy, the jacks of all trades, to help a naked woman with a broken leg get into the tub was such a swell idea or qualified under one of the trades they were jacks of.
    Though truth be told, if she had a choice, she’d rather have two unshaved strangers help her naked into the shower than stagger to King’s unwashed and unpainted.

6
King’s, Ye Olde Market
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