The Underside of Joy

closing the book and holding it face down. ‘Marcella should be back in a minute. She went to check on Auntie Sophia.’
    I nodded, kept nodding. My body shook so hard that one of my knees buckled. A crow shrilled, Caw-caw-caw, through the still damp air, staking its claim on a favourite branch or fence post.
    Annie grinned at me, but Zach had already slid off Paige’s lap and grabbed my leg. I picked him up, inhaled his fresh, loamy scent, now mixed with the increasingly familiar scent of Paige’s perfume – jasmine, I was pretty sure. And citrus. But it had echoes of Macy’s, not a garden or an orange grove.
    My mother, who’d walked in behind me, placed her hand firmly on my back. ‘Hello,’ she said to Paige. ‘Will you be needing a taxi to the airport, then?’
    Paige shook her head. ‘I’ve got the rental car.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And it’s just about time to go.’
    That, I thought, is an understatement.
    I said, ‘It can take a couple hours if you run into traffic . . . Where are you flying to?’ Siberia? Antarctica? The Moon ?
    ‘Las Vegas. I left my card on the coffee table . . .’
    Why the hell would I want your card?
    ‘. . . so the kids can call anytime.’
    Why would they want to call you? They don’t even know you. They know the plumber better than they know you and they don’t call him.
    She hugged Annie for an excruciatingly long minute. My mom raised her eyebrows again. The crows cawed again. The Corvus brachyrhynchos. Crows have a bad rap, but they’re highly intelligent, extremely adaptable birds, and I’m always defending them when people complain. Their calls all have many different meanings. I was pretty sure this one was sounding out a warning of some type. Paige finally let go of Annie, got up, and reached for Zach, whom I held a bit too tight. His smile was shy, but he went to her. ‘Bye, Zach.’ Her voice cracked again. Tears magnified her blue eyes, those eyes that looked so much like Annie’s. She kept them from spilling, intent, it seemed, on not making a scene. I gave her credit for that much.
    ‘Good-bye, Lady,’ Zach said.
    She handed him back to me. Finally, finally, Paige stepped out the door, slipped into her high heels, and clicked down the porch stairs.
    Her perfume stuck around. I followed Annie to the great room, which Joe had fondly dubbed the not-so-great room. She sat at the watery glass window and watched Paige drive away.
    ‘Banannie? Are you okay?’ I went to her and knelt beside her.
    ‘I . . . want . . . my . . . daddy,’ she said in a whisper.
    ‘I know, honey. I know.’ I held her, but she turned her head so her gaze stayed on the empty gravel river of driveway and the dust clouds Paige left behind. I didn’t know what to say about Paige. She’ll be back? I didn’t know what she was planning on doing . . . or being . . . for Annie and Zach.
    Zach tore in the room. ‘Hey, mister!’ he said, pointing to my boots. ‘Shoes go outside. Come on, I’ll show ya.’
    My mom raised her eyebrows once again. She could never have Botox; her chief mode of communication lay in her forehead. I said, ‘Hey, mister? I’m no mister, mister!’ He laughed. ‘And these boots were made for walking, not for sitting out on some old porch.’
    He stood for a minute with his head tilted, looking up, pondering my statement. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ my little boy said, an expression he’d learned from his grandpa. Then he went outside and pulled on his Batman battery-powered tennies and stomped back into the house, flashing red lights with each step.
    After we fed the kids reheated tuna casserole à la the Nardini family, according to the masking tape on the bottom of the glass pan, we set them up for their naps. The Are You My Mother? book lay in the rocking chair. I dropped it back in the crate, shoved the crate back into the closet, and read Little Bear instead. Neither of them said anything about the Dr Seuss book, and they were both asleep before I got six pages into Little Bear. They were as worn out by everything as I was. I tiptoed to the closet and plucked the other book out of the crate, took it outside, and threw it in the trash can.
    Back in the house, I picked up Paige’s business card.
    PAIGE CAPOZZI
    The Home Stager
    executive real estate and rental properties
    ‘When it’s time to stage, call Paige.’ 800-555-7531
    ‘A home stager,’ I said to my mom, who was doing the dishes.
    ‘Ahh. An interior