A Perfect Day (6 page)

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating? Did I miss something?”

“Rob’s being promoted to sales manager at the radio station.”

“It’s about time. He’s been there forever.”

“Actually, I should say we think he’s going to be promoted. But I’m sure he will be. I’m just waiting for his call.”

“You have a good life,” Nancy said.

“I do,” Allyson said. “I’m a lucky girl.”

“What are you doing to celebrate?”

“I thought I’d make a roast. Want to come over?”

“I can’t. David wants to have a talk.”

“You mean
the
talk?”

“Probably. I just hope he didn’t buy a ring. It always makes me feel bad when they have to take it back.”

“Call me after it’s over.”

“I always do.”

I
t was nearly midnight when I got home. I entered the house through the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and one place setting still on the table. There was a note on the counter that I did not read but guessed it pertained to some Tupperware container in the refrigerator. I went immediately downstairs to my den to write in my diary.

I had started my first diary as a teenager in middle school as an assignment in an English class and I never stopped. For nearly two decades I had recorded every one of the major, and a good share of the minor, events of my life. The practice was now more than habit, it was a form of self-therapy, as my writing had changed from recording events to feelings. I’m sure it saved me thousands of dollars in counseling sessions. There was something about putting my feelings on paper that made them manageable, as if I could just crumple them up and throw them away at will. But tonight, as I sat facing the computer screen, I hadn’t the stomach for it. I turned off my computer then sat back in my La-Z-Boy with my eyes closed, my stocking feet up on its footrest.

After a few minutes I heard Allyson’s soft footsteps on the floor above me. I could hear her cross the kitchen floor then descend the stairs. Embarrassment welled in my chest. I had no doubt that she had already concluded it had been a bad day. I didn’t look forward to telling her how bad it really was.

The lights were off in my den, and the room was only illuminated from a lamp in the hallway. Allyson walked up behind me. She rested her hands on my shoulders and gently massaged me, working up to my neck. I leaned my head back, and she kissed my forehead then drew her long fingers up the sides of my neck and jaw, then up to my temples and massaged again. After a couple of minutes she said softly, “So what happened?”

I took her hands from my head and just held them. I looked up at her. “I got fired.”

“Fired?”

“Stuart said that I wasn’t performing.”

“But you’re their best salesman . . .” Allyson looked at me anxiously. “What does this mean?”

“It means what it means.”

She took her hands from me then came around the chair and sat in my lap, draping her arms around my neck. “Here, sweetie, let me hold you.” She pulled my head into her breast, cradling it in her arms. Suddenly my wall of stoicism cracked. I began to cry. She pressed her cheek against the top of my head.

“It’s okay, honey.”

She ran her hand down to my chin and lifted it until my gaze met hers. For a moment she just looked into my eyes.

“What am I doing, Al? I’ve spent the last seven years selling air. Most of my friends are moving into the peak of their careers and I have nothing to show for my time. I’m such a failure.”

“That’s not true. You’re the most wonderful husband and father on this planet. No one could take such good care of us.”

“That’s a joke. We live hand to mouth. Mark’s taking Becca on a Tahitian cruise for her thirtieth. You got a mixer.”

“I asked for a mixer. And you’re all I need, Robert. You’re my life.”

I shook my head. “Well, this isn’t what I thought my life was going to be. Working at the radio station was supposed to be temporary until I got my writing off the ground. How much more of a loser could I be, getting fired from a career I never really wanted to begin with?”

Allyson stroked my hair then pressed her forehead against mine. “Maybe this is really a blessing, Rob. Maybe it’s a sign that it’s time for you to chase your dream of becoming a writer.”

“And how do we live in the meantime?”

“Ever since Carson started school full day, I’ve been thinking about getting my old job back at Nordstrom.”

“We can’t live on that.”

“Not like we are, but we can get by. And we have savings.” She knit her fingers with mine. “Rob, you’ve wanted to do this since you were a boy. You’ve got to at least give it a try.”

I looked down at our hands. They were laced together in a tangle of flesh.

“Rob, I don’t want you to hate yourself for what you might have been. But I especially don’t want you to resent Carson and me for keeping you from your dreams. So take some time and finish your book. Maybe you could get a job selling on the side, maybe not. But you have to do this. Without dreams life is a desert.”

After a moment a slim smile broke on my lips. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do.” She pushed her lips onto mine and I lost myself in her softness. “Now come to bed. I want my man next to me.”

N
ew hopes are a fountain of energy. I found my self filled with an exhilaration I hadn’t known since I was fresh out of college and the world looked like the up escalator. I made a trip to a nearby office store and outfitted my den with everything I thought I needed for writing: a dictionary, thesaurus, describer ’s dictionary, notepads, mechanical pencils, Post-it notes, printer ink and reams of printer paper. I purchased several books on writing and the mechanics of getting published and lost myself not only in the craft, but also in the fantasy of being an author. Allyson had done more than throw me a safety line. She had fashioned me wings.

Allyson and I devised a new routine: each morning we would get up together, and I would wake and dress Carson while Ally would make breakfast; then she’d do Carson’s hair. Then I would walk Carson to the bus stop while Allyson left for work. Around nine, with my girls and the commotion gone, I would go down to my den, where I would write in solitude for three to four hours straight—until the words began to back up onto themselves. Then I would emerge from my sanctum to walk for an hour to clear my mind and untangle the knots in my story. Then I would shower and dress, make myself a sandwich, then write some more, until it was time to meet Carson at the bus stop.

Then I would take care of Carson until Allyson came home, either writing while Carson played upstairs or commencing my portion of the domestic duties. My job list included washing, vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms. On weekdays I would get dinner on. Not surprisingly our meals had become noticeably simpler, and sloppy joes and macaroni and cheese became our mainstays.

Allyson was welcomed back to her old job. She enjoyed the interaction with adults and the chance to dress up. The greatest disadvantage was Allyson’s loss of time with Carson; that and our diminished income. Allyson made little more than half of what I had made at the station. We knew that this deficit would eventually catch up to us, but that was tomorrow’s bridge and I was making better progress on my book than I’d imagined. A hundred and three days into our new life I finished my book. It was a Friday afternoon and I met Allyson at the door holding a stack of paper three inches thick. “Da, da, da daaaah.”

She looked at me. “What?” Then a wide smile broke across her face. “You finished it? Already?”

“Already? I’ve been working on it for four years.” I handed her the bound manuscript and she read its cover.

“
A Perfect Day.
By Robert Mason Harlan.” She looked up. “I’ve never heard you use your middle name. It makes you sound like an author.”

“Or a serial killer,” I said.

She folded back the cover page. “To Allyson, my soul mate.” She smiled. “I love the title.”

“You should. You named it.”

“How did I name it?”

“That day up on the mountain, when your father told you that he had brought you back home for one last perfect day.”

“What does that have to do with your story?”

“My book’s about a young woman and the last few months she spends with her dying father.”

From her expression I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or upset.

“You wrote about us?”

I suddenly felt as if I’d been caught stealing. “It’s based on you and your father. That’s where I drew my inspiration. That time I saw you curled up next to your father was the most powerful expression of love I’ve ever seen. I wanted to write about that.”

She again looked at the manuscript, her expression still enigmatic. “Can I read it now?”

“I was planning to take Carson to the zoo tomorrow so that you could just read.”

She fingered through the manuscript then looked back up. “This will be hard for me.”

“I know. I just hope you think it’s worthy of your father.”

She set the manuscript down and gently hugged me. “I’m so proud of you. My husband the author.”

S
aturday morning came blue and promising as a child’s birthday. Carson was excited for our daddy-daughter outing and chattered incessantly as Allyson dressed her and I packed our lunches. For a six-year-old there are few things cooler than the zoo. I was equally excited for the day but for different reasons. Today was my own private Kitty Hawk: my first attempt at literary flight. Then again it could also be the maiden voyage of the
Titanic
.

I realized that asking Allyson’s opinion on a book I had worked on for four years put her in a difficult position: because either I had to be a good writer or she had to be a good liar. I hoped the former was true. As we left the house, Allyson, still in her robe and furry, pink slippers, had my manuscript in one hand and a cup of herbal tea in the other and was walking into the living room to start my book.

Carson and I were gone for the whole day, much more time than Allyson needed to read the book. I told myself that it was because I didn’t want her to feel rushed. But it’s also possible that I was really just afraid of Allyson’s verdict.

It was dark when we returned. Carson was asleep, worn out from a day of running and laughing and excess cotton candy. I carried her in to her bed then went to our room. Allyson was in bed with her glasses on, watching the news. My manuscript lay at the end of the dresser.

“Carson’s in bed,” I said.

She looked up at me without a trace of emotion and my heart stopped. “Come here,” she said. I climbed onto the bed, my heart in my throat. She took off her glasses then her mouth drew out into a broad smile as if she could no longer contain her excitement. “It was fabulous!”

“Really?”

“It was so good. I haven’t cried that hard for the longest time.”

“Crying is good?”

“Oh yes. Crying is good,” she said happily. “I couldn’t put it down. I read it from cover to cover and didn’t even stop for lunch. It would make the best movie.”

I laughed and plopped myself backward onto the bed. “I’m so relieved.”

Allyson said happily, “You think you’re relieved? I’ve been dreading this day for months. I was terrified that I wouldn’t know what to say if I didn’t like your book. But I loved it. It’s easily the best book I’ve read this year.”

That was saying a lot, because Allyson read a lot. She read everything from soft romances to hard thrillers. “You think so?”

“I know so. I’ve already told Nancy about it and now she’s dying to read it.”

I was grinning like a fool. “Oh, yeah!”

“So what now? Do you send it to a publisher?”

“I’ve been reading up on this. I need to find an agent.”

“How do you do that?”

“There’s a book called the
Writer’s Market
. It has lists of agents. There’s a copy at the library. I plan to go there on Monday and choose a few agents then send them my manuscript.”

“How long does it take to hear back?”

“Maybe a few months. If I’m lucky. Sometimes people wait years to be discovered.”

This jolted her back to reality. “Years? So what are we going to do in the meantime?”

“I need to find a job and hope that lightning strikes.”

I slipped off my clothes and got ready for bed. I turned off the lights and Allyson rolled into my arms, but I was far too excited to sleep. Anything seemed possible again. After a half hour I climbed out of bed, picked up my manuscript and went down to my den to read.

M
onday morning I was waiting at the public library as its doors were unlocked. I found the
Writer’s Market
, a thick book listing hundreds of publishers and literary agents, and began combing through it. There were more agents than I’d expected. I guessed there to be close to a thousand. The book was classified as reference material and couldn’t be checked out, so I skimmed through it, writing down the names and addresses of the first twenty-five agencies that seemed most appropriate for a book like mine.