Aldo’s mother, a lively Dominican girl too young for motherhood and too beautiful to stay long in one place, had never been very present. If she had ever asked anything from the universe, Aldo imagined she’d probably gotten what she wished.
“Rinaldo?”
“I’m listening,” Aldo said, though what he meant was I’m thinking.
“Mm,” Masso said. “Did you try the museum?”
“Maybe tomorrow. It’s nice out today.”
“Is it? That’s good. Rare.”
SILENCE.
Masso cleared his throat.
“Tell me, Rinaldo, what are we doing today?”
Aldo’s mouth twitched slightly. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Dad.”
“It helps, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, of course, but I know you’re busy.” Aldo checked his watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime there.”
“Still, I have two minutes. Or so.”
“Two minutes?”
“At least.”
ALDO hums to himself, thinking.
“Well,” said Aldo, “I think maybe today we’re on the ocean.”
“What year?”
He considered it. “When was the Trojan War?”
“About … 12th century B.C.?”
“Yes. That.”
“Are we fighting, then?”
“No, we’re leaving, I think. Journeying.”
“How is the wind?”
“Poor, I suspect.” Aldo took the joint between his fingers again, rolling it slowly. “I think we may be at sea quite a while.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find out again tomorrow, then.”
“You don’t have to, Dad.”
ALDO says this every day.
“True, maybe I won’t.”
So does MASSO.
“What’s the special today?” Aldo asked.
“Ah, porcini. You know I like to mark the season with truffles.”
“I’ll let you get to it, then.”
“Okay, good idea. Are you going back now?”
“Yes, I have to teach soon. At three.”
“Good, good. Rinaldo?”
“Dad?”
“You are brilliant. Tell your mind to be kind to you today.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the fungi.”
“Always.”
Aldo hung up, tucking the phone back into his pocket. No answers today, unfortunately. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Maybe not for months, years, decades. Luckily, Aldo was not a ‘right now’ sort of person. It had once been a quality that frustrated the other people in his life, but he’d gotten rid of most of them by now.
He glanced over his shoulder at his bike,
PROP: a 1969 Ducati Scrambler.
which slid easily through traffic and pedestrians and, as far as Aldo was concerned, through time and space as well. Why anyone would own a car rather than a bike was beyond him, unless they were opposed to the possibility of accidents. He had broken his arm once, scarring up the side of his shoulder.
If he were a ‘right now’ sort of person, he’d probably get on his bike and drive it directly into Lake Michigan, which was why it was probably best that he wasn’t. Aldo was a ‘maybe tomorrow’ sort of person, so he tucked the joint back in his pocket and picked up his helmet from the bench.
ALDO rises to his feet and inhales deeply, thinking about hexagons.
Turns, he thought. One of these days he’d hit a corner and there’d be something else on the other side; something very like this, only 120 degrees different. He mimicked a boxing pivot to the left, struck a left hook, and then kicked a little at the grass.
Maybe tomorrow, everything would be different.
* * *
REGAN, MEANWHILE, had begun the exact same day by shooting upright in bed.
SCENE: A lavish master bedroom. Shoes have been mislaid. Articles of clothing have been flung. Whatever has happened here, no mother would approve.
ACTION: Regan squints at the clock, which reads an abysmal 2:21 P.M.
“Well, fuck me entirely,” Regan announced to the room.
Beside her Marc rolled over with a groan, managing with great difficulty to expel a series of unintelligible male sounds. Regan presumed them to be a version of “I’m sorry darling, explain?” and answered accordingly.
“I’m going to be late.”
“For what?”
“My fucking job, Marcus,” Regan said, sliding her legs out from beneath the duvet and stumbling upright. “You know, that thing I do from time to time?”