The sunlight had already reached the foot of Zoë’s bed by the time Ward entered his daughter’s room for the third time that morning. Pink blankets and a comforter were gathered in a mound almost as high as it was wide at the center of the bed, with half a pillow sticking out from underneath on one side and a solitary foot on the other. Ward placed two fingers against the exposed sole, and the foot was sucked back under the mound, accompanied by a muffled squeal.
“Come on, Peach. You gotta leave for school in half an hour.”
“Fffaa mmrrr mmhnnh,” came the reply, which Ward interpreted as five more minutes.
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“Fffaa mmrrr mmhnnh.”
“Nope.” Ward lifted the wad of linens and tossed them onto the floor. “Let’s go. No more delay.”
The young girl, who was lying in the fetal position while clutching the pillow, pulled herself into an even tighter ball and squished her eyelids at the exposure to light. She grumbled something incomprehensible.
“Come on, time for your shot.” Ward picked up an insulin pen that had been resting on the nightstand. He had set it there the second time he had walked into Zoë’s room that morning.
“Nnn!”
“Well, if you don’t want those delicious pancakes I’m gonna make ...”
Like a tightly coiled spring suddenly unbound, Zoë rolled on her back and unravelled herself, flinging her legs and arms outward. Ward thought she looked rather like she was making a snow-angel on her mattress. He leaned over her belly, rolled up her shirt, and placed the point of the pen a couple inches left of her belly-button. Then he gave the pen a quick thrust.
As soon as he lifted himself from Zoë’s abdomen, she snapped back into her curled position. “Five more minutes. I promise this time.”
Ward placed the pen back on the nightstand. “You’re going to be late for your bath.”
Zoë tiled her head upward and cracked one eye open. “You mean ‘shower’?”
“Not today.” Ward shoved his arms under her petite body and lifted her off the bed.
“Baths take too long.” Her voice still sounded groggy.
“Says the girl who takes three hours to wake up.”
“Dad, it wasn’t three hours.”
Ward stepped out of his daughter’s bedroom and hugged the wall to the right, then slid through the next doorway. “How would you know?”
“Because I just do.”
Ward stopped with his toes against the bathtub, already filled.
Zoë peered down at the warm water below her. “Dad, what are you ...” Her question was cut short by her cry of surprise as Ward lowered her into the tub. “Aayiee! Oh! Dad! My pajamas are wet!” She wiped the water from her face with her wet hands and looked over her clothes.
“Oh, look who’s awake now.” He dried his arms on a towel. “Your clothes will dry.”
“Da-a-ad!” she exclaimed, her pitch rising, then falling, then rising again.
“Zo-o-ë,” her father cried, mimicking her inflection.
A phone rang.
Ward took a few steps back, then withdrew his black cell phone from his right pocket. The sound repeated itself, but the phone in his hand remained steady, its screen unlit, and Ward felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. Slowly, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out another phone. A white one. The screen was on, showing an incoming call from an unlisted number. The white phone rang again. Ward inhaled sharply.
“Someone’s calling the Wally-phone?” Zoë asked, her brow furrowed.
Ward nodded. The only person who ever called the white phone was ... Ward. Zoë, Cynthia, and Davis had the number for emergencies, but their numbers would have showed up. No one else knew this number. Who would want to contact Wally? No one knew Wally except through Ward. Unless. Unless they knew what Ward didn’t want anyone else to know.
A fourth ring.
Ward raised the phone hesitantly, and accepted the call. He listened, saying nothing.
“...Hello?” came the voice on the other end. “... Hello. Can you hear me?”
Ward looked over at Zoë. Her eyes were just as wide as his own. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Wally Loman?”
Ward was suddenly aware of his own heartbeat, each pulse rippling up his throat and across his arms. His lungs seemed to take minutes to fill. “Um. Yeah, this Mr. Loman.”
“Good morning, sir! My name is Gerry Mosley, and I’m with Romulus Express Services. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, but I’d like to inform you of some of the packages we offer and our current deals. I’m sure we can find a package that’s right for you and your household. If you can let me know ...”
The voice became a murmur as Ward lowered the phone to his chest. He exhaled in a near-laugh.
Zoë was still motionless, the bathwater seeping up her pajamas. “Who is it?”
Ward took a couple steps back toward the tub and extended the phone to her. “It’s for you.”
She tilted her head, one eyebrow raised. Then her eyes widened again, and she grinned devilishly as she snatched the phone. “Hi! Sorry, what was your name again? Hi, Mr. Mosley! I was wondering if you could help me. My concert band is raising money for a trip to Prague, and we’re selling wrapping paper. I know Christmas is still a long ways away, but it’s never too early to buy wrapping paper. ...”
Ward chuckled as he stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him. In front of him, the side-panelling on the lower half of the wall was warped from old age. It had plenty of scratches and dents scattered across it from the door of his bedroom to the door of his study besides. He should replace it soon. This weekend, if he had the time.
Beyond the study and the guest bedroom, the hallway flowed into the open area at the front of the house. The energy was different here: the rooms behind Ward belonged to possessions and routines, but the space before him held history and possibilities, ever-changing rhythms and stories. Even in its stillness at this early hour, there was life.
To the left was the living room. The first thing that everyone noticed upon entering the Loman residence was always Ward’s grand piano, polished and weathered, with a sound both old and fresh. But as dear as it was to Ward, it was only ever the thing he saw second. He walked past the sofa — its back to him, facing instead the television — and curved around until he stood behind Alexa’s favorite chair. He placed his hands on its cushioned back and rubbed the edges gently, as if massaging her shoulders. He held himself there for only half a minute, inhaling the rosewood- and lavender-scented air, then pulled away.
On the other side lay the kitchen and dining room. The kitchen was partially blocked-off by an L-shaped counter that Ward had built himself. One branch of the counter connected to the wall next to the hallway’s start and separated the kitchen from the living room. Ward walked through the dining room to the gap left by the second branch, then dug through the cabinets until he found a pan and some store-bought pancake mix. He lit the stove, and got to work.
By the time the clean and fully-dressed Zoë sat down at the kitchen table, there were two plates of syrup-drenched pancake stacks. Hers was already cold.
“You only got five minutes,” Ward announced, finishing his own plate of pancakes.
“’kay.”
“How long did the telemarketer last?”
“Thirty-seven seconds.”
“Better than most.”
“Yeah.”
Ward rounded the counter again and began loading his plate and the kitchenware into the dishwasher.
“My wet pajamas are hanging on the shower rod.”
“Good.”
“Could you not drop me in the tub again?” Zoë demanded.
“Could you not stay in bed when I tell you it’s time to get up?
Zoë scowled.
“Are you almost finished with your history project?”
“Kinda. I’m almost done with my part, and Janice finished her part yesterday, but Shen has only done, like, a little. And then we need to put it all together, but that shouldn’t take too long.”
“Chew with your mouth closed, please. Maybe you should speak with Mrs. Palmer about it. If Shen’s not doing her part, you don’t want her to bring you down.”
“Ugh, no. Mrs. Palmer will just make it worse, like she does with everything. Besides, Shen will do it. She’s really good at doing things last-minute.”
“And you’re proud of that?”
A phone rang again. The black one this time.
The caller-ID read ‘Cynthia Stewart’. Ward answered it. “Hey, sis.”
“Did you hear about the the girl who got trapped in the lion exhibit at the zoo?” The voice on the other end was thin and sharp, yet rhythmic. “She was trying to get a funny picture or something, but couldn’t climb out after climbing in. The zoo-keepers had to rescue her.”
“I’m fine, thanks. And you?”
“All the lions were asleep this whole time, and the girl didn’t get hurt or anything, but she and her friends were really upset. But even if she did, she wouldn’t brought that on herself, right?”
Ward returned to the table and sat opposite his daughter. “Where do you hear about this stuff?”
“Just around. Anyway, it made me think of all the stupid things you do, and I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in the middle of another one.”
“What are you talking about? What have I done recently that’s so bad?”
“You took Zoë‘s socks to the dry-cleaners.”
“They went with her dress. Better safe than sorry, Cyn.”
“How about when you made a stupid joke when her violin teacher was so obviously asking you out?”
Ward rubbed his temples. “That was three months ago. Can you let that go already?”
“Well, she still hasn’t asked a second time, has she? So I’ll ask again. What stupid thing have you done recently?”
“Nothing!”
“Zoë!” Cynthia yelled through the phone, “your father’s not doing anything stupid, is he?”
Ward, who had yanked the phone away from his ear, now moved it back to his mouth. “Cyn, you don’t have to yell. I can just give ...”
“No more than usual!” Zoë shouted.
“Zoë, please don’t yell.”
Cynthia continued, her voice still blaring through the phone. “You tell me when he starts being an idiot, okay?”
Ward sighed. He handed the phone to his daughter.
“I will,” she said into the phone, no longer yelling. “Oh, he dropped me into the tub this morning.”
Ward couldn’t make out Cynthia’s response, but he imagined it wasn’t very good.
“I know!” Zoe evidently agreed. “Plus, I was still wearing my pajamas.”
Cynthia first murmured her response, then started yelling again. “Ward, what is wrong with you?”
Zoë tilted her head away from the phone.
Ward rested his forehead in his palm. “Just put her on speaker,” he said. Zoë did.
“Did you get her hair wet? Because we don’t have time for that.”
“No.” Only after her answered did Ward take a closer look at her tightly-curled hair to verify his reply.
Zoë's response was quickly on the heels of his own. “Only a little, from a splash.” She took the last bite of her pancakes.
“Honestly, Ward. It’s not as if this is your first morning.” Cynthia’s tone shifted suddenly, as if they had just been talking about the weather. “Anyway, I’m here now.” Outside, a car honked. “You ready, Zoë?”
“Yes,” Zoë replied, then ran off to her bedroom.
“No,” said Ward. “She’ll be out in a couple minutes.”
“Okay.” Cynthia paused. “How are you doing, Ward? Everything good?”
“Yep.”
“Anything new?”
Ward shrugged.
Cynthia sighed. “You just shrugged, didn’t you. You shrugged in a phone conversation. Do you not remember the stupid-things-conversation we just had?”
“Hey, look who’s talking. You were yelling to Zoë when I had the phone, then yelling to me when Zoë had the phone.”
“I was heard, and I got my point across, didn’t I?”
“In a very you way. We’ll be out in a minute.” He ended the call.
Even before he stood up again, Ward heard Zoë’s voice from down the hall. “More pancakes, please.”
For that, Ward had been prepared. In the kitchen, he lifted the foil off the final plate and stuck the remaining pancakes in the microwave. Twenty seconds later, he spread on a bit of butter and poured some syrup on top. Then he set the silverware on the plate and covered the dish with a paper towel.
When Zoë returned to the kitchen, Ward asked to see her insulin pens.
“It’s in my bag.”
“Let me see them,” he insisted.
Zoë moaned, then opened her bag. Inside was a single pen.
Ward gave her a look. “Where’s the other one?”
“I only ever use one at school.”
“It’s called a back-up. They call it that for a reason.” Ward retrieved a pen from a drawer full of them. He dropped it in her bag. She zipped it closed, then flug it over her shoulder.
Carrying the plate of pancakes, Ward followed Zoë out the door and down the driveway. Zoë opened the sliding door of the running van and sat down in the middle row, placing her bag at her feet.
“Morning, boys,” he said to his two nephews.
“Good morning, Uncle Ward,” Peyton said from the front seat. Michael sat silently beside Zoë, his nose in a book.
Ward set the plate on Zoë’s lap and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Seriously, Ward?” Cynthia said when Zoë lifted the paper towel off her pancakes. “Ever hear of tupperware?”
Zoë picked up the fork and knife, then looked at the syrup they left on her hands. “My silverware’s all sticky.”
“Goodbye, Peach,” Ward said as he closed the door.
He strode down the driveway, and the car drove off.
