I wave goodbye to the babysitter, Nora, who assures me as she backs out of the driveway that my son, Daniel, is in the middle of a nice long nap. I close the front door and dash to the bathroom. Collapsing on the toilet seat, I unfold the paper I got back in class. I sob. The “A-” in red ink is a slap in the face. I’m sacrificing my sanity for this?

There’s pounding on the bathroom door and then a sheet of paper scribbled with green, red, and black crayon is slipped underneath it. Never trust the napping habits of a three-year-old.

“What’s that?” I ask from behind the door, wiping my eyes with tissue.

“A dragon. He’s very, very angry.”

I wipe my face with tissue, crank my mouth into a smile, and open the door to face my golden haired, three-foot-tall, tippy-toed would-be dragon. Daniel’s wearing a large white T-shirt that covers his legs just above the ankles. It’s stained with strawberry red splotches.

“Why is the dragon angry?” I pull the shirt off over his head, toss it on my bed, and scoop him up.

“He’s hungry.” Daniel sniffs my neck.

“Oh. And what does the angry, hungry dragon want?” We head for the kitchen.

“A ham samich.” The dragon claps his hands in a command.

“And how does the angry, hungry dragon want his sandwich cut?” I nuzzle Daniel’s neck back, and he smells like strawberries.

“Triangles.” The dragon shapes his two index fingers and thumbs into a triangle.

“And show me how the angry, hungry dragon is going to eat his ham sandwich cut into triangles?”

Daniel scrunches up his nose, chomps his teeth and curls his fingers as he snarls at me.

“I could eat you up,” I blow a raspberry on his belly and he shrieks.

I will have to dwell on the indignities of an “A” minus while slicing bread.

§§§

After picking Nicki up from the bus stop, we settle into our afternoon routine: Snacks, homework, reading, games, and maybe TV. Daniel (who’s really a knight with a wooden sword that’s been glued back together in several places) plays with a wood puzzle on the tiled floor. I’m sitting on the blowsy chintz-patterned sofa with my bare feet propped on the coffee table as I check Nicole’s schoolwork. I keep looking up from her perfect script and out the French doors at my small but luscious garden.

I’ve nurtured and fretted over each petal and leaf, and, little by little, it has rewarded me with the truest sense of a creator that I know—not the almighty variety but certainly a perfectionist after my own heart. On the wicker coffee table, the artfully splayed pile of magazines on cooking, parenting, and gardening look decorative and domestic, their glossy display of order a talisman against the eventual decay of everything.

The afternoon is windy and the leaves on the mahogany make trembling shadows on the patio. From my vantage point on the sofa, I take in the overgrown bougainvillea with a heavy canopy of magenta flowers in the corner of the yard. It appears to be on fire and casts a deep shadow on the ground edged by long, toothy strands of variegated liriope. I’m reminded of the demon’s open maw in the slide from class this morning. Kitty Kitty, named by Daniel, creeps under the bougainvillea’s shadow, and his tail twitches as he pounces on something, probably a languid lizard caught unawares on so beautiful an afternoon.

Daniel climbs onto my lap, and I put Nicole’s work aside. He wipes his mouth smeared blueberry-blue on his clean T-shirt. He looks so much like me.

“Bounce me.” He pats my mouth with his sticky fingers. I bounce him on my knees, and he holds fast on to my shirt so he doesn’t fall off. A wooden block wedged under the seat cushion clatters to the floor. I lean over to pick it up.

“Did Nora let you make a big mess with your blocks today?” I wave the block.

Daniel nods. “I made a big, big castle and a big, big dragon made it fall down.” He punctuates each word with his arms held high and wide.

“What’s that?” There’s a thin red scratch on the tender inside of his arm.

“The dragon did it.” He points out the doors at the bougainvillea, where Kitty Kitty grooms himself in the shade after reaping yet another lizard’s immortal soul.

“Did Kitty Kitty scratch you?”

He shakes his head. “The dragon did it.”

I kiss the scratch. “You are a very brave and filthy knight. Go get a napkin for your face.”

He gets down from my lap and stomps off to the kitchen. Nicole is singing the theme song from The Little Mermaid in her bedroom. A mockingbird lands in the mahogany and commences an elaborate counter melody. Plumping up the sofa cushions, I notice a petal-shaped strawberry stain which blends tastefully with the peony and cabbage rose pattern. All art is subterfuge.

As I get up to prepare dinner, I sense, rather than see, the familiar shadow that creeps over the French doors like a dark wing.

§§§

“I completely zoned out during class today.” I strain to be heard over the water rushing into the bathtub where Daniel (who is really a dinosaur) splashes around.

Felix is stooped over the edge of the tub, soaping Daniel’s toes, milking another squeal out of him. I can’t tell if Felix is paying attention to me but give him the benefit of the doubt and continue.

“I’m feeling sort of on edge. I’m not sure I’m cut out for graduate school.” I slump down on the toilet seat. If I tell him about the “A” minus, he’ll say I’m being ridiculous, and he wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but I wouldn’t be entirely truthful either.

Felix tickles Daniel, who splashes him with the wash towel. Felix roars at Daniel who erupts into a burbling do-it-again-Daddy laugh.

“And I couldn’t sleep last night. I wanted to wake you, but—” Felix, his back turned to me, is not paying attention. My words, like a child’s prayer for a pony, fall on deaf ears.

I get it. Daniel’s laughter is a homing beacon that Felix can set his daily course by. He’s spent all day in the artificial bubble of an ad agency, spinning out designs to make people buy products they don’t need and solving crises that don’t matter in the grand scheme of the universe. He didn’t save any Rwandan children today either. But by comparison, my day’s existential struggle with an “A” minus doesn’t even bring in a paycheck.

“Felix?” My voice rises above the din.

Felix turns around and smiles. “He’s so beautiful, isn’t he?” He has the expression of a mystic at peace with the world and his place in it.

“Yes. He is.” I smile back at him and lean against the wall.

I used to carouse with my father when I was little, sitting on his shoe, hugging his leg as he stomped around the room until I’d fall off in a fit of giggles. I never got tired of that game, unaware of the sheer grace in the ritual, and I outgrew his shoe long before my papa’s waltz was over.

Kneeling beside Felix, I reach over the tub to stroke Daniel’s buttery skin. He growls at me and holds up two Tyrannosaurus Rex claws.

“Don’t scare me, Terrible Monster.” I pull back in exaggerated terror.

Daniel grins and growls even louder. He picks up a molded plastic pterodactyl floating amid the bubbles and throws it high in the air where it soars briefly, arcing in mid-flight before crashing down into the soapy depths of his bottomless imagination.

§§§

“What’s the matter?” Felix steps back as I fling open a kitchen cabinet. The shrill clatter of porcelain drowns him out as I drop the plates on the shelf, one by one. I dare one to break.

Felix rubs the back of his head and turns to watch Daniel (who is really the Red Baron wearing one of my winter scarves) do a fly-by in his Looney Tunes pajamas. Daniel’s arms extend like wings, his propeller lips flap, and his bare feet make a slapping sound on the tiled floor. Kitty Kitty, the target of this reconnaissance flight, makes a last minute scramble under the safety of the red pine armoire. I sidestep Daniel’s flight path on the way to the sink.

“Anna, what’s wrong?” Felix sweeps Daniel up and plants a kiss on his damp freshly bathed head before putting him back down with a pat to his pajama bottoms.

I turn on the hot water and fill a dirty pan, adding several violent shakes of scouring powder before heading back to the kitchen island. I dispense a piece of plastic wrap and stretch it over the salad bowl, leaving a snug margin of approximately one and a half inches of excess wrap all around it. I step back to admire its fearful symmetry.

Nicole comes into the kitchen. “Daddy, can you read me a story?” She says this sotto voce, batting her long eyelashes.

“I’ll come in a minute.” Felix pulls a strand of hair out of her mouth, and she skips out of the kitchen with Daniel trotting behind her.

I pick up the olive oil and vinegar and head toward the pantry. Felix steps in front of the pantry door, blocking it with his body. “Please stop ignoring me. What are you upset about?”

I thrust the bottles at him, spin around, and head back toward the cabinets.

“Anna?”

I search among the neat concentric stacks of plastic containers for a receptacle to hold the leftover mashed potatoes. Rummaging through the assorted tops, the specific size I’m looking for is conspicuously missing. I head over to the refrigerator, shuffle around the cartons of milk and orange juice and pull out the container with leftover spaghetti, which Felix put away last night. He’s standing just behind me.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? What did I do?” He reaches out to put his hand on my shoulder.

I jerk away from him, pry the top off the container and inspect its underside. I turn on my heels to confront him.

“God damn it, Felix. I’ll tell you what you did. You put the number eight top on the number two container.” I switch the tops, my eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.