Maybe he’ll have to call Bruce Blend, the expensive mindfulness provider uptown. Blend helped with the environmental stuff two years ago. Now if the neighbors are loud McCormick doesn’t fear home invasion. If the heater goes out he knows Julie and June can snuggle under a blanket. No one’s freezing to death on his watch, but other perils have risen.
Will Bruce know their chances of having to flee an inbound missile? Will he downplay the harm of a race-baiting president? Does he know if there will be fish in June’s ocean? Guns in her streets? If she will hope?
June hears them first and pulls us into the square.
“Welcome to New York, Welcome to New York!” Two dozen big gay voices.
This is exactly why I moved to the Castro at twenty, and bought in the West Village at fifty. Freedom, like singing, comes from the drawing of breath.
Michael arrives for Empire State of Mind. We played it at our wedding.
He whoops for the top-knotted soloist, but I catch him eyeballing a hard-looking white-boy taking pictures outside the fence. He’s worried about an alt-right assault, I know it.
Dance with your daughter, McCormick. Fill your lungs.
It’s our last day and I’m sad. I won’t see stars at night for a whole nother year.
We’re doing the waterslides one more time: Baby Slide, Fast Current, Death Defying.
Momma screams the loudest of anyone!
But the day is actually over before we even leave for the airport, because Daddy shakes his head and collects all the, like, pieces of paper and cups and stuff floating down the lazy river with us, and Momma repeats words I don’t understand.
Notsies. Rule of Log. Sybil War.
And of course, like everyone always says, Donald Trump, Donald Trump, Donald Trump.