Just before one, just as he was about to start priming the second flat, the theme song from Scooby-Doo sounded from within John Ryrie’s pants. He transferred the brush to his other hand and fished among keys, loose change, crumpled bills and receipts, for his cell. His thirteen-year-old son was in the habit of swiping it, downloading a new ring tone, and replacing it all without John’s knowledge, so that he never knew precisely what tune or sound effect was going to emit next. John recognized his son’s high jinks for what they were: love notes. Usually they pleased him, although once, while riding an elevator that happened also to contain his department chair, an admissions rep, and a bunch of prospective students, he’d suffered the indignity of having Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” (explicit version) issue from the region of his groin; he’d admonished Paul, lightly, for that. Now he glanced to see who it was, and flipped it open.“Hey.” His wife. No preamble. “Upper Nyack called.”
