Laura & Emma
Page 17
“He’ll outlive us all!” Percy declared with a hearty chuckle.
Laura had told Emma not to make any sort of fuss, that all she’d wanted to do was see the house and go for a quick walk in the woods, but Emma insisted on serving them lunch—or “supper,” as it was called at Round Bush.
Food had never been Round Bush’s forte, and the meal was also exactly what Laura remembered being served there as a child: meat, potatoes, and a vegetable, all cooked in a way that stripped the food of individual characteristics. Even Emma, who was known to eat everything, looked a bit daunted by the plate of greasy gray food that was set in front of her.
“This is just like ketchup,” Laura whispered as she spooned currant jelly onto her meat. “Promise you’ll like it.”
It was not and she didn’t, but, recognizing that things were a certain way at Round Bush, Emma put forth her best effort to finish as much as she could and to hide her disappointment when dessert plates materialized—bearing salad.
After all the dishes had been cleared, a silver box was passed around the table containing a row of black wax-paper envelopes. Inside each envelope was a disc of chocolate, thin and delicate enough that it dissolved like a snowflake on Emma’s tongue, leaving behind a sticky mint goo that was so delicious it felt a shame to swallow. When the box of chocolates had made its way around the table once, it did not come around again. It went back to its perch on the side table, and everyone stood up and left the table.
Learning the grown-ups were planning to take a walk, Emma asked if she had to go. When Laura hesitated to respond, she added, “I have a tummy-ache.”
“Poor dear,” older Emma said. “Would you like to lie down and see if a nap helps?”
Emma had no interest in naps, but she was caught in a lie. She nodded and accepted the hand of older Emma, who led her upstairs.
Laura trotted after them, protesting that Emma would be just fine on a couch in the living room. “Don’t be silly,” older Emma said.
* * *
EMMA STOOD AT THE WINDOW of the bedroom she’d been given and watched as the adults set out across the lawn. She waited until they’d disappeared into the woods before leaving the room.
At the end of the hallway she opened a door that led to a secret spiral staircase, which delivered her to the kitchen. Marie, the woman who had served them lunch, was not there. It occurred to Emma that there was no one else in the house.
Being alone in the house felt like trespassing in a museum that was not open; you had to be careful not to open the wrong door, touch something you weren’t supposed to touch—an alarm could go off, the police could come.
She quietly passed the parrot’s cage in the living room.
“Vote Republican,” Arthur said.
Emma had assumed the dining room door would be locked. It wasn’t. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock felt like the collective heartbeat of the ghosts of her ancestors whose oil portraits hung on the wall, their faces bearing down on her in stony disapproval. It was a dark room to begin with, having only one small set of windows, and the curtains were drawn but not all the way. A single beam of light slipped through the crack, illuminating a path across the rug, beginning where she now stood, and continuing all the way across the room to the side table, on top of which sat the box of chocolates.
Opening the box, taking out one of the envelopes, and placing the chocolate disc on her tongue gave Emma a funny feeling. It was like her heart was beating—except you-know-where. It was like she had to pee, but she didn’t actually have to pee. It was a feeling she’d had before, but never this powerful. It made her want to press herself up against the hard, sloping angle of the leg of the dining room table.
Chocolate dissolving in her mouth, Emma sidled up to the table and enacted the pose she’d had in mind. The grown-ups would be returning from their walk at any minute, but she couldn’t help herself; she kept doing what she was doing. A minute passed, and then another. The grandfather clock chimed deeply to signal a new hour. Another minute ticked off, and then, like a stuttered sigh, like a yawn between her legs, something deep inside her came unsprung.
It was the greatest feeling she’d ever known, but before she knew what was happening, it was over. A sudden drowsiness descended, and she returned upstairs to the bed on which she’d been left.
FREE SKY, A NEIGHBORHOOD ASSOCIATION devoted to fighting the development of new high-rises, to protect the New York City skyline from turning into Tokyo, was holding its annual benefit at the Library that year. Laura had helped coordinate some of the logistics and was named an honorary host.
The East Hall buzzed with the din of hundreds of tipsy people talking at once. Leaving the apartment in her silk peasant blouse and the skirt she wore to special events—custom-made from a pair of old Pierre Deux curtains—her hair swept back in a velvet headband, Laura had felt confident and pretty. But in this room teeming with long-legged women in miniskirts, tossing their professionally blow-dried locks back in laughter as they struck poses like storefront mannequins, she felt like a child.
“You’re here!” Edith shouted in her ear. “Good! There’s someone I’d like you to meet!” She whisked Laura through the crowd. “I know you think I’m pushy, but I’m telling you, my instincts are right on this one.”
Eventually they reached their destination: a man standing alone by the bar.
“James, this is Laura! Laura, this is James! She’s single, you’re widowed, you both have daughters named Emma—now talk!”
Edith took a few giddy steps back, as if she’d just taken a match to a firework that was about to detonate.
Laura and the widower shyly shook hands.
“Is your Emma named for anyone?” Laura asked lamely.
The widower seemed to consider the question for a beat longer than necessary before shaking his head.
Laura tried to think of another, better question. “It’s a great name—what a shame it’s become so popular these days.”
The widower nodded, staring into his drink.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and disappeared into the crowd.
“I guess it was too soon,” Edith said, returning to Laura’s side.
“When did he lose his wife?” Laura asked.
“Around Thanksgiving,” she answered. “Cancer. Didn’t know her well, but she seemed lovely. Unpretentious, a little shy, down-to-earth, endearingly clueless when it came to clothes.” She shook her head sadly. “Adorably unstylish.”
* * *
THE PHONE RANG AND A male voice Laura did not recognize spoke her name.
“I hope you don’t mind, I looked you up in the phone book,” he said. “I’m calling to apologize.”
“Sorry, who is this?” Laura asked.
“James. James Ettinger. We met a few months ago at that Free Sky thing. Your friend introduced us.”
“Of course,” Laura said. “Hello again.”
“Anyway, I’m calling to apologize for my abrupt departure. It was my first night out since losing my wife. My first night leaving my daughter at home, and I wasn’t prepared to socialize.”
“I completely understand,” Laura said.
There was a silence.
“Anyway, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura said. “An apology is completely unwarranted.”
“The other reason I was calling,” James said, in a jauntier tone, “is that Emma has since become very fond of her babysitter. Which is nice, as it means I’m able to have the occasional evening out—”
“How nice that she likes her babysitter!” Laura interrupted.
“Yes, she’s actually scheduled to arrive here in an hour,” James continued. “But my plans for this evening just fell through, and I was wondering—and this is very last-minute and I’m sure the answer is no . . .”
* * *
“I’VE HEARD WONDERFUL THINGS ABOUT the Day School,” Laura said upon learning this was where James’s Emm
a went.
James nodded slightly as he browsed the menu. Laura pretended to be absorbed in her own menu until James abruptly snapped his shut, clasped his hands on top of it, and smiled at Laura. It was a tired, peaceful smile, the kind one wore in the company of someone so familiar that their physical proximity didn’t require small talk, conveying the simple comfort of being reunited at the end of the day. If the feeling behind the smile was genuine, it was not mutual. Laura didn’t know this man, but she wanted to, and the pressure to conduct herself in a way that legitimized the smile made her very anxious. She wished he would say something.
“I’ve heard wonderful things about the Day School,” Laura repeated, in case he hadn’t heard.
“It’s a different kind of school,” James responded.
“Yes, it has a reputation for being very . . .” The immediate phrases that came to mind were Janet’s rhyming slurs: hippie-dippy, loosey-goosey, artsy-fartsy. She smiled at James, hoping he would finish the sentence, but he continued waiting, patiently, for Laura to compose the rest of her thought.
“It has a reputation for encouraging kids to think outside the box,” she managed.
James’s expression indicated he remained in listening mode.
“To be free-spirited,” Laura added. “March to the beat of their own drum.”
James cocked his head in consideration.
“Maybe that’s not the right way to put it,” Laura said. “Anyway, I’m just going on secondhand information. What do I know?”
James smiled. “No, no, the rumors are true. It’s very much that kind of place.” He stared thoughtfully at his butter plate. An amused expression flickered across this face and he shook his head as though recalling a joke.
“To give you an example,” he said, “they just had an election for first-grade class president. The students were never told they had to vote for a peer; it was assumed they’d know this. Turns out they didn’t, and their ballots had all sorts of ridiculous candidates: the class rabbit, MC Hammer, Big Bird, the tooth fairy . . .”
The waiter appeared to take their orders. When James said he’d stick to water—flat, not sparkling—Laura said the same.
“How funny,” Laura said after he’d left. James looked confused. “The class election. The kids voting for all those outlandish characters!”
“Ah, yes. After announcing a sixteen-way tie, there was a second election, and the kids were told they should vote for a person in the classroom.”
“And who won?”
“You’re looking at him.”
“You? How flattering!”
“Yes, well, I’ve spent a lot of time in the classroom recently.” He raised his eyebrows. “After Emma lost her mother we both took some time off. Eventually it was time to go back, me to work, her to first grade, but she got very worked up when I started to leave her at drop-off, so I ended up staying for a few hours, and it’s since become the new routine. We go to school together, I leave around noon and head to the office.”
“And what do you do?” Laura asked. She meant for work, but he misinterpreted the question.
“Oh, I do whatever they’re doing: music, art, chess, free time—there’s a lot of free time at the Day School.” A fond look came over his face. “A lot of hanging out on the rug.”
“I think that sounds very nice,” Laura told him. “Let kids be kids.”
“Yes, it couldn’t be more different from the atmosphere of where I was sent as a kid. I went to St. Christopher’s, which was a little less nurturing, to put it mildly.”
“Oh, I know.” Laura nodded. “I went to Winthrop. I’m embarrassed to tell you that’s where my Emma goes. It wasn’t my first choice. Pushy alumnae committee.”
Their meals arrived. After setting down their plates, the waiter whisked off their metal tops with theatrical flair. “Bon appétit!” he said with a bow. As he started to walk away, James did charades for a pepper grinder. This was unnecessary, as a younger waiter was already advancing in their direction, holding the grinder out before him as though it were a sacred offering. Laura smiled in embarrassment; she hated this aspect of French restaurants.
“You know, I think I will have a glass of wine,” James said shortly into the meal.
“On second thought, I will, too,” Laura said.
Their wine arrived. To Laura’s relief, James did not try to initiate a clinking of glasses—nor had he attempted to hug or cheek-kiss her hello. So many dates began with such gestures, the premature, forced intimacy of which doomed any chance of the real thing’s blossoming.
* * *
ON THEIR SECOND DATE, LAURA noticed that James had an earring. The restaurant was dim, but occasionally it caught the light and glittered. It appeared to be purple, in the shape of a heart. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it earlier. Could James have been in Vietnam and received a purple heart in the form of an earring—was that even possible? No; he’d never mentioned the military, and besides, it was surely a medal.
Laura knew that earrings on men were considered stylish these days, but her own earlobes weren’t pierced and it was difficult to entertain a romantic future with a man whose were. Likewise, it seemed odd that such a man would pursue a woman whose weren’t. Laura’s progressive politics and tendency to embrace forward-thinking ideas excluded fashion, and she didn’t see this changing. Were she and James to become a couple, she imagined others struggling to make sense of their mismatched aesthetics and then drawing the conclusion: beggars can’t be choosers. Although his late wife, she now recalled, had been “adorably unstylish,” so maybe he didn’t care about it in women.
As the evening went on, James told her more about his work as a lawyer for the National Resources Defense Council, and Laura was so impressed by this that she forgot all about the earring. Then he turned his head to catch the waiter’s attention, and the resulting angle revealed a second earring on the other lobe. This one was pink and appeared to be a star.
Earlier in the night, James had proposed a postprandial nightcap at the Carlyle, where some jazz band he liked was playing. Laura’s enthusiasm for the plan had been restrained after noticing the first earring, which was perhaps a hallmark of a passing midlife crisis. But a second earring was too much, clear evidence that they weren’t meant for each other, and she began brainstorming excuses to go straight home after the meal.
James got up to use the restroom. When he returned to the table, Laura was about to apologize that she’d just remembered she’d promised the babysitter to be home by nine when she noticed the earrings were gone. Perhaps her gaze lingered a little too long on his newly naked lobes.
“You may have noticed that I was wearing earrings.” He smiled sheepishly.
“I see you took them off.”
“They were stickers,” he said. “This morning on the rug Emma and her friends were playing beauty parlor. I was the customer, and they did my hair in all these little pigtails. I looked so ridiculous, the teacher insisted on taking a Polaroid. Anyway, before heading to the office I took the pigtails out, but apparently I missed the earrings.
“This means I went around in them all day,” he reflected. “It’s not funny,” he protested when Laura giggled. “I had an important meeting today!”
“Yes, with the head of the EPA,” Laura reminded him. He’d described the meeting earlier, and as Laura imagined it now, she burst out laughing.
James winced. “To think my colleagues didn’t say anything. They must think I’m having some kind of midlife crisis!”
Laura laughed even harder. She reached for her water then put it back down, afraid she might choke. People at other tables turned to look at her but she didn’t care. It felt wonderful to laugh this hard. The prospect of extending the night at the Carlyle was now much more appealing. She could tell James enjoyed her hysterics, because when it started to subside he reignited it by mentioning other people he’d encountered that day: his doorman, an old acquaintance from boarding school—his father-in-law!
Laura nodded soberly.
“Next time you see me in earrings”—James wagged his finger across the table, trying to resuscitate the levity—“or pigtails, or makeup, please do me a favor and say something!”
“I will.” Laura took a sip of water. The laughter had opened up a space in her, and now that it was over, she felt empty.
The bill came. James took out his wallet, and Laura looked down and examined her hands. They looked older than the rest of her. She’d recently discovered that when she pinched the skin of her knuckle, the fold stayed there for a moment before restoring itself.
When they stepped out into the street, James bit his lip and glanced at his watch.
“Hmm, it’s a little late.” He frowned. “I should probably get back to Emma and save the Carlyle for another time.”
“Yes, me, too,” Laura said quickly.
* * *
A PIECE OF MAIL ARRIVED that had no return address. Inside was a child’s drawing, on a folded piece of construction paper. Laura thought it might be a card, but the corners were glued together so she couldn’t open it.
“Did you draw this?” she asked Emma.
Emma scrutinized the picture. “I’m a better artist than that.”
The drawing was of three stick figures—man, woman, and child—holding hands and smiling. The man was disproportionately tall; the top of his head abutted the beams of a smiling sun in the upper right-hand corner.
Laura almost threw it out, but then she stuck it under a magnet on the fridge. She’d recently conducted a purge of Emma’s early childhood artwork—there was so much of it—and the refrigerator door now looked bare.
* * *
THEY CONTINUED TO MEET FOR dinner once a week, sometimes twice. James was kind, made her laugh, and was comfortingly familiar. They had similar values and upbringings. It was premature to call what she felt for him love, but it seemed like a precursor to that.