It occurred to Maggie that her mother might be joking, but her body stiffened. Too many years of tension lay between them. She handed Jennifer over. “See if you can help her walk. She needs to explore.”
The doorbell chimed again. Maggie’s boss, Mr. Greenberg, stepped across the threshold and thrust a bouquet of daisies at her. Paul and her father entered close on Greenberg’s heels.
“I can’t stay,” Greenberg said, putting hands in the pockets of the old brown cardigan he wore all winter. “I came to say congratulations to the mother and the baby, and . . .” turning to Paul, “to the cancer doctor. You are a lucky man. Such a lovely wife. And smart!” He pulled a ring box from a pocket and held it toward Maggie. “For Jennifer. When she’s old enough, if I’m still alive, I’ll tell her what it means.”
Paul clapped Greenberg on the shoulder. “Here you go again, threatening to depart prematurely. This is Maggie’s father, Roger. Come in and meet her mother.” He gestured toward the living room, where Claudia sat staring at the group at the door.
“No, no. I have to go. Have a wonderful party. I’ll see you Monday, my dear.” He waved awkwardly as he left.
Maggie called after him, “Thanks for the flowers.” She turned to Paul. “He’s so unpredictable. I once told him I liked daisies, in a different context.” She paused. “It was nice of him to come.”
“And even nicer to go.” Paul grinned.
“I’m going to put these in water. Check on Jennifer? She’s with my mom.”
In the kitchen, which felt as large as their entire apartment, Maggie opened cabinets looking for a vessel. She took a tall water glass to the sink. As she stripped leaves from the daisies, she thought about how kind Greenberg had been to her this past year. He never pressed her to come in when she was dragging; he covered for her when the baby was sick. He would say “the child comes first” and pretend he didn’t notice the circles under her eyes or the stains on the pants she hadn’t had time to change. The thought of his unexpected, uncomplicated tenderness made her want to weep.
She returned to the living room, glass of daisies in hand, to find her mother and husband sitting on the couch, Paul bouncing the baby on his knee. Her father sat a bit apart as always. Claudia switched gears midsentence: “Paul says that man is your employer. Did he give Jennifer a ring? I couldn’t see.”
She knew her mother wouldn’t let the subject go, so she retrieved the box from her pocket, pulling out the contents—an old-fashioned, wooden top decorated with faded writing.
Claudia huffed. “Well, that’s a disappointment. What kind of present is that for a one-year-old?”
“Tops are fun,” Paul said. “Greenberg probably found the box in the back of a drawer. He doesn’t pay attention to wrapping. He’s a bottom-line guy.”
“He’s certainly watching his bottom line,” Claudia said.
Maggie couldn’t help but rise to his defense. “He said it’s for the future, when Jennifer’s old enough to understand what it means.” Her heart heaved. “Isn’t that enough? You’ve always said it’s the thought that counts.” She put the top back in the box and snapped it closed.
Without stirring in his chair, Roger said, “Respect your mother. You’re a mother but you’re still a daughter.”
“I do respect her. But she’s wrong about my boss.” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “I’m going to turn on the coffee.” She escaped to the kitchen.
Greenberg had been the closest thing to a confidante she’d had in the past months. Sarah had offered to commiserate long distance, but she talked banking, and Maggie couldn’t feel her vitality over the phone. Greenberg, on the other hand, had buoyed her up with tales of his nieces and nephews. He had a funny story for every little facet of babyhood, and he never judged. More than once, she’d confessed to doubts about being a good mother. She’d told him she wanted to give Jennifer everything, if only she could figure out what she needed. Each time he’d assured her that she was good enough, which was all any baby should expect. His old-fashioned words calmed her when nothing else did.
Maggie lifted the chrome handle at one of the sinks and stared at the frothy stream. She remembered Sarah’s remark about how brave she was to invite her parents to the party. She hadn’t thought herself brave, just doing the right thing. Too bad insight came so late.
With a start, she realized that Paul was standing behind her. Lanky and relaxed, he leaned on the countertop next to the sink.
“Your dad sent me after you, believe it or not.”
“To scold me some more?” She kept staring into the sink.
“Maggie, cool it. He’s confused. You ask them to come and then you put up a wall.”
“She shouldn’t have criticized Greenberg.”
“Come on, you make fun of him yourself.”
‘I’m not a bigot.” She turned to face him. “And I respect him. He’s been so good to Jennifer . . . and to me.”
“That’s not the point.” His voice hardened a notch. “You wanted this party. Pull yourself together and enjoy it. I’m gonna take Jennifer to the gazebo to play.”
He was right, of course. Nothing her parents had said or done would spoil the party. They weren’t the problem. In truth, she was pleased they’d come. Claudia had been so angry when they had married in a courthouse—Paul didn’t want to spend money on a big church wedding—that she had refused to visit for years. Maggie suspected that her mother had been less concerned about the sanctity of their union than about skipping an “appropriate” party. She’d tried to explain that a civil ceremony suited her skeptical, scientist bridegroom’s temperament. But Claudia wouldn’t be mollified. Jennifer’s birth, thank goodness, had made things a little better between them. No, her parents weren’t the problem. Paul wasn’t the problem. He’d been so kind, helping her organize the tables and toys. But that tightness in his voice meant he was tired of her moping, of her inability to get it together. Whenever they talked about her funk, he said he didn’t blame her; he blamed biology. She couldn’t tell how much he actually resented her disarray.
The doorbell chimed its four tones. A neighbor arrived with her baby girl and five-year-old boy. The two moms had met pushing strollers around the block and they visited often, depositing their babies on the floor to play in parallel while they talked and sipped tea. Maggie introduced Laurie to her parents, and after a polite minute, she ushered Laurie’s family out onto the lawn. The little boy made a beeline for the gazebo. He let out a squeal and grabbed a toy hammer from Jennifer’s hand. She looked up, her face beginning to crinkle into a cry. With one hand, Paul gave her a doll; with his other arm, he corralled the boy around the waist. Maggie could see him talking to Jason but couldn’t hear him. Laurie said that Paul was a natural dad and that they should have oodles more kids.
More children! How dare she think about another baby when her hold on mothering was so tenuous? But she had missed so much of the pleasure of Jennifer’s infancy that she longed to try again. Paul didn’t want to risk it. He understood her yearlong distemper to be hormone driven and thought it would recur. She knew what lurked behind her struggle—the hole in her diaphragm. She would love to be able to enjoy another baby the way a mother should, a baby conceived honestly.
She watched Laurie enter the gazebo and set her baby girl down next to Jennifer. Jason raised both hands to show his mother a toy wrench and screwdriver from the plastic carpenter bench that Paul had bought for the occasion. Laurie and Paul chatted and laughed as the children played. Seeing Paul maintain the peace among the kids made Maggie want to cry. He adored his daughter, even if she’d been born too soon. She couldn’t thank him enough for making Jennifer happy. She promised herself to make things right for both of them, at whatever cost. Paul and Jennifer deserved all she could give.
ELEVEN
Hope Caldwell propped elbows on the lab bench and leaned forward to watch Alicia prepare a blood sample. The tops of her firm-looking breasts emerged from the scoop-necked T-shirt she wore ben
eath her open lab coat. Paul watched from the lab’s threshold; he wondered if she was signaling to him. If so, she had balls as well as breasts. He listened as Alicia mechanically described the procedure Hope was to follow. He had bargained with Stamford, trading an advance on the grant funds for the hire. This was Friday of week one and she seemed competent enough, although she took no notes. He would have to monitor her closely; this stuff was too important to leave to a grad student. He turned on his heel.
Sandi brought the mail and another mug of black coffee to his desk. He started, not having seen her sky-blue smock in his peripheral vision; her nurse’s shoes were inaudible.
“How’s the princess doing?” Sandi said, placing the mug on a coaster.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she lords it over everyone. Not you. Not yet.”
He thought Sandi must have gotten her toes trod. He made it a policy to ignore staff squabbles. They sorted themselves out eventually, as long as he didn’t take sides and the researchers continued to cooperate. But mutual respect was essential; Hope had better fit in.
“Do me a favor and make sure they all get bench space. Make ’em take turns if necessary. I need all their results to push this thing ahead.” As he talked, he booted his computer and cleared a space on his desk.
“When are we getting a bigger lab?” It was a joke between them, her droning like a kid in a car: “Are we there yet?” She paused in the doorway. “What else do you need?”
“I need a chunk of luck. I know that result’s there. I’ve seen it. Let’s hope I’ve picked the quickest way to finally prove it.” He was more nervous than he let on. The grant would cover eighteen months’ work at the rate he wanted to spend it, and if he came up empty, he’d have a hell of a time getting more money. He had bent himself out of shape these last few years hustling funding. He was so close to achieving significance in a field where most people took tiny, incremental steps that amounted to nothing. In odd moments when his concentration waned, he fantasized standing at the speaker’s podium to give the keynote address to a sea of biologists, telling them that what they were about to hear would change their lives. He would relish the surprise in their faces when he detailed a new disease process. He would spurn requests to collaborate from the multitude who would want to use his findings. Twenty-five years hence, he wouldn’t have to share the Nobel Prize. “Ask Hope to come in here, would you?” He wanted to impress upon her the need for precision and professionalism. He wanted her to know his experiments were the real deal.
Sandi shook her head no ever so slightly and turned away. She left the door open. After a few moments, Hope sauntered in and stood with hands clasped behind her back, lab coat gaping. He came around to the front of the desk to look her in the eye. She was almost as tall as he in her fuck-me heels. Her jaw was too big and eyes too close together, which made her look horsey, like the Upper East Sider she was, except for the tight red pants showing off very good legs. He cleared his throat.
“Do you mind if I call you Hope? We’re informal around here.”
“Certainly. Shall I call you Paul?” Her face formed a question.
Okay, he thought, pretty forward for a technician. But maybe she’d taken him literally. “I noticed you didn’t take any notes. You know you’ve got to be accurate. I’m giving you the base experiments for a giant leap forward.” He folded arms across his chest.
“I’ve had a lot of practice handling blood samples. More than I wanted.” She lowered arms to her sides. “If you like, I’ll document every step I take. I read the grant proposal last night. It’s an honor to work with you.” She smiled into his eyes.
Damn straight, he thought, but did she really understand? He tried to read her face—nothing showed beneath her smooth, tight skin. He knew himself to be susceptible to flattery but also to have a nose for manipulation. This dame came with complications. He felt mildly aroused. “That’s not necessary. But I expect you to stick to the protocol.”
“Of course. I promise you’ll be satisfied.” She smiled again. He could swear she was about to bat her eyelashes. “Is there anything else?”
He shook his head no. She nodded and stepped quickly through the doorway. Watching her calves ball up beneath the red Lycra with each step, he made a mental note: push her hard, wring every penny’s worth of Stamford’s money out of the deal. He had no time for dilettantes, good legs or no.
He let himself in through the mudroom door shortly after six, as promised, to the smell of garlic sautéing in oil. The pang in his gut reminded him that he’d missed lunch—too excited about the work. The new money set him up perfectly.
Maggie stood at the kitchen sink, her back to him. He’d expected her to fuss because it was Arun’s last meal with them. Going to see his folks, Jenn had said, and some other stuff that hadn’t registered in Paul’s consciousness. He thought Arun got around a lot for someone who lived off the charity of others. He suspected there was a hidden source of money somewhere in Arun’s doings, but he didn’t want to bother finding out. Jenn would drop him soon enough, if he knew his girl.
His girl. In a flash he remembered the excruciating moments when she had wormed deeper into his heart—when baby Jenny had crawled out onto the roof of their apartment building and he had to coax her back in; when the house had filled with smoke because she’d put her doll to bed in the oven; when the police had called at 3:00 a.m. to say there had been an auto accident. Her dating, on the other hand, had caused little pain. The pimply, creepy guys she brought home hadn’t hung around. She’d had too much sense to fall for a lout.
In years past, when he’d imagined Jenn’s future, he’d seen her in a smart suit behind a desk in Midtown, making money. Or teaching her beloved philosophy in a classy girls’ school. He had brimmed with confidence for her. But her hooking up with Arun? A man with no prospects to speak of, a beggar, a poseur? She would wise up and do better.
Maggie turned to him, wiping her hands on the dish towel slung over her shoulder. “I need another few minutes in the kitchen. Please go make drinks and conversation.”
“He’s Indian. He doesn’t drink.”
“Jenn enjoys wine, at least she used to.”
He grunted. Maggie’s mouth pursed. He said okay and pushed through the swinging door, thinking this would be the one and only time he’d wait on Arun. The naturalized American fakir should be out of Jenn’s life by Christmas, if he had to kick him out.
It was still dusky outdoors, but in the living room, lamps glowed and candles floated in bowls on the coffee table. Arun and Jenn sat on the couch, Arun in a polo shirt and khakis as if going to a barbecue, Jenn wrapped in a filmy, orange cloth that looked left over from the eighties. Paul barged in and asked if they wanted drinks. Arun declined. Paul asked if alcohol was against his religion. Arun replied no, it didn’t suit his constitution. Jenn laughed and reached for his pudgy hand.
“I’ll have a glass of rosé, Daddy. Mom wouldn’t let us into the kitchen, so I don’t know what’s coming. Besides vegetables.” She looked at Arun. He winked at her.
Paul poured wine for Jenn and bourbon for himself, thinking, How could she go gaga over such a mediocre specimen of manhood? Thirty-five years old and begging for a living. Flaccid limbs and a shit-eating grin. Couldn’t be a good lay. Maybe Jenn couldn’t tell the difference. Paul thought his daughter deserved more and better sexual experience. Then again, sex could wait. He handed her the wineglass and seated himself in the leather recliner where he used to read at night in better times.
“Jenn has told me about your project, Dr. Adler. How wonderful to make progress against cancer. I would like to hear more about it.” Arun pulled Jenn’s hand in his closer to his thigh.
“It’s not your kind of thing. It’s hard science. I deal with facts.”
“I like to think that Jenn and I do too. Facts of a different kind.”
“There’s only one kind. Facts verified through observation and experiment.”
“Yes,
that’s what Jenn and I rely on as well. Perhaps you remember the story of Descartes and the pope? It seems they came to an agreement. Descartes wanted permission to dissect the human body. He had to promise to say nothing about the human soul, which the pope maintained as his territory, if you will. So body and soul have been artificially separated in Western thinking ever since. In our work, in our modest way, we try to unite them.” Arun returned Paul’s gaze—round, brown arms protruding from his sleeves—without moving a muscle.
“Dad, we’re not talking randomized clinical trials. Arun has a philosophy that we apply and then we watch what happens. You’d be amazed at the results.” Jenn fixed eyes on him too.
Christ, Paul thought, that slimy guy’s got her bamboozled. What else could Arun make her do, hit him up for cash for their schemes? Well, he wouldn’t be conned.
Maggie appeared carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres, her spinach and goat cheese special. Arun stood to take the tray from her while she moved candles to make space on the coffee table. Arun lowered the tray, and Jenn took two of the pastry squares and popped one in her mouth. Maggie looked pleased. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said, sitting on the rug opposite her daughter, her legs in slacks folded beneath her.
“Arun was asking about Dad’s work, but we got sidetracked into scientific method.”
“You could get lost on that track. How about telling us about Arun’s trip? I’ve got ten minutes until the buzzer calls me back to the kitchen.” She turned to Arun with an expectant face.
Paul thought she looked like the dog in that ancient RCA commercial, sitting at the Victrola and listening for “his master’s voice.” He didn’t want her to play lady of the manor when she should be poisoning Arun’s food. The graciousness that he had found so appealing in the beginning now grated on him. He took a sip of bourbon. If Lenny were around, he’d see through Arun in a nanosecond. Maybe he should give Lenny a call.
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