Emma's Table

by Philip Galanes

  Benjamin checked his watch, and felt nearly confident for a change. It was before nine still. He might even make it to the auction house first. He let the pleasure of beating Emma to the punch wash over him like a blast of steam from a subway grate. He closed his eyes for just a second. When he opened them again, he saw the little blue cup swirling out into the street.

  He felt an icy slap at the side of his face when he stepped into the intersection, his overcoat flapping in the opposite direction. He watched the cup blowing wildly in the wind, sure to be run over in a matter of seconds.

  Benjamin opened the auction house door.

  JUST ABOUT THEN, A LITTLE GIRL ACROSS THE river—Gracie Santiago—wedged herself tightly into the crook of a tweedy brown sofa. She spread her work onto the coffee table in front of her: ten sheets of red construction paper and a pair of safety scissors, a booklet of silver-foiled stickers and golden stars, a tub of white paste. Off to the side—sequestered safely from the rest—lay a baby blue envelope, stuffed to the gills and closed up tight, its metallic bunny ears bent back against the flap.

  Gracie was making Valentine cards. The holiday was just a week away.

  Her mother had suggested a box of cards from the grocery store, but Gracie dismissed that idea out of hand. She knew she had to do better than that. So she begged her grandfather for art supplies instead. He was a much softer touch than her mother ever was, especially when he picked her up from school. There was practically nothing he’d refuse her then, not if she asked him right, anyway. Gracie smiled down at the proof in front of her—all the supplies she’d ever need.

  Back when she was a first-grader, two years before, Valentine’s Day had been easy as pie. She’d given store-bought cards to every kid in class, and she’d received nearly as many in return—one from every girl and most of the boys. She’d followed the same approach the very next year, copying out all her classmates’ names, even the ones who weren’t so nice, and the ones who hadn’t given her a card the year before. The results had come as a terrible surprise, like falling off a cliff. Gracie received just a handful of cards in return, and not a single one from the Skinny Girls—the pretty ones who sat together at lunch, ruling the roost at PS 431.

  People seemed to be growing meaner by the second.

  Maybe if I was skinny too? she thought.

  Gracie looked down at her pajamas—a riot of creamy ponies on a pink flannel field. She couldn’t help but see how her body pulled those horses tight, the rolls of fat that strained at the seams. She’d heard of third-graders who hadn’t received a single Valentine, their handmade bins, folded from sheets of white notebook paper, hanging empty from the sides of their desks.

  Gracie was sick with worry.

  She looked vaguely in the direction of the television set. How she’d love to turn it on. Forget all about Valentine’s Day and her stupid red cards; just watch a Saturday-morning show instead. But Gracie wasn’t allowed to touch the television until her mother woke up, so she only stared at the glassy black screen, as if a very dull program were on just then, her little mouth falling open.

  She’d nearly forgotten her plan.

  She picked up a sheet of construction paper and folded it neatly in half. Gracie was going to make beautiful Valentines for every single third-grader—even the mean ones, and those few who were less popular than she was herself. She’d hand them out the day before Valentine’s Day. Maybe when her classmates saw how nice she was, when they realized all the trouble she’d gone to—making them all such pretty cards—maybe then they’d see that she deserved one too?

  It could happen, she thought.

  Her grandfather thought it could.

  Gracie picked up the scissors and cut five half hearts, guiding the safety blades around the tidy red fold. Then she opened them up—those mirror-image hearts—glittering them liberally and jeweling them with foil, until they twinkled beneath the overhead lights. She opened up the baby blue envelope next, pulling out photos of the same pretty blonde: Paris Hilton, a hundred times. Gracie was wild about the girl, her straight blond hair and toothpick frame. She cut out every picture she could find—some of them smudgy on cheap newsprint and others shining back at her from magazine stock. She pasted a picture onto every red heart, right at the center, its absolute place of honor; and at the moment of pressing her fat thumb down, gluing Paris Hilton onto Valentine cards, Gracie couldn’t imagine that her plan might fail.

  She thought of Missy Hendricks, with her pretty pink face and long blond hair—the third grade’s answer to Paris Hilton, a classroom of girls kowtowing to her all day long. Missy reigned over PS 431 with an iron fist, heading up the posse of Skinny Girls, deciding everybody’s fate.

  Missy ignored her mostly, and her minions followed suit.

  But not always, Gracie thought.

  Missy had approached her at recess one day, not long before—just after Christmas, a month or so back. “Come with me,” she whispered.

  Gracie could picture that blond hair still, like the wispy fluff inside corn on the cob, fluttering in the very smallest of breezes. Missy leaned into Gracie as she spoke that day, and her long hair leaned along with her, in a perfect, swinging plane.

  I should have known better, Gracie thought.

  She could remember the way Missy smelled—of apples and cinnamon, like the dark red candle her mother kept on the kitchen counter.

  Gracie popped up from the sofa and began fiddling with the elastic at her waist. It dug into her round tummy.

  The thought of Missy Hendricks made her nervous.

  She began smoothing the ponies on her flannel thighs, petting them. Gracie walked into the kitchen—lifting her feet high with every step, a little like a pony herself. She didn’t want her mother to hear. She wasn’t allowed to eat anything before breakfast. She opened the refrigerator and basked in its chilly white light—just looking at what there was to eat.

  Gracie thought back to the playground in spite of herself.

  She’d been wearing her brand-new parka that day at recess when Missy singled her out. It was a Christmas present from her mother, her favorite one—that puffy coat in fire-engine red. She’d thought it was odd, even at the time: What would Missy want with me? But Gracie brushed her doubts aside. It was Missy Hendricks, after all, the truest of queen bees. She was only too happy to trail in the pretty girl’s wake, following her to that corner of the playground where the gym jutted out. It was private back there, where the popular kids played.

  Gracie discovered a gang of kids on the other side. They began laughing and snickering as soon as she appeared.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Missy announced—talking into her clenched fist as if it were a handheld mike, “may I present Gracie Santi-HOG-o.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Gracie turned to leave. She should have known better. But Missy grabbed the sleeve of her coat, and the other kids—about a dozen or so—joined in the fun.

  “Santi-HOG-o,” they cheered, “Santi-HOG-o.”

  Gracie pulled away from Missy, but an older boy pushed her down onto the pavement before she could escape. She was afraid her downy coat might rip.

  “Santi-HOG-o,” the boys screamed. “Go back to the barn!”

  Things got worse by the second. They all began rushing then—laughing and screaming and oinking like pigs. The boys made a ring around her, and Gracie was trapped on the ground beneath them. She tried to stand, but it was no use: there was always another boy to push her back down. So she closed her eyes, and kept them shut. Gracie prayed that she could wait them out—all their shouting and cursing too.

  And then they went silent in the blink of an eye.

  Perfectly quiet, Gracie remembered.

  She knew they were there still, but something had happened to shut them up. Gracie opened her eyes slowly. It was Miss Watson, her teacher, looking as angry as she’d ever seen her.

  “What’s going on here?” she barked.

  Gracie thought her heart might bre
ak.

  She loved Miss Watson with all her might. The last thing she wanted was for her to see her like this, to know—for certain—how unpopular she was. Gracie felt terribly ashamed.

  “Get out of here,” Miss Watson said in a furious voice, yelling at the boys who were circled around her, the gang of Skinny Girls hanging off to the side. “I’ll deal with you later,” she promised.

  The children scattered to the winds.

  Miss Watson helped Gracie to her feet. “Are you all right?” she asked, in her kindest voice. Gracie nodded, brushing the dust from the sleeves of her bright red parka. She kept her eyes averted, afraid she might cry—and not because of the kids on the playground. Gracie didn’t care about them.

  Well, that’s not true, she thought.

  She cared about them plenty, just not as much as she cared about Miss Watson. “I’m fine,” Gracie said.

  She didn’t want her teacher to think she was a loser.

  “What happened here, Gracie?” Miss Watson asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I just fell down.”

  “Gracie?” Miss Watson said to her—her voice filled up with disbelief.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.”

  She’d rather have Miss Watson think she was a liar than know the truth about her. And no matter how many times she asked, Gracie would never change her tune. She’d never tell on Missy Hendricks, or those fifth-grade boys who pushed her onto the ground. She’d be as silent as a jungle gym, keeping her shameful playground secret until the day she died.

  Gracie closed the refrigerator door.

  There was nothing good to eat. There never was.

  So she sneaked a pinch of oatmeal from the canister on the counter—all dry and flaky—and a clump of brown sugar from the cabinet by the sink. Then she ground them together in the palm of her hand, running a chubby finger over the sticky granules and sharp flakes. Gracie popped the concoction straight into her mouth. It tasted like heaven to her—so hard and sweet, like an oatmeal cookie almost.

  And her mother would never suspect a thing.

  WHEN BENJAMIN WALKED THROUGH THE FRONT door of FitzCoopers, Emma was the first thing to catch his eye. She is Emma Sutton, he thought. There was no getting around that. She also happened to be the only one in furs. A long, silvery chinchilla hung down from her shoulders—its wide sleeves empty, as if she were a double amputee. He could make out a tweedy gray pantsuit beneath it. He knew there was an outsized handbag dangling from the crook of her arm. He knew it just as well as he knew his own name. It was simply hidden from view at the moment, beneath a drapery of fur, like an expensive leather secret.

  At least it’s cold outside, he thought.

  He’d seen her turn up in chinchilla as late as May.

  Emma began to click across the room, heading straight for him. Her shoes looked brand-new to him. Benjamin looked down guiltily at his own, brown leather like an ugly tiger cat—scuffed-up patches of brown and beige, mysterious patches of black. He was beyond a shine.

  Benjamin felt a little warm. He began unbuttoning his winter coat. She always made him nervous at the start.

  “Morning, Benjamin,” Emma called, smiling when she reached him, just inside the front door still. She was always friendly and nice—until she wasn’t.

  He checked his wristwatch right away, afraid he’d heard a curt note in her voice. “Am I late?” he asked. He knew he was on time, a little early even, but he felt jittery all the same. He liked to get off on the right foot.

  “Not at all,” she said, smiling still, but there was no warmth in it at all.

  He felt a flash of annoyance then—first at her, then back at himself. He knew he wasn’t late. And he knew even better that he’d been foolish to think he might beat her here. Emma’s idea of nine o’clock was eight thirty to the rest of the world. Or quarter to nine, he thought, at the very latest.

  She reached out and touched the sleeve of his coat. “You’re right on time,” she said, squeezing his forearm a little. Benjamin felt the silver fur against the back of his hand, softer than human hair by far, softer almost than skin. He felt some of the heat that was gathering inside him begin to dissipate. Emma readjusted the fur around her shoulders, lifting it up and drawing it in close, as if she’d grown chilly, standing so close to the door.

  A black leather bag peeked out from beneath the fur.

  I knew it, he thought. He took pleasure in how well he’d come to know her.

  An old woman walked up to them then. “You’re Emma Sutton,” she said loudly, an unmistakable thrill in her voice, “aren’t you?” She sounded as if she were speaking to the Virgin Mary—or to Katie Couric, he thought, at the very least.

  Emma nodded.

  “You’re much prettier in person,” the woman said, smiling sweetly.

  Emma looked back at her through squinted eyes. “Thank you,” she said, smiling tightly. She looked straight past the mixed message, but turned her back on the old woman as quickly as she could.

  Benjamin loved moments like these.

  “So what’s the concept?” he asked, surveying the circle of old furniture; it looked a little battered to him. “Are we buying something?” he asked, slipping an arm from the sleeve of his coat, just making conversation.

  He watched her face contract in a flash, all her handsome features squeezing shut—eyes and mouth and brow in a fist—and just when he’d thought it was safe too. Benjamin felt a catch in his throat; he knew he was in trouble. Emma glared at him—in the general direction of his chest, it seemed. He thought it might be his sweater, at first, looking down at the offending wool.

  “Come with me,” she said, refreshing his memory of what her curt voice sounded like. She led him off to a private room.

  He felt sorry for upsetting her and frightened for himself.

  But as he trailed behind her, crossing the room, he began to cast off those crumbs of fear—like Hansel in the forest. She’s just being ridiculous, he thought. Anyone who heard me is going to see her bidding in five minutes anyway. He noticed the complimentary coffee table in the corner of the room. He longed for a cup, but thought better of mentioning it at the moment.

  Another flash of annoyance coursed through him: he decided he was entitled. “Do you mind if I get a coffee?” he asked, feeling defiant.

  “In a minute,” she said.

  He supposed he could wait.

  Emma led him to a deserted office in the back—just a few makeshift desks with wooden tops and filing cabinets underneath for legs, those ergonomic chairs that promised no more backaches, and an old fax machine. It was a marked contrast to all the fancy brass and glowing wood in the exhibition room.

  It was a relief to him.

  She extended a bidding paddle toward him once they were safely inside: a white rectangle the size of two Visa bills laid one on top of the other, and just about as thin. There was a small white handle protruding from the bottom, and three red numbers—one, six, eight—painted on both sides. It felt like a challenge to him, the way she handed it over, as if she were offering him a gleaming saber from a velvet-lined case. He knew he was supposed to take it from her, but he didn’t.

  “I want you to bid on a Nakashima table for me,” she said.

  He didn’t know what a Nakashima table was.

  “Are you leaving?” he asked, his insides mixed up like a complicated cocktail: one part dread, another part hope.

  “Not at all,” she said. “But you’ll draw less attention than I will.”

  Benjamin was confused.

  “We won’t be sitting together,” she told him, in a tone of voice that suggested that this was the piece of information—the not-sitting-together part—that was supposed to help him make sense of the story. It didn’t. He felt prickly heat at the nape of his neck, the beginnings of moisture at the peaks of his brow. It made him nervous not to follow her precisely.

  “We’ll get a better deal this way,” she said, sounding impatient.

&nb
sp; It doesn’t take her long, he thought.

  Benjamin took the paddle from her outstretched hand. It was lighter than he expected, made of balsa wood maybe, or even lighter still—the kind of wood he used to make model airplanes when he was a boy. He couldn’t begin to account for how burdensome the thing felt in his hands.

  “You’ll do fine,” she said, smiling warmly. She always smiled once she’d gotten her way. He must have looked nervous still. “Honestly, Benjamin,” she said, “I’ve seen half-wits do it.”

  Twenty-five dollars an hour began to seem like chicken feed.

  Emma told him the lot number of the table: “Twelve thirty-three,” she said, as if it were the departure time of some commercial airplane. She insisted that he write it down. His heart dropped as he comprehended it—when he realized he’d have to sit through twelve hundred pieces of furniture. He was only slightly relieved when she informed him that the auction began with Lot 1000. Two hundred and thirty-three pieces of furniture still sounded like an awful lot of furniture to him.

  She showed him a picture of the table in the catalog—“To avoid any confusion,” she said. He feigned nonchalance, but looked very closely. He studied the lots that came before it too, hoping he’d remember them later, like warning bells chiming in advance.

  Maybe I can do this, he thought, a silky ribbon of confidence swirling through the fear. He was going to make her proud.

  “It all moves very quickly,” she warned.

  He really did need that coffee though.