In jeans and a sweater, Emma passed back through the living room. She would have to break her rule and ask Peter to help out a bit, if they were to eat before midnight.
“Would you mind setting the table?” she asked him timidly. “I’m going to read to Tess while I start dinner.”
Peter closed his book. “What are we having?”
“Lamb chops, rice and peas,” Emma said, not looking at him. She knew he’d be disappointed. Peter was an austere eater. He ate no fats, no beef. He liked sushi, grilled tuna, exotic greens and spices, curries. She knew he’d prefer something that had simmered on the back of the stove for days. This meal was bland and boring, but quick: half an hour from start to finish.
In the kitchen, Tess clambered onto a chair and spread out her book. “And now, Mommy, we’ll read,” she said.
“In just one second,” Emma said. Rice first, then the chops, then the peas. She measured out water in one pot for the rice, and ran a brief stream into another for the peas. Inside the pot was a feathery black honeycomb, the ghostly silhouette of peas Emma had burnt in the past. She had a bad record of burning vegetables, no matter how careful she thought she was being. Tonight, though, it couldn’t happen, because she would be sitting next to the stove, reading to Tess. The peas would be there under her eye.
Peter came in. “What things do you want me to use?”
“The mats are down there,” Emma said. “The silverware’s in the top drawer. The plates are in that cabinet, and so are the glasses.” Tess gummed the edge of her book, impatient. “Just one minute,” promised Emma. She began to rub the lamb chops with rosemary.
“Up here?” Peter asked, opening the wrong cabinet. He stared dimly at a stack of casseroles.
“The one next to it,” Emma said, wiping her meat-slimy hands. She picked up the bottle of olive oil, but her hands were too slippery to grip the cap. Tess began to fuss, pouting and making gusty little warning whimpers. “Just one more minute, Tessie,” Emma said. “I have to get the water boiling and put the rice in.” Her fingers slid fruitlessly around the metal cap.
“I’m afraid I don’t see them,” Peter said. He had opened another wrong cabinet.
“Not there,” Emma said. “Over here.” She opened the right door. “Any of these plates, any of these glasses. Would you open this?”
“What?” Peter said, turning slowly.
She handed him the olive oil.
“It’s covered with gook,” Peter said, frowning. “What did you put on it?”
“Mom-mee,” Tess said urgently. “Mom-mee.” She bounced up and down in her chair.
“One second, Tess,” Emma said to her. “Lamb slime,” she said to Peter. “Thanks.” She dribbled oil on the chops. The water in the saucepan was beginning to stir; tiny silvery bubbles sidled mysteriously up toward the surface. Not a rolling boil, but she couldn’t wait. Emma poured in the rice, the translucent grains sliding heavily into an underwater pyramid. She covered the saucepan and gave the timer a ratchety twist. Seven thirty-five. “Okay, Tess,” she said, and sat down.
“These?” asked Peter, behind her.
“Fine,” said Emma, not looking up.
“Here,” Tess said, sliding the book over. “Right here,” she said, stabbing at the text. Emma began reading, her mind on dinner. Tess leaned forward, her hands cushioning her chin on the table edge. Her eyes were rapt.
“Wait,” Emma read, “wait till the moon is full.” She looked at Tess and widened her eyes. Tess watched her mother’s face, her own eyes widening, as if they both watched the same scene: rabbits, raccoons, woodchucks, possums, all dancing in the meadow, darkened grasses and flowers beneath the dancers’ feet, the vast white moon casting a magical silver light.
When Emma finished, the chops were not quite brown enough, but Emma turned them and started a low flame under the peas. She would have to leave them, but she’d take the timer. “Come on, Tessie, I’ll sing you a song when you’re in bed.” She would just have time—to brush Tess’s teeth, sing the bedtime song and say good night—before the rice was done.
The toothbrushing was endless. Tess, feeling Emma’s urgency, dropped first the toothpaste, then its cap, then the toothbrush. Emma tried to keep impatience from her voice, but by the time she had gotten Tess into bed, clean, under the covers and with the right animal, Emma was wild. She felt the fate of the dinner hanging precariously over her.
“Now the song, Mommy,” Tess said, settling comfortably against her pillow. The good night song was a slow lullaby. It could not be hurried.
Emma began. “Hush-a-bye,” she sang, trying to sound peaceful, “don’t you cry. Go to sleep, my little Tessie.” Tess, her thumb deep in her mouth, watched her gravely. “When you wake, we shall take all the pretty little horses.”
At the end, Tess reached up and patted Emma’s cheek. “Don’t go now, Mommy,” she said coaxingly.
“I have to go, Tess, it’s bedtime.” Emma looked at the timer. She wondered if the chops were all right. The peas.
“No, Mommy,” Tessie said, patting her more strongly. “Just one more song, please? I have been waiting for you all day.”
Emma looked at Tess’s wistful face. She had only been home for half an hour, and now she was putting Tessie out like a tiny light, extinguishing her bright consciousness, cutting her off from the steady glow of her mother. The peas were about to burn. She should have waited to turn them on.
“Tessie, I love you,” Emma said. “I’m sorry I got home so late tonight. But now I have to go back and cook dinner for Peter.” As she said the name she thought: a mistake.
“For Peter?” Tess repeated.
“And me,” said Emma quickly. “I haven’t had any dinner.”
Tess slid instantly sideways and patted the sheet next to her.
“You could sit by here, Mommy, while you ate your dinner. You could sit next to me while you ate.” She spoke moistly around her thumb.
Emma smiled. “Thank you, sweetie, but I can’t do that.”
If she had been alone, though, she would have. She would have sat on the bed, reading first out loud to Tess, then, as her daughter slid gently into sleep, getting out her own book and reading to herself. It was Peter who came between them.
“I have to leave, Tessie, before the dinner burns,” Emma said. The ticking timer was speeding up, approaching its tiny one-note finale. “But I’ll come back, after dinner, and give you another kiss good night. All right?”
Tess looked at her, her mouth working steadily on her thumb.
“All right, Tessie?” Emma leaned forward. The bell rang. The dinner was about to be charcoal. “I love you,” she said to Tess, and kissed her soft cheek. Tessie’s eyes were brilliant, liquid with tears. She said nothing. Emma’s heart smote her. “I love you,” she said again, and Tessie nodded. Her eyes followed her mother as she left the room.
Peter looked up as Emma hurried past. “Anything I can do?”
“Come in,” Emma said. “Dinner’s either ready or ashes.”
It was ashes. She smelled it as she came into the kitchen: the rubbery stench of the peas, the strong charcoal of the lamb, the dry sizzle of the rice. She turned off the burners and carried the peas to the sink. She ran cold water over the pot; steam rose furiously. Rachel’s door was shut. Emma wondered if she had smelled the burning dinner.
The peas were a blackened mass, but part of the rice was salvageable and she skimmed the unscorched grains off the top. The chops were acceptable, if you liked them charcoal-coated. Emma made a salad.
“Well, here it is,” she said finally, handing Peter a plate. His face was unhappy. “Charcoal is good for your teeth,” said Emma hopefully. “That’s what my mother always said when she burnt the toast. The toast was always burnt, in our house: our toaster was an arsonist. It was years before I knew what normal toast was.”
Peter smiled, but did not answer. He chewed the rice in unforgiving silence.
At the end of the wordless meal Peter stood up. �
�Thank you,” he said gravely, “for dinner.” He carried his plate into the kitchen and went back into the living room to read. Emma scraped her own plate into the trash.
She stood at the sink, watching the water run off the greasy dishes. This would never work, she thought, Peter would be gone by the weekend. She could hardly blame him.
The dishes done, Emma went back through the Mozart-filled living room. She did not look at Peter, she did not want to see his frowning face. As she passed the sofa his hand grabbed her wrist and stopped her. She looked down: his face was raised to kiss her.
“Come here,” he said kindly, pulling her down. Emma thought of Tess, waiting in the bedroom, but she let herself descend.
Peter put his arms around her. “Now, look,” he said. “This was a hard evening for you. I could see that.”
“It wasn’t great,” Emma admitted.
“No. And it wasn’t great for me either.”
For him? Emma stiffened: this was going to be complaints, not compassion. “No, I suppose not.”
“But you could see that,” Peter said, smiling at her.
“Well, I’m sorry,” Emma said dryly. “It must be unpleasant to smell dinner burning while you’re reading. And such a nuisance to go and shut the door, to keep out the smell.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Peter said, his face closing.
“What did you mean, then?” Emma asked.
“I didn’t feel that I got much of your attention,” he said.
“My attention!” Emma laughed shortly. “Well, I’m sorry for that. This can’t have been what you’d expected. You thought we’d sit having drinks in the living room while the help put Tess to bed and fixed dinner.”
Peter looked at her, his face serious, his mouth now tight. “That’s an unfriendly thing to say,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think what you said was very friendly,” Emma said, standing up. “I have to go back to Tess. I told her I’d go back again after dinner.” Emma waited, but Peter said nothing more. He watched her, his face tight, until she turned and left the room.
Tess’s room was dark. Emma pushed open the door quietly. In the dim light she could see Tess, her head turned to one side. Her arms were upraised and her hands were open against her pillow as though flung there by speed, as though acceleration into sleep had thrown her deep into the yielding softness of the pillow.
Emma leaned over the bed. “Tessie?” she said, whispering. There was no answer. Tess’s eyes were closed, and her breath came quietly, almost in-audibly. Emma sat down, finally free to talk to her small daughter, ready to play with her small hands, ready to make her laugh. Emma felt her own throat tighten, looking at Tess’s trustful face. The eyebrows slanted mournfully down. In her sleep she was still waiting for her mother. In the darkened room, Emma watched her daughter, listening to her soft irregular breaths.
When Emma left she went quietly into the bedroom, avoiding the living room. She closed the bedroom door behind her. The maple bureau from her parents’ house, the velvet slipper chair from her grandmother’s bedroom, her own double bed with the white spread all welcomed her, but the room was no longer hers. On the bureau, next to her three small china Battersea boxes, was Peter’s fat leather wallet, his noisy set of keys, small change, his maroon silk handkerchief. In the closet, next to her high-necked fragile white silk blouse, hung his dark suit, dense, heavy, full of weather and business, smoke and soot. What had she done, letting him into her life?
She undressed. Her nightgown was cotton, old and soft. Awaiting Peter’s anger, the nightgown seemed suddenly flimsy, poor protection. She should be wearing long underwear, ski socks, a wool hat.
Emma brushed her teeth and flossed them roughly, making her gums sting. The bathroom door was half open, and she watched for Peter. What if he came in and started packing? What if this had been the last straw? Was it over?
She brushed her hair, creamed her face and got into her side of the bed. She opened her book, then looked anxiously at the clock. It was so difficult, living with someone. What was he thinking, alone out there?
Emma remembered Peter as she had first seen him: moving through those big elegant rooms filled with friends. He had moved so smoothly, he had been so effortlessly in charge. Emma felt she could not measure up to that sort of life. She could not manage it. It was not in her to make a room like that, gold and scarlet, filled with glitter and conversation. Peter had chosen the wrong woman. It was not in her even to cook a simple dinner: she thought of the ghastly evening, the ruined meal. She could not tend to both Peter and Tess. She could not make this work.
When Peter came in Emma did not look up or speak. She stared intently at her book. Peter said nothing. From the corner of her eye Emma watched him moving about. Rereading the same sentence, she watched him undress. He stepped out of his pants and swung them smoothly upside down, twinning the cuffs neatly, aligning the legs, letting gravity create order before he hung the pants over the back of the chair.
There was nowhere else for him to hang them. Peter had no closet of his own here, no bureau. He had put a suit in the closet, and on top of the bureau in the closet was a small pile of clean things: underwear, a few shirts. He kept his dirty things in a discreet pile on the closet floor, bundling it under his arm and taking it away every week. Watching Peter’s careful gestures, Emma was reminded of his neatness, his thought-fulness, his courtesy. She shifted uncomfortably: she should have talked to Rachel when he moved in. She should have made things clear, given him a place in the household. She must do this. She would talk to Rachel tomorrow. But maybe it was too late, maybe he had already decided to leave.
Peter stood before the closet, unbuttoning his shirt. His hands moved fast, his eyes were lowered and angry.
Emma was afraid of him. Arguing with Peter made her feel shrill and insignificant. His view of things seemed ordered and real in a way hers was not. Emma felt she must keep him from discovering her incompetence, the fact that she might be worthless. She could only hope to do this by diversion, by charm or by anger: anything to keep his cold, level gaze away from her character.
Peter stepped over to the bed and lifted the covers on his side. “I think I’ll spend tomorrow night at my place,” he said.
“Fine,” said Emma, without looking up.
Peter got into bed without touching her. He picked up his book. The room became silent. Emma could hear the street noises from outside. It was still raining, and the cars below passed with rapid swishes.
It was a good idea, Emma told herself. A night off would be a relief for her as well. She could spend the evening with Tess, she could give her all her attention, without guilt. She lifted her chin and smoothed her hair back. Peter lay beside her in charged, resentful silence.
“Peter,” she said finally.
He turned, his expression cool.
“I can’t do everything in the evenings,” she said, “especially when I come home late. I’m sorry I burnt the dinner.” Her tone was unapologetic, challenging.
Peter snorted. “The dinner is the least of it.”
“What do you mean? What’s the worst of it?”
Peter put his book down. “I suppose the worst is that you make me feel like an outsider.”
“An outsider? What do you mean?”
“What am I doing here?” Peter said angrily, looking at the ceiling. “You make it clear that I have no place. You come in and rush around, talking to Rachel, reading to Tess, cooking dinner. I’m supposed to stay in one room, alone, all evening. I kept thinking, Why am I here? You don’t want me to talk to Rachel, you don’t want me to talk to Tess, and you don’t want me to talk to you. You didn’t even come back in to sit with me after you put Tess to bed.” He turned to her.
Emma said nothing, angry at his criticism, and hurt by his plan to spend the night elsewhere. His feelings for her were waning, he was disappointed by her.
Still, she had not thought of this from his point of view: Peter alone all evening, hearing
her in the kitchen with Rachel, watching her pass back and forth with Tess, her attention always elsewhere, pushing him away. The awful dinner. Unfriendly Rachel, competitive Tess. Emma felt ashamed. She stared at her book.
“Well?” said Peter. “Do you have nothing to say to me?”
Emma raised her head and looked at him. She did not know how to begin.
“Nothing?” said Peter, his voice angry, and he put his book down.
Emma closed her book and put it on the table. She reached out and put her hand on Peter’s shoulder. It was tense.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Of how it was for you.”
“Well, try,” Peter said crossly.
“I didn’t want to ask you to do anything,” Emma said, placatory. “I know you aren’t used to it.”
“What are you talking about?” Peter said. “What do you think I’m not used to? You think I’m used to carrying my dirty shirts in a bundle on the street? This is like a boardinghouse. I get bedroom privileges but no services. I pay half the rent, but Rachel acts as though I’m not here. She won’t say my name, and she looks right through me. Why don’t you ask her to take my things to the cleaners with yours? Am I on probation here?”
Emma now looked at him directly, abashed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think of that. It was just that I haven’t known exactly what to say to her.”
“What’s so hard about saying, ‘Will you take Peter’s clothes to the dry cleaners?’ Why is that so difficult?”
“No, I mean I don’t know what to say to her about why you’re here. Because of her church: she’s against divorce. And she won’t say my name either, it’s not just you.”
This Is My Daughter Page 12