“No?” said Peter. Everyone waited. Tess leaned forward.
“It’s called math, Daddy,” Amanda said, with exquisite condescension.
Peter shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said, “I’ve done it again. I’ve said the wrong thing.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Math,” he whispered sternly to himself. “Not arithmetic. Math. Math.”
Amanda allowed herself to giggle. “Why did you say ‘arithmetic’?” she asked, as though the word itself were absurd.
“Why did I?” Peter asked. He shook his head. “It’s hard to say. These things just come to me. Sometimes ‘arithmetic’ just jumps in front of another word I’m trying to say. It gets there first. Sometimes, in the morning, I ask for a cup of hot arithmetic.”
Both girls laughed out loud, and Tess looked at Amanda.
“A cup of hot arithmetic!” she said exuberantly, sharing the joke.
But at this, the notion that they were allies, Amanda quieted at once. Her face closed, and she looked down at her soup. Soberly she lifted a spoonful to her mouth.
Tess tried again. Her eyes fixed on Amanda, she laughed shrilly, hoping to recover the moment of shared hilarity.
Amanda ignored her; the moment was over, it was as though it had never been. Precisely she opened her mouth for her soup.
Tess watched her hopefully, but Amanda stared steadily in front of her, ignoring Tess, and Tess’s face fell.
Peter drank from his water glass, watching the girls from the corner of his eye. “I should have known that ‘arithmetic’ wasn’t what big girls would call it.”
Emma, watching, thought, He is so brave, he tries so hard. She looked at Amanda.
Amanda ignored them all. She chewed slowly, swallowed. She licked her lips, then wiped her mouth with icy hauteur. She turned to Tess. “Where’s your nanny?”
“My nanny?” asked Tess. She looked at Emma. “What is my nanny?”
“She means Rachel,” said Emma.
“My baby-sitter? My baby-sitter is Rachel. She’s not here. It’s her day off.”
Amanda stared. “Why do you call her your baby-sitter?”
“Because,” Tess said, nodding for emphasis on each word, “she, is, my, baby-sitter.”
Amanda raised her eyebrows and took another mouthful.
“Amanda has a nanny who looks after her,” Peter said. “Her name is Maeve.”
“I’ve always had her,” Amanda said. “Since I was born.”
“Maeve takes Amanda to school in the morning, and picks her up in the afternoon,” said Peter.
“That is like my baby-sitter,” Tess said happily. “The same which my baby-sitter does.”
“They’re different,” said Amanda loftily. “A nanny does more than that. She’s better than a baby-sitter.”
Emma hoped Amanda would not tell Tess that a playgroup was different from school. She tried to remember if Rachel had gone out or not. She hoped Rachel was not in her bedroom, ten feet away.
“A nanny isn’t better, Amanda,” Peter said. “Just different.”
Amanda shrugged her shoulders.
Tess leaned forward. “My baby-sitter is a brown. Is your nanny a brown?”
Amanda frowned. Emma, praying that Rachel was out, said, “Not a brown, Tess. Rachel is black.”
Tess shook her head stubbornly. “No, she is not black. Her skin is brown.” Tess pushed her chair back and stood up. “Come, I’ll show you.”
“No,” Emma said quickly, “it’s Rachel’s day off. We’ll let her have some time to herself.” She turned to Amanda, changing the subject at random. “Now, Amanda, do you have a birthday coming up soon?”
“May,” Amanda said to the air.
“My birthday is in May too,” Tess said, climbing back onto her chair.
“Is it?” Emma asked. “I thought your birthday was in August.”
“Yes,” said Tess. “Sometimes it is in June.”
“Tell us what you do on your birthday,” Emma said to Amanda.
“My mom takes us to the movies,” Amanda said. “And then afterward we come home and have cake and presents.”
“Presents?” Tess asked.
Amanda stared at her. “At birthday parties you have presents.”
Abashed, Tess tilted her head and said nothing.
“Remember at Samantha’s?” Emma said. “We took her a present.” Tess nodded.
“How old are you?” Amanda asked her.
“More than three,” Tess offered.
“Four?” asked Amanda.
Tess shook her head.
“She’s three,” Emma said. “Right, Tess? You’ll be four on your next birthday.”
“But I am more than three, because my three birthday is past,” said Tess anxiously.
“True,” said Emma. “You’re three and a half.”
“Three,” Amanda murmured to herself.
Troubled, Tess watched her.
“Amanda, are you being mean to Tess?” Peter asked suddenly.
Amanda twisted her head ambiguously, shrugging her shoulders. Emma stood.
“If you girls are through, let’s have the quiche.” She picked up their bowls. “Peter, will you bring in the salad?”
In the kitchen she said, “Don’t be too hard on her.”
“What is the matter with her?” Peter asked.
“It’s her first time seeing you here. It’s hard for her.”
“It’s hard for all of us.”
“She doesn’t like you living with another little girl.”
“Well, I do,” said Peter. “She has to get used to it.”
Emma pulled the tray from the oven, and without looking at him, said tentatively, “Maybe after lunch you should take her out somewhere with you. Maybe she’d like a walk in the park or something.”
Peter frowned. “A walk in the park? It’s about thirty degrees outside.”
“Or go to a museum, or something.”
“A museum. Dragging Amanda from room to room at the Whitney. That’d cheer her up, I’m sure. My God.” Peter put his hands on his hips. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want her here?”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Emma said guiltily. “It’s just that I think she’d like being alone with you.”
Peter laughed unpleasantly. “Are you kicking us out?”
“Of course not,” Emma said.
“Why can’t we stay here? I thought the girls could play a game together after lunch.”
Emma thought of Amanda’s surreptitious hand among the cards. “I just think Amanda would rather be alone with you,” she said, but she was retreating, she had lost.
“She has to get used to my life the way it is now,” Peter said. “This is where I live. I’m not spending the afternoon dragging her through the streets like a homeless person.”
Emma said nothing.
“Where do you want me to go?” Now he sounded not angry but desperate, and Emma reached out to him, smoothing his hair.
“Here,” she said, “stay here.”
In the dining room, the girls sat in silence. Tess gazed longingly at Amanda, who stared fixedly into the distance. Emma slid them each a neat wedge of quiche, its crusty surface crumpled and steaming.
“Now.” Peter sat down. “See if you can eat it without eating the tip first.” The girls looked at him. “Not the tip.”
“But I want to eat the tip first,” Tess said cheerfully.
“Right,” Peter said. “Everyone does. Try not to.”
Tess shook her head serenely. “I want to.” She picked up her fork and stabbed off the point of her piece, then ate it, watching Peter. “Mm,” she said. Peter and Emma laughed.
Amanda ignored her, picking up her fork and cutting the slice in half lengthwise. She took a bite from the outer portion.
“There you go,” said Peter. “That’s another way. Good for you, Nanna.”
Tess said suddenly, “My present!”
“What is it?” asked Emma.
“It
’s gone!” Tess’s voice was piercing. “Where is my present?” She put her head down on the table, then threw it back, banging it against her chairback. “It’s gone!”
“Stop it, Tess,” said Emma, getting up. “What are you talking about?” The package was not there.
“My present is gone,” wailed Tess. She squirmed in her chair. Emma squatted beside her, looking under Tess’s plate, beneath her mat. She looked under the table. The package was gone. Beside her Tess keened, her voice shrill, intolerable.
“Stop it,” Emma said, rattled. “It’s here somewhere. Stop whining.”
Peter looked under the table. “Where was it?”
“By her glass,” Emma said. “It’s got to be here. It was here when we sat down.”
“Where is my present?” Tess whimpered.
Amanda glanced sideways at her. She put her hands beneath her thighs and swung her legs under the table.
“We’ll find it, Tess,” said Emma. “Don’t worry. It’s here, it has to be.” She looked again under the table, as though she might have overlooked a bright pink package among the chair legs. Peter stood by Tess, frowning.
Emma picked up Tess’s plate, her mat. “Stand up for a second, Tess,” she said, “maybe you’re sitting on it.”
Tess slid off her chair. The seat was empty.
“It’s gone,” Tess said, collapsing into sobs. “It’s gone.”
The day, which she had so eagerly awaited, was ruined. This girl, the glamorous older girl who was to become her friend, would never be her friend. Tess had lost the card games. Amanda had been contemptuous of her age, her baby-sitter, her birthday. Amanda had mocked and ridiculed her. The day that had begun with such excitement had held nothing but disappointment, and now the one certain pleasure—the present from her mother—was gone.
“This is bizarre,” Emma said to Peter. “Where is it?”
Amanda picked up her water glass and drank lengthily.
“Amanda,” Peter said. He folded his arms, his mouth grim. Next to her small frame he looked suddenly very large.
“Amanda,” he said again, “do you know where Tess’s present is?”
There was a pause. Slowly Amanda shook her head. She did not look at him.
“Amanda,” Peter said, “look at me.”
After a moment she turned. She looked at him, her eyes hooded.
“Answer me,” Peter said, his face bleak. “Do you know where Tess’s present is?”
Amanda did not answer.
“Stand up,” he said.
Amanda deliberately turned away from him. She looked straight ahead. She picked up her spoon and dropped it lightly, negligently, on her mat.
Tess, next to Emma, slid down against her mother’s leg. She collapsed onto the floor and began to cry in earnest. “Ssh, Tess,” Emma said. She was watching Peter.
Peter leaned over Amanda, took her by the shoulder; this time his grip was not proud, not loving. Amanda twisted away from her father’s hand, her face darkening angrily.
Emma almost spoke, almost stepped forward to stop him. Peter was too angry, too powerful, to confront this small child. But Emma had her own small child, smaller, wailing with despair against her leg. She saw again Amanda’s hand slipping the cards out of sight, heard her low voice spurning each of Tess’s innocent offerings. Emma felt her own heart tighten, her own chest rise angrily. Her throat felt hot and swollen. Her own child lay weeping on the floor.
“Stand up,” said Peter. His voice was terrible.
Nothing could save Amanda now. It will never work, thought Emma. In that long instant before Amanda reluctantly stood, it felt to Emma like the last moment on top of a ski run, when you pause, thrilled, terrified, your heart sinking inside you. You see before you the endless icy slope, descending, descending. You realize now, clearly, that it is too steep. You see that certain disaster waits below, but you are there, at the top, it is too late to change, to stop, you know that, it is just before you begin the long swoop down it, as you must.
10
“Here goes,” Peter said, opening the car door.
Outside in the summer evening there was silence, broken only by a quiet shore breeze. The sandy driveway ended in an open space, casually ringed by Cape Cod underbrush. A path led through it to the house, set in a stand of tall spare pines. Beyond it were the high dunes.
“You’re very brave,” Emma said, climbing out and opening the back door. Tess, in her car seat, squirmed to be set free.
“I am.” Tess nodded, looking solemn. “Why am I?”
“Not you,” said Emma, unbuckling her. “Peter.”
“Had to happen sometime,” said Peter, opening the trunk.
“Why is Peter brave?” asked Tess, held her arms out for release. Emma freed and lifted her without answering.
“Here we are, Tessie,” Emma said. “Gonny and Grandfather will be so glad to see you.”
“Yes,” Tess agreed.
It was just past sunset. On the rippling dune grass, the scrub pines, the laurel and bayberry bushes, was the light open darkness that settles along the ocean. Emma led the way, moving by feel and by feet’s memory, up the sandy path, brushing through the bayberry leaves with their sweet coarse tang, past the bare-trunked, rough-barked pines. The house lay along a low ridge like an ocean liner, long and mysterious, its windows radiant.
“Have I got everything?” Peter asked suddenly, from behind her. “Two suitcases and a baby bag?”
“That’s it,” said Emma, carrying only Tess.
He was nervous, after all, she thought: this was the first he had shown it. Answering him, she did not turn her eyes from the house. She walked toward it, holding it in her gaze as though to lose sight of it would mean stumbling.
In the quiet summer darkness, the front hall was like a stage set, vivid and brilliant against the shadows. The big front door stood open, and coming up the path Emma could see her parents waiting inside.
Emma’s father, Everett Kirkland, taught economics at MIT. He was tall, with a broad barrel chest and a curved powerful nose. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and commanding eyebrows. He stood very straight, with his head tilted slightly backward and his chin slightly raised. The lift of his jaw gave a diagonal slant to his gaze; he seemed to look down on other people, even if they were exactly the same height.
Emma’s mother, Aline, was also tall, but slightly stooped. She leaned anxiously forward, her shoulders hunched. Her eyes were blue, her cheeks full and pink. She had a small sweet bow-shaped mouth, and fine light straying hair. They were in their mid-sixties; both wore khaki pants, blue sneakers, sweaters.
A ship’s lantern hung directly overhead, casting deep shadow on their faces. They had heard the car, and now stood side by side, motionless, poised, like actors before the curtain rises. Approaching through the darkness were their divorced daughter, her divorced lover, her daughter by another man. They disapproved of all of this.
Emma pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. “Hello there,” she said.
“My Gonny! I am here to see you!” shouted Tess, holding out her arms and launching herself through the air toward her grandmother. Emma turned to her father.
“Hello, Daddy,” she said. Her father put one hand lightly on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. His skin, set briefly against hers, felt dry and lined.
“Hello, Emma,” her father said. “Hello, Tess.” He turned courteously to Peter, who was struggling with the suitcases against the screen door’s stubborn closing tug. “Here,” said Emma’s father, stepping forward, “let me give you a hand.”
“Oh, that awful door, I’m sorry,” said Emma’s mother in a worried undertone. She spoke as though the door were an old enemy, a foot soldier in the army of things that continually assaulted her.
“Hello, Mr. Kirkland,” Peter said, finally inside. He set the suitcases down and stepped forward to shake hands.
“Daddy, this is Peter,” said Emma, anxious. “My father, Everett Kirkland.” They stoo
d face-to-face. They were the same height: it surprised her, though she didn’t know whom she had thought was taller. Peter looked directly into her father’s eyes.
“And this is my Gonny,” said Tess, loud and excited, patting Mrs. Kirkland’s shoulder hard.
“It’s so nice to see you, Peter,” said Mrs. Kirkland, nodding and smiling. With Tess still in her arms, she held out an awkward left hand to him.
“Hello, Mrs. Kirkland. It’s so nice of you to have me here,” Peter said, giving a friendly shake. He seemed entirely at ease.
“Well, we’re delighted,” said Mrs. Kirkland. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
This was not true; Emma had said little about Peter to her parents.
Peter nodded politely again. “And I about you,” he said, which was more truthful. “It’s a great pleasure to be here.”
Emma, watching them, saw that it would be all right. With Warren it had been different: Warren charmed, he didn’t stand his ground. He had never stood eye to eye with her father; instead, he had slid dexterously into the role of adopted son. He had been playfully flirtatious toward Emma’s mother; Gonny had been his nickname for her. He had formed a male alliance with Mr. Kirkland. Warren teased Emma outrageously in front of him, claiming that she was shamefully lazy, hopelessly antisocial, a terrible cook. Emma’s father was too remote and ponderous to tease, but Warren’s sallies amused him. For Emma it was reassuring to feel that the two men were allies. It meant she would never feel torn between them. It also meant she could never challenge Warren, for if she challenged her father’s ally, she was also challenging her father.
Now, seeing Peter’s calm eye on Everett, Emma felt things shifting. Assessments were being made, measures taken. Peter would never play the adopted son, he would never curry favor. He would never take Everett’s side against Emma. This was, unexpectedly, exhilarating, and Warren’s wheedling partnership seemed now adolescent. But it was also unnerving, for if Peter and her father were not allies, with whom did her allegiance lie?
Emma turned to her mother. “Will you keep Tess while we take things upstairs? Is Peter in the end room?”
This Is My Daughter Page 14