When he did call, his voice was jovial and paternal. “Emma!”
“Hello, Warren,” she answered, cool.
“You called me,” he said.
She could see him, half-smiling into the air, his chin lifted. Warren often closed his eyes, in a supercilious way, when he talked on the phone. When he did this it wasn’t so he could concentrate on the conversation, it was to demonstrate that he could do this with his eyes closed.
“Right,” said Emma. “I just wanted to tell you some news. Peter and I are getting married. I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“Ah-hah?” said Warren. She could almost hear him closing his eyes. “Well, congratulations. Or, no, you don’t say that to women, do you. That would make it sound as if the blushing bride had achieved a strategic victory, instead of being the passive and innocent prize which a woman always is.”
“Right,” said Emma.
“It’s the man you say congratulations to, on his great good fortune. On attaining his prize.”
“Right,” said Emma again, testy.
“And of course, I know what a prize you are,” Warren said.
“I’m not going to fight with you, Warren,” Emma said.
“I hope you’re very happy,” said Warren, his voice loud and artificial. “I really do. I mean that.”
“Thank you,” Emma said.
There was a pause.
She said gently, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for us, Warren. I still feel bad.” She closed her eyes: she knew exactly how he looked. She knew what his gesture would be, brushing his hair off his face with his first two fingers, like a salute. She knew the smell of his skin, how it felt to hold him, where he was ticklish. It was inconceivable that she should be separate from him: she knew him.
“Why?” Warren asked, loudly. “Look, we’ve learned something, we’re moving on. Much better this way. You’ve done us both a favor, that’s how I see it.”
“Don’t be so pleased,” Emma said. “You act as though it was wonderful that we got divorced.”
“Emma, you left me. I think it was a mistake. I think you’ve never made a worse mistake. But I’m moving on. I’m moving on. I’m not going to weep every time you call me up, and I’m certainly not going to weep every time you ask me to. The time for you to expect me to tell you how I love you is past.”
There was a silence.
“You’re right,” she said. “Okay. The wedding will be the eighteenth of September. So if you can mark that on your calendar, I’ll want Tess that weekend.”
“The eighteenth of September. Great,” Warren repeated, slowly, as though he were writing it down. “Got it. Done. No problemo.”
Emma did not believe he was writing it down. “Do you want me to send you a fax or something?” she asked, “so you have the date on your calendar?”
“No, I’ve got it,” Warren said. “Great. Great. Look, I’m very happy for you but I’ve got to go. The senator will be here in two and a half minutes. I’ll talk to you. Congratulations.” He hung up.
It was different for Peter. He thought it would be unkind and cavalier to tell Caroline over the telephone, so he took her to dinner. They went to her favorite restaurant, Lutèce. It was dreadful.
Peter reserved a table in the garden room at the back, with the skylight, and the trellising on the walls. The French waiters bustled bossily about them. Surrounded by this—the soft light, the flowers, the heavy starched linen, the big transparent goblets—by the sense of great luxury, and the absolute conviction of its importance, Caroline glowed.
She wore a silk suit he had never seen, a deep black-green. Her skin was creamy, her hair immaculate. She wore her pearls, the necklace and earrings. She glittered with a sort of terrifying glamour. She held herself very straight, more formal than the waiters. She frowned at the menu, scanning it seriously, as though food were the important issue.
When their drinks came, Peter lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
He meant the dinner to be friendly, understanding, a farewell to their marriage, after the rage had passed.
But Caroline raised her glass and answered, “Cheers!” in a very different tone warm, expectant.
They both drank, then set their glasses down. And Peter, who had been so certain of the need to do this, did not now know how to proceed.
“You look terrific,” he said, as an opener.
“Thanks,” Caroline said lightly, pleased. She took a long sip of her vermouth. She smiled at him. “You too. Maybe this was a good idea.”
There was something complicitous about her tone; did she understand what was happening? Did she think he was considering something besides remarriage? And what was it she thought was a good idea—their splitting up, or having dinner together? But he didn’t want to ask her, didn’t want to engage her in this conversation, didn’t want to make intimate forays into her mind. He wondered why he had been so determined to do this. The black-green suit, he realized, was new. She had gone to the hairdresser for this. His heart sank.
“How’s Amanda?” he asked. Caroline’s face changed at once. Reserved and cool, she shrugged her shoulders. She took a long sip.
“You know, this has been very hard on her,” she answered. “She’s having trouble at school.”
Peter frowned at his drink. This was worse than the complicity. “Amanda has always had trouble at school.”
“Not like this,” Caroline said smoothly.
Peter sighed. “What’s the problem?”
“She may be cheating on tests,” Caroline said.
“Cheating?”
Caroline nodded. “It’s not uncommon, apparently. During a divorce.”
“Is that what the school said?” Peter asked.
She nodded.
“Who did you talk to?”
“The counselor. A psychologist.”
Peter shook his head. “When I was at school there were no psychologists. There were no counselors. There were teachers, and there was us.”
“And there was no divorce,” said Caroline. She spread her hand onto the tablecloth. Her fingers were long and smooth, elegant. The nails glistened pinkly.
Peter looked down at his menu. “Are you ready to order?” Caroline nodded. “What would you like?” A waiter, arrogant, impeccable, paused beside them.
Unexpectedly, Caroline smiled at Peter, dimpling like a child. “You know what I like,” she said. “I always have the same thing here.” She waited for Peter to laugh. He did; he had forgotten.
The first time they had come here together, Caroline had been taking French lessons. Each week she spent an earnest hour at Berlitz. That evening, at Lutèce, she had tried out her new language on their waiter. She wanted chicken breasts, and asked carefully for them in French. She had looked it up in her dictionary before they went out. “Je voudrais des seins de poulet, s’il vous plait,” she said meticulously: chicken bosoms. The French waiter had been outraged, as they always were, by everything. Peter and Caroline were, he felt, barbarous, uncivilized. It crossed his mind, they could see, to call the maître d’hôtel and let him deal with this unpardonable behavior. Peter and Caroline, who hadn’t then understood his outrage, had looked at each other and begun to laugh. There had been something exilharating about outfacing the waiter at Lutèce. Remembering, Peter felt a shadow of that triumphant alliance; it saddened him.
But now Caroline smiled broadly, and after they had ordered she leaned forward and took the heavy napkin from the table, spreading it on her silken lap. The suit was V-necked, and the dark green set off the milky skin of her throat. She moved her shoulders, and spread out her long fingers, so he would notice them.
“I had lunch with Marella Compton last week,” she said, beginning a gossipy anecdote.
Peter listened, curious in spite of himself. Being with Caroline he was back again in the world he had lived in for the last decade, among the people he was used to seeing. Emma’s friends were fewer, less close-knit, and he was only beginning to know them. Al
so Emma gossiped less. He admired this, but it made for less interesting dinners.
“Harrison wanted it both ways,” said Caroline. “He wanted to stay friends with Frank Bailey and have an affair with his wife. So he asked Frank to lunch to talk it over.”
“And what did Frank do?”
“He stood up in the middle of lunch at the Century and said ‘Fuck you’ to Harrison and walked out.”
“Good for him,” Peter said, laughing. Caroline smiled, and sipped complacently at her drink.
But this was wrong, Peter thought. He was trying to separate himself from her, not to fall into this camaraderie. And though Caroline’s gossip had a ghastly attraction, he always felt grimy listening to it. One of his partners at work was like Caroline, always putting his head inside the door to tell Peter something he felt afterward he shouldn’t really want to know. He talked about bad behavior, episodes that made you dislike everyone concerned. He delighted in them, and couldn’t wait to spread them around. Peter felt it undignified to listen, low; but still, when he saw the man, a part of him quickened with interest.
Without gossip, though, it was hard to know where to direct the conversation: it was Caroline’s main subject, her preoccupation. Peter wondered what Emma was doing now. He pictured her reading to Tess, sitting cross-legged in bed, a plate of inedible food in her lap. A heap of roast beef hash from a can, burned black on the bottom, a pool of rancid ketchup beside it on the plate. Emma had no sense of food. He wondered if this were hereditary, or whether she might have turned out normally if she had been brought up among people who took eating seriously. Perhaps it was genetic, perhaps there was a food gene missing from her double helix. He thought of her father, wolfing down sandwiches like a fierce old crow. He thought of her father, out sailing, Emma’s worries about his shouting. He hadn’t shouted that day, in fact he’d barely raised his voice. He’d been excessively polite with Peter.
When the food arrived, Caroline was talking about Amanda, a summer program she’d heard about: French and tennis lessons. Christ, Peter thought. Where was playing in the sand? What had happened to kites? Jump ropes?
“Betsy Edgerton told me about it,” Caroline said with authority. “It’s supposed to be very good.” She sounded as though she and Peter were still a couple, still partners. As she talked she flashed her long pale fingers. She was vain about her hands; they were beautiful. She was still wearing her engagement ring, he saw: his grandmother’s old-fashioned diamond. She saw him look at it, and held her hand up, displaying it elegantly. She batted her eyelashes at him, teasing, mock sultry.
“I’m not giving it up,” she said.
Peter frowned. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s going to Amanda. It’s hers.”
Peter frowned again. “Amanda is seven.”
“You don’t need it,” Caroline said. “Why would you want it? You’re not going to give some other woman the ring you gave me. Another woman wouldn’t wear it.”
It was true; still, he wanted his grandmother’s ring. When he had given it to Caroline it had seemed a gift. Now it seemed so obviously, unarguably a loan: his grandmother’s ring! It belonged to his family, it was his heritage. There were two of them, actually: they had been made from a pair of diamond earrings. His father and his uncle had each inherited one: a faceted diamond set within a circling band of enamel. His ring had dark green enamel, his uncle’s was dark blue. Caroline had been rather patronizing about the ring.
“You never even liked it,” Peter said. “You didn’t like the enamel.”
“I think it’s charming,” Caroline answered. “What are you talking about? I’ve always loved it.” She held her hand out again, admiring the ring, her slender fingers. She looked up at him again, smiling. She lowered her head in a charming, provocative way. “We haven’t had so much fun in years,” she said, arching her eyebrows.
This was going very badly. Peter wondered suddenly if anyone they knew was at the restaurant. Were they being seen together? Did it look as though he was flirting with his ex-wife? Caroline leaned back, using her shoulders, displaying her throat, arraying herself against the chair.
Peter put down his knife and fork. He set his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. “What I wanted to tell you,” he said, “is that Emma and I are getting married.”
Caroline said nothing. She looked at him.
“That’s why I asked you to have dinner.”
Caroline took a swallow from her wineglass.
“I wanted to tell you myself,” Peter said, hoping for some credit. “I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”
Caroline still said nothing, and looked down at her plate. To his horror he saw tears in her eyes. She picked up her fork and began to pick dismally at her chicken. The tears began slowly to roll down the pale slopes of her cheeks.
“Caroline,” Peter said anxiously, “Caroline.”
Caroline put down her fork. She leaned back in her chair, careless now of her neck, her shoulders, her long white fingers. She leaned back haphazardly, like a monarch deposed, nothing left to lose. She stared directly out at him, her eyes level, tears brimming, rolling steadily down her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away. She folded her arms across her beautiful silk jacket and stared at him.
“You shit,” she said levelly.
“Caroline,” Peter said. He felt uncomfortably aware of the other people around them. Caroline was not behaving discreetly. Her chin was raised, her face was gleaming with tears. She stared steadily at him. The waiter came near, hovered disapprovingly, went on.
“Caroline,” Peter said again.
Caroline said nothing more. She stared at him without answering or moving. Peter, receiving no response to any of his entreaties or questions, including those about dessert or coffee, finally called for the waiter and asked for the check. Caroline went on weeping as they stood up. Waves of tears followed each other down her face, without pause. She preceded him through the rooms of Lutèce, making her way among the linen-covered tables, the vases of flowers, the candles, weeping, her face raised like a glistening beacon. Around them people looked discreetly up at her, then looked away, then looked up again at him, wondering what sort of cruel husband this beautiful woman had, to have brought her to this state of misery.
Threading his way through the tables, Peter said nothing either. He felt ambushed: what he had meant was kindness. He had tried to be kind, but perhaps there were no kindnesses left to him. Perhaps the one great unkindness to Caroline made all his smaller gestures to her null, forever. He was a villain, she had declared it. He had ruined her life.
Peter said good night to the maître d’hôtel, who smiled formally. He bowed his head crisply. They both ignored the weeping woman.
Peter stood on the sidewalk with Caroline, watching for a taxi. She stood very straight, her head high. Her crying was now audible; she sniffed. She would not look at him. It was chilly. He felt the wind on his chest, through his shirt. He should have brought a coat. He stared out into the dark. It had not been Caroline’s fault. It had been he who had changed. She was the person she’d always been. He had declared he wanted her, then changed his mind. How could he defend it?
A black woman, homeless, walked slowly toward them. She pushed a supermarket trolley, piled high with bulky mounds. From its handlebar swung plastic bags, stuffed full. What would you take with you, when you moved at last onto the street, he wondered. Only useful things, bedding, coats, if you had to push everything you owned, you abandoned sentiment. Not even a toilet kit: where would you use a toothbrush? The terrible meanness of such a life struck him, the humiliation of being always dirty, the fear of being always vulnerable. The woman wore a stained gray overcoat, long and filthy. It hung open down the front. She felt Peter’s gaze on her, turned, muttering, and stared straight at him. Her face was round and lined, the forehead ridged, the eyeballs white and bulging. Her look was so direct, so full of dark and liquid hatred, that Peter turne
d away. Beside him on the sidewalk the woman he had married wept openly.
Should he relent, go back to Caroline? Would that stop her weeping? But at the thought, he saw his life spread out sickeningly before him, a gray misery. He would never go back to her.
He held the thought of Emma, waiting for him, her bright clear face. He hoped that this—she—was not a mistake. He hoped she was truly what he wanted, the person who would make him happy, the one he could make happy too. He knew Emma was stubborn, tense, censorious; she was also kind, scrupulous, thoughtful. How could you tell which things were important? He believed that he loved her. He thought of her vivid slanting eyes, her smooth body.
Beside him, Caroline shook with sobs. She became larger, more splendid, as she cried. Her body straightened regally, gave off heat. There was something sumptuous and magnificent about this, the plenitude of the tears, their infinite supply, their liquid, gleaming fullness. They would never stop, it seemed.
If this were a mistake, his marrying Emma, he was done for, Peter thought. He would never go through a divorce again.
12
On the day of the wedding Emma woke early. Peter had spent the night at the new apartment, at her superstitious request, and Emma was alone in her bedroom for the last time. The room was still dark when she opened her eyes. The small electronic clock by her bedside, mysteriously lit by a dim greenish glow, said 5:42. Nothing moved on the clock face, there was no narrow golden wand, sweeping grandly and endlessly toward the next moment. Instead, the cool neon number was fixed and immutable, as though this precise moment, 5:42, were the only minute this clock would ever acknowledge. Emma, lying alone in her bed in the dark morning, on the morning of her second marriage, felt she watched the only minute in all of time. The clock gave no reason to hope for 5:43, no reason to remember 5:41. This was all there was. As Emma watched, the neon lines suddenly shifted, the configuration changing too swiftly to follow. The moment was past.
The clock now declared silently and immutably that the time was 5:43. Emma was one minute closer to her wedding. She could feel it drawing nearer to her, she felt the tremors of a nearly audible rumble. The Wedding: it seemed large, ornate, shimmering white, unreliable, terrifying and unnatural, like a coach made from a pumpkin. It was coming toward her from the distance, growing larger as it approached. Slowly and inexorably it was blotting out the rest of the horizon, the landscape, the rest of Emma’s life. It would roll right over her, she could see that; it would engulf her, subsume her. It was her doing, but it was now out of her control. It had grown larger than she, and unstoppable. By the end of that same day she would once again be coupled, paired, someone’s wife. The Wedding, shuddering, creaking, shedding bits of finery and dropping flowers, would have overtaken her and then lumbered by. It would then be behind her, in the quiet past forever, and she would again be married.
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