Anna glanced sideways at Edward. He was chewing steadily, his eyes fixed unforgivingly away from her, his expression angry. He set his knife and fork to one side with a final gesture. He had not finished what was on his plate. Anna, looking down, saw the tidy heap of food that he denied himself. He folded his hands meekly on the table.
Anna looked down at her own plate, the slivers of soft pink meat. What she was eating was lamb, killed for her dinner. What right had she to judge anyone?
Anna thought of Edward in the silent woods with his father, Edward setting out in the early morning with his small daughter. She thought of him now, out in the field, toiling up the long, deadly hillsides, struggling upward against the heavy earth, his breath unsteady, his heart knocking ominously. Each thump inside the cavern of his chest like that brisk morning knock, loud, alarming, reminding him relentlessly of the time.
Looking now directly at Edward, his craggy profile, his pink skin, Anna saw again the image of the other man. Opinions, the tyrannical raised finger, the outrage: all that was only part of the man. There were other parts, and she, Anna, was not his judge. Now the thing she’d been dreading, this rising feeling, had caught up with her at last, it rose up to her throat. Here she was, with another old man, fragile, soon to die. Here she was beside him, angry, arrogant, judgmental. Here she was, rigid and intolerant, shameful, worse than he.
Edward’s speckled hand rested, next to Anna, in a loose fist on the linen tablecloth. For the third time that evening, Anna broke the rules, this time the worst of all. Embarrassing Tim, Nina, everyone who watched, most of all Edward, Anna placed her hand on top of his, pressing the frail breadth of it beneath her palm, feeling its warmth, covering his dry, wrinkled fingers with her own.
“Forgive me,” she said.
Family Restaurant
Susan pushed open the door to the restaurant and stepped into its steamy warmth, Vanessa close behind her. The big windows made the room bright with winter sun, and the air was dense with the cheerful smoke of grilling hamburgers. The brisk teenage waitresses wore blue-and-white-checked uniforms and carried jaunty white handkerchiefs in their breast pockets.
“Hello.” A red-haired girl in rubber-soled nurse’s shoes squeaked up to them. She held two big plastic-covered menus and smiled at Susan. She smiled more widely when she saw Vanessa, who was five. “Hi there!” she said. Vanessa shrank behind her mother’s coat and did not answer.
“Can I seat you?” the waitress asked Susan.
But Susan had caught sight of Matthew, his hand raised in a slow wave, in a booth at the back of the room.
“Thanks, we’ll sit with our friends,” she said, smiling first politely at the waitress and then, differently, truly, at Matthew. She took Vanessa’s hand and began threading her way through the tables. They edged along slowly, encumbered by their puffy winter coats. Their coats matched—bright blue quilted down parkas, three-quarter length, with hoods. Their faces matched too—long-jawed and thin, with dark eyes framed by straight brown hair.
“Who are our friends, Mommy?” Vanessa asked in a clear voice. “Mommy, who are our friends?”
“I told you, Nessie. Matthew, Mr. Sloan, and his daughter, Hilary. Those are our friends.”
“But are they our friends?” Vanessa asked, conscientious. “Is Hilary my friend, Mommy? I don’t know Hilary.”
“But after today you’ll know her,” said Susan, “and then you’ll be friends.”
Matthew smiled as they approached. He had hooded blue eyes, long, lined cheeks, and a fading hairline. One eyebrow was arched, the other straight; there was something crooked about the set of his jaw. His blue plaid flannel shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Sitting next to him was a little girl, older than Vanessa. She looked not at all like Matthew; her face was round, and her light brown hair was curly. She wore red pants and a dark blue turtle-neck sweater. Her hands were quiet in her lap, but under the table her legs were swinging. Her heels thudded against the padded base. Expressionless, she watched Susan and Vanessa approach.
Susan and Vanessa reached the booth and stopped. “Hi there,” Susan said to Matthew. She started to lean across Hilary to kiss Matthew but checked herself and gave him a wave instead.
“Hi, lovey,” Matthew said. He blew Susan a friendly kiss.
Susan looked down at Hilary, still smiling, and put out her hand. “Hello, Hilary,” she said. “I’m Susan Walker.”
Hilary looked up at Susan. She had slid her hands beneath her thighs, and her legs were still swinging. Hilary said nothing; there was a pause. Hilary’s feet thudded raggedly against the padded base. Susan stood, smiling, waiting, her hand still outstretched. The pause grew.
Finally Matthew spoke. “Hilary, say hello to Mrs. Walker, please.”
“Hello,” Hilary said, neutral. She looked away at once and rocked sideways, shifting her weight from one hand to the other.
“Hilary. Say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Walker,’ please,” Matthew said, irritated. “Shake Mrs. Walker’s hand.”
Hilary drew her shoulders up sharply to her ears and ducked her head. She blinked and did not answer. Matthew waited, his mouth tightening. He drew in his breath to speak, but as he did, Susan shook her head at him quickly and drew back her hand.
“This is Vanessa, Hilary,” Susan said, still cheerful. She put her hands on Vanessa’s small shoulders and moved her like an obedient doll, shuffling her sideways until Vanessa was squarely in front of the girl who might become her sister. “Vanessa, this is Hilary Sloan.”
The two girls looked at each other. Vanessa’s gaze was bold and unblinking, Hilary’s wary, reserved. Hilary turned away from the younger girl and picked up her water glass. She began to drink from it.
“Hello,” Vanessa said bravely. Hilary closed her eyes, deeply absorbed in swallowing. She made tiny, audible pumping noises.
“Hi, Vanessa,” Matthew said. He winked, and gave her a long arcing wave. She smiled.
“Vanessa, you remember Matthew, Mr. Sloan,” Susan said.
“Hello,” Vanessa said again, her voice high as a bird’s. She looked back at Hilary. Hilary set her glass down and intently considered it. She did not look at Vanessa.
“Okay, Nessie, let’s take off our things,” Susan said, brisk. She shrugged herself out of her own coat and set its bulky presence in the corner of the booth. Stooping, she unzipped Vanessa’s coat. Under it was a white cotton jersey with a scalloped neck, which covered the brief, innocent slope of the chest, and worn pink corduroy overalls, which presided over the long, rounded belly. Susan turned Vanessa gently from side to side as she pulled off the coatsleeves. As her shoulders twisted, Vanessa’s head stayed fixed, uninvolved with the movement, like a marionette. She stared steadily and silently at Hilary.
Susan slid first across the seat, settling into the corner, against her coat. Matthew, opposite her, held out both his hands. Susan took them: his hands were warm, and gripped hers hard. She smiled at him and tightened her own grip. She withdrew her hands and turned to Vanessa.
Vanessa was sliding slowly sideways along the seat after her mother. In the steamy warmth of the restaurant her skin had begun to glisten faintly, and the fine hair at her temples broke into tiny fragile ringlets. Her head stayed level as she moved, like a snake charmer’s, and she did not blink. She stared at Hilary. Hilary set her chin on her fists and looked at the next booth.
Vanessa leaned forward over the tabletop, toward the older girl. “I can zipper my hood,” she announced confidently, as though she had performed a miraculous trick.
Hilary’s face changed from blank to condescending. She gave Vanessa a faint, superior smile and turned to look up at her father. But Matthew would not meet her gaze and looked instead at Vanessa.
“Can you?” he asked encouragingly. “Zipper it right up?”
Vanessa nodded slowly. “All the way,” she said, proud.
Hilary stopped smiling and looked back at her water glass. She frowned
at it with concentration, and rubbed her finger around its rim. Matthew patted her knee under the table and smiled at her, but she did not look up.
Hilary looked back at Vanessa and finally spoke, her tone hostile. “How old are you?”
Instantly Vanessa held up a wide open hand, palm front, like a traffic policeman’s. The small pointed fingers spread out like a moist pink star.
“She’s five,” Susan explained. Vanessa gave her a stern look.
“I’m telling, Mommy.”
“Okay, Nessa,” Susan said, and she smiled complicitly at Hilary.
But Hilary did not acknowledge the smile. She drank again from her water glass, her face aloof.
Vanessa, emboldened by Hilary’s question, leaned forward. “How old are you?” she asked Hilary. “Put out your hand. You can put out your hand to show.”
Hilary tucked her hands beneath her thighs. Her eyes were hooded, her brows lofty. “I’m eight,” she said, reproving, and Vanessa stared respectfully.
Their waitress arrived. She was short, with a round flat face and a wild froth of brown hair. She gave them a professional smile and pulled her pad out of her apron pocket. She held her pencil hovering over the pad.
“Are we all ready to order?” she asked. Her voice was full of false solicitude, like a nurse’s.
They were not ready. Their menus were still flat in front of them, the heavy plastic covers bonding stickily with the table-top. Susan picked hers up and held it so that Vanessa could see it—out of courtesy, as Vanessa could not read.
“Do you need some help,” Matthew asked Hilary, “or do you know what you want?”
Hilary gave him a withering look and turned to the waitress.
“Grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich, french fries, and vanilla milkshake,” she rattled off. The waitress wrote, nodding.
“What about you, Ness?” Susan said, scanning the menu. “Do you know what you want?”
Vanessa spoke with her eyes fixed on Hilary. “Grilled cheese and sandwich tomato, french fries, and—what?” Unable to finish, she turned to her mother.
“Vanilla milkshake?” Susan suggested.
Vanessa nodded, pleased. She leaned onto the table and raised herself up, leaning on her elbows, kneeling on the seat.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Susan asked doubtfully. “Remember, you had a milkshake before and it was too sweet? What if you have a glass of milk instead, and you can try some of Hilary’s milkshake.” Susan smiled at Hilary, who did not smile back.
“No,” Vanessa said indignantly. She straightened, crossing her arms on her chest. As she spoke she nodded hard and definitively on each word. “No, Mommy. I, want, a, vanilla, milkshake.” Her voice was loud.
“Don’t raise your voice, please,” said Susan, irritated. She looked at the menu again. “All right,” she said, looking up at the waitress, “And a vanilla milkshake too.”
When they had all chosen, the waitress stuck her pad and pencil in her shiny apron pocket and squeaked off. Matthew leaned back in his corner, his legs crossed easily under the table. He sighed comfortably and smiled at Susan.
“So,” he said, “how are you?”
Susan smiled. “A bit frazzled.”
“You don’t look frazzled,” he said. He reached out and stroked the hair away from her forehead, following the line of her face and briefly cupping the curve of her chin. “Actually, you look very nice.”
Susan smiled but moved her chin out of his hand. Vanessa, watching, pushed closer to her mother. She kneeled sideways on the seat and patted her mother’s shoulder with both hands. Still talking to Matthew, Susan patted Vanessa’s knee.
“And how are you?” Susan asked him. “How did the meeting go? Did they like the plans?”
“The wife did,” Matthew said. “The husband didn’t.”
Vanessa went on patting her mother’s shoulder, the urgency increasing. “Mom-my, Mom-my,” she said in a singsong voice. Susan flashed a smile toward her and patted her knee again, before turning back to Matthew.
“Again?” Susan said. “Do you think the husband likes the wife?”
“I’m beginning to wonder,” Matthew said. “This house may not get built.”
Vanessa breathed urgently into her mother’s ear. “Mom-my, Mom-my, Mom-my.” Her voice grew louder with each word.
“What is it, sweetie?” Susan turned to her. There was annoyance in her voice, and Vanessa looked abashed. She dropped her head at once on Susan’s shoulder. Susan put her hand under Vanessa’s chin, cupping it, lifting her daughter’s head. “What is it? Don’t interrupt, sweetie, unless it’s important.” Vanessa ducked her head again, hiding her mouth against the inside of her arm. She stared silently at her mother. “Vanessa, what is it? If you have something to ask me, then ask me.”
There was a pause. Vanessa’s face was aggrieved, and she said nothing until Susan turned away and started again to speak to Matthew. Then Vanessa leaned over and put her mouth to Susan’s ear. Susan tilted her head, listening. She patted Vanessa’s shoulder and smiled at her sideways.
“That’s right,” she said gently. “Vanilla is the white one. Chocolate is the brown. Vanilla is the one you like. Okay?”
Vanessa nodded. She sat down on the seat again, facing front, and turned back to Hilary.
Hilary was now leaning forward nonchalantly, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. She was watching a couple at the table across the aisle. Vanessa, following her gaze, settled herself in the same pose. She stared sternly at the other couple, periodically glancing sideways at Hilary.
Across the aisle was a table for two, with a man and a woman at it. They were vast, mountainous, with cascading chins. The slopes of their bellies echoed one another on each side of the table. Their feet planted solidly on the floor, they ate steadily, not talking. As the girls watched, the man paused, his fork still in one hand. With the other hand he lifted his glass of foaming milkshake. He held the glass up daintily, his little finger raised in a fastidious, arrogant gesture.
Vanessa watched, fascinated.
“Don’t stare,” Susan said to her quietly. Vanessa ignored her, and Susan touched the small shoulder. “Don’t stare, Vanessa,” she repeated. “It’s not polite.”
Vanessa’s look did not waver, but her small index finger stabbed briefly in Hilary’s direction. “She is,” she said irrefutably.
Susan turned to Matthew, but he was absorbed in reading his place mat. Susan hesitated and then said briskly, “Hilary, please don’t stare. It’s not polite.”
Hilary did not answer. She gave Susan a long, speculative look, then turned back to the fat man. She gazed steadily and openly at him, glancing sideways from time to time at Susan.
Susan did not look at Hilary again. She cleared the silverware off her own place mat. It was paper, with scalloped edges and a host of cartoon images of planets. Susan scanned a swarm of facts about Mars. Ceremonially, Vanessa picked up her water glass in both hands. Raising it solemnly to her mouth, she began to gulp; the half-melted ice cubes kissed randomly at her lips. Both her little fingers stuck out grandly, at right angles, into the air.
“Don’t do that, Vanessa,” Susan said quietly. Vanessa turned, looking at her through the bottom of the glass. She raised her eyebrows in a question. “With your little fingers. Don’t do that,” Susan repeated.
Vanessa lowered her glass. “Why not?” she asked. “Why can’t I?”
“It just isn’t—it’s not something we do. I don’t do it. I don’t want you to do it,” Susan said.
“He does it,” Vanessa said reasonably, pointing at the mountainous man.
“Don’t point,” Susan said sharply, and Vanessa drew her hand back. “I know he does it, but we don’t. It’s not something I want you to do.” She kept her voice down, but the man, sensing their attention, turned toward them. Chewing steadily, he gave them a hostile look. Susan turned on him a brief and inauthentic smile, and dropped her eyes to her place mat.
&nbs
p; Hilary spoke, looking directly at Susan. “My mother does it,” she said clearly. “She puts her little finger out when she drinks.”
“Does she?” said Susan. She looked over at Matthew, who raised his head from the place mat.
“She holds her little finger like this,” said Hilary, demonstrating.
Matthew said nothing, and finally Susan answered, her voice altered, suddenly loud, bright. “You see, Vanessa, everyone does different things.” She pointed at her place mat, and the drawing of Mars—huge, pocked, grim. “Do you know what this says, Ness? This tells you about Mars. Do you know what Mars is?”
Vanessa, annoyed, said, “I know what Mars is. It’s a planet.”
Susan smiled at her. “That’s right. Mars is a planet.” Her voice was falsely sweet, teacherly.
Hilary, torn between lofty silence and the temptation to display her knowledge, yielded to the latter.
“But the sun is not a planet,” she said, admonitory. “The sun is a star.”
“That’s right,” said Susan, nodding her head. “Good for you, Hilary. The sun is a star.”
“But I knew Mars was a planet,” Vanessa reminded her, alarmed.
“Right,” Susan said, nodding again. “You both know a lot, both you girls.”
“Here’s something else,” Matthew said, looking from daughter to daughter. “Saturn, which is also a planet, another planet, has rings that float around it in the sky. Do you know how many rings it has?”
“Seven,” Hilary said at once, smug. She closed her lips tightly on the word. “Seven rings.”
“Wow,” Susan said. “Hilary, you’re a whiz on this stuff.”
“But I know some too,” Vanessa said, her voice rising. “We learned about Mars at school.”
“Kindergarten,” Hilary said, to herself.
“That’s my school,” said Vanessa, turning back to Hilary, wary, yearning.
“I know,” said Hilary. She looked down at her mat and yawned suddenly.
Matthew smiled at Vanessa. “What’s your teacher’s name at school, Vanessa?”
Asking for Love Page 20