She could have argued—Embeth was excellent in an argument—but an argument might have led to her getting arrested, and that was the last thing Aaron needed.
THEY TOOK RUBY to the policeman’s office, and Embeth sat in the waiting area. She called Jorge, but it went straight to voice mail. “Jorge, I’m at the police station. I may be late to the party. It’s a long story. Can you get Aaron’s tuxedo from the house? And if Margarita’s there, have her pick out a dress from my closet. If she’s not there, just pick out anything that looks appropriate. Anything but the navy. I never want to wear the navy again. Also, I need you to bring my wig. I didn’t have time to get to the salon today. I’ll meet you at the party.”
The policeman came out of his office and walked over to Embeth. “You’re free to go,” he said.
“What happened?” Embeth said.
“The mother, Jane, vouched for you. The grandmother’s coming to pick up the girl.” The police officer sounded slightly incredulous. “In the future, I’d avoid going on impromptu field trips with thirteen-year-old girls without checking in with their parents first.”
“I’d like to speak to Ruby,” Embeth said.
“I’m not stopping you,” he said.
Embeth went into the office. “I guess this is good-bye,” Embeth said. “I thought I’d slip out of here before your grandmother showed up.”
“But I haven’t met the congressman yet!” Ruby said in an urgent whisper.
“I know,” Embeth said. “I’m sorry about that. I just talked to him. His flight is late, and then it’s our anniversary party tonight. We’ve been married for thirty years. Did you know that?”
“What about after the party?” Ruby said.
“The party won’t be done until midnight, or later. Maybe we could do it tomorrow afternoon?” Embeth said.
“My mom’s making me fly back tomorrow morning!” Ruby said. “I’m in huge trouble, and I’ve spent half of my savings, and I haven’t done anything I came to do.”
Embeth made a sad face “I’m sorry, Ruby. It’s a busy week for us.”
Ruby began to cry—snotty, messy tears. “Were you ever going to let me meet him?”
“I . . . ,” Embeth began. “Honestly, I don’t know. I needed to talk to him first.”
“If I told the police officer that you kidnapped me, then the congressman would have to come down to get you,” Ruby said.
“Please don’t do that,” Embeth said.
“If I told the police officer that you were some big pervert . . .”
“Ruby!”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Ruby said. “I just wanted to meet him. I just wanted to see for myself.” Ruby put her head in her lap. “Everyone hates me,” she said. “If I was related to him, then I would be someone, and maybe they wouldn’t hate me so much.”
“Ruby,” Embeth said. “That’s not how life works. I’m married to him, and everyone loves him, and no one seems to like me at all.”
“My mom said he wasn’t my dad,” Ruby said. “She said it was a ‘one-night stand.’ That’s when you sleep with someone for one night—”
“I know what it is,” Embeth said. “Ruby, your mom’s right. The congressman told me. He’s not your father, and I’m sorry to say this, but he doesn’t want to see you.”
Ruby nodded solemnly.
“But I thought he looks like me. He looks so much like me. It has to be true.”
El Meté flew through the open window and landed on Embeth’s shoulder.
“True! True!” El Meté said.
“Shh!” Embeth said.
“Party! Party!” El Meté said.
“Shut up, would you!” Embeth said.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” Ruby said. “El Meté.”
The bird flew over to Ruby, and he alighted on her forearm.
“Can you see him?” Embeth asked.
“No,” Ruby said. “But I can feel him. What color are his feathers?”
“He has a red head, and a green body and wings, and there are blue tips at the end of his wings. He has green eyes and a pinkish beak. He’s very handsome and a little bit vain.”
El Meté nuzzled into Ruby’s breast.
“I wish I could see him,” Ruby said.
“I wish I couldn’t,” Embeth said.
“What do you think he means?”
“I try not to think about what he means. I guess he means I’m crazy or lonely or both.”
The police officer came into the office. “Your grandmother’s outside.”
Ruby wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “You know her,” she said to Embeth. “Will you introduce us?”
“We’re not exactly great friends,” Embeth said.
In the waiting area, the former Rachel Grossman stood with her friend, Roz Horowitz. Rachel Grossman, who was tough as they came, had tears in her eyes. Those women had never liked me, Embeth thought. But maybe this idea that people didn’t like her was as much of a delusion as El Meté? Embeth put on her brightest politician’s wife smile. “Roz! Rachel! How wonderful to see you both. This is my friend, Miss Ruby Young.”
Ruby stepped forward—her chin stuck out, her shoulders back. “Hello,” she said. She squeezed Embeth’s hand and whispered, “Fugli forever.”
EMBETH TOOK AN Uber to the hotel where the party was being held. She would get her car from the movie theater parking lot in the morning. The driver eyed her in his rearview mirror.
“You look familiar,” the driver said.
“I get that a lot,” Embeth said. “I have one of those faces.”
The driver nodded. “Yeah, but you’re someone, aren’t you?”
“Not really,” Embeth said. She checked her phone. A text from Jorge said, Don’t worry. I’m on my way and I’ve got everything. See you at the hotel. The text warmed her enough to try to make conversation with the driver. She had recently read that the drivers rated the passengers, too, which seemed ridiculous to her. Embeth always tried to be polite to waiters and drivers and the like, but she wasn’t always in the mood to put on a show. Did everything and everyone and every act require a review? “I’m not someone,” she said, “but I’m married to someone.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“My husband is Congressman Levin,” Embeth said. “From the Twenty-Sixth Congressional District of Florida.”
“I don’t follow politics. He been in Congress long?” the driver asked.
“Ten terms,” Embeth said. “He’s up for reelection this year, and I know my husband’s very concerned about making sure that Uber pays employment taxes for all of its drivers.”
“Not registered to vote. Don’t care who gets elected.” The driver checked her out in the mirror. “That’s not why I know you. You look just like my ex-wife’s sister. Such a bitch, but what a great lay.”
Embeth didn’t know what to say. Did he expect her to thank him? She considered lecturing the man about what was appropriate language and narrative for a customer and a woman he didn’t even know. Embeth had no feelings, but she didn’t like the thought of someone like Ruby being exposed to such casual misogyny. But in the end, it had been a long day, and it was easier to stare at her phone for the next twelve minutes than confront a driver, IRL. When she reached her destination, she rated him one star.
JORGE WAITED FOR her in the parking loop in front of the hotel. She could see him, standing beneath a palm tree, conspicuously not sweating in his tuxedo, carrying a garment bag.
“No one’s here yet,” he said. “You’ve still got plenty of time to change.”
“Is Aaron on his way?”
“His flight was delayed. He should be here by nine thirty.”
“An hour and a half late? Not bad,” said Embeth. “How do you never sweat?” she asked.
“Um . . . I do sweat,” he said. “Inside, I’m filled with toxins and rage.”
They went up to her hotel room, and Embeth went into the bathroom, where she threw on some makeup
, taking special pains with her eyebrows. She called out to Jorge, “Did you pack Spanx?”
“You don’t need them. Just put on the pantyhose,” Jorge said.
“Foundation garments are everything, Jorge,” Embeth said.
Embeth hiked up the pantyhose, which were not as good as Spanx but would have to do.
She donned her wig as if it were a hat. Then she put on a cold-shouldered black jersey gown.
“I’ve had this dress forever,” she called.
“It’s back in style,” Jorge said. He always knew such things. “Everything old becomes new again.”
She put on a white-gold necklace that Aaron had bought her for some occasion or other and a pair of shoes that had a two-inch heel, which was all she could manage these days. She looked at herself in the mirror.
Despite the fact that he had omitted essential foundation garments, Jorge had done a fine job picking out this ensemble. He could be counted on to do anything.
When she left the bathroom, she found him asleep and snoring on the bed. She felt sentimental looking at Jorge’s restful face. He reminded her of Aaron, only he was better than Aaron. He was better than Aaron because he had never let her down. How she would miss Jorge!
Embeth nudged him awake. “I’m ready.”
“Apologies!” Jorge said. “I dozed off.”
“You wanted to talk?” Embeth said. “It seems we still have a few minutes.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m still half asleep. One second.” Jorge sat up. The sleep made him seem younger and almost bashful. “This is hard to say . . . ,” he said.
“Let me help you,” Embeth said. “After the election, you want to leave Aaron and me. It’s time, Jorge. It’s time for you to run for your first office. It’s time for you to make a killing in the private sector, if that’s what you want to do. It’s time for you to have something of your own. We’ll miss you, but we’ll support you all the way. We’ll help you raise money if you run. We’ll stump for you. We’ll help you find staff. You’re like a son to us. You must know that.”
“Em, that is very kind, but that’s not—”
“It is necessary,” said Embeth. “No one has been more loyal to Aaron than you.”
Embeth was an awkward hugger, but she pulled the still boyish man close to her. “Was there anything else?”
“How did it go with the little girl? What’s her name? Ruby?”
“Oh, fine. I don’t think Aaron’s the father. Ruby—that’s her name—wanted him to be, but Grossman said it was a one-night stand. Nothing to worry about after all.”
IT WAS A party largely determined by negation. Two hundred fifty guests, because that was the fewest number of people they could invite without offending anyone. A celebrated chef prepared dishes with foams, because it was the season of foam, the season of flavor without substance. No one would overeat and everyone would go home hungry. A DJ because a DJ was tacky, but badly played covers were even tackier. Centerpieces made from herbs and succulents because Embeth didn’t want anything—even a flower—to have to die unnecessarily for this party.
It was a party. Indistinguishable from a fund-raiser except that Embeth felt certain Aaron would have managed to be closer to on time if a roomful of checkbooks had been waiting.
Of course, there were donors in attendance. The most loyal and biggest donors had had to be invited. The biggest folly was to have thought Embeth and Aaron could possibly have a party without them. Who was more near and dear than a loyal donor?
“I know it’s your night off and I hate to ask you, but might you have a word with the Altschulers?” Jorge said. “They look restless.”
Embeth went over to the restless Altschulers. “Embeth,” said Mrs. Altschuler. “How wonderful you look. What a spectacular night this is.”
“There was a time we thought the two of you wouldn’t make it,” Mr. Altschuler said.
“Jared,” Mrs. Altschuler scolded.
“What? There’s nothing wrong with me saying that. Marriages aren’t for the weak or the fainthearted. Emmy knows that.”
“I do,” Embeth said.
Out of nowhere, Molly the party coordinator urgently grabbed Embeth’s hand. Molly’s special skills seemed to be invisibility and sneak attack. “We can’t possibly hold the food any longer,” Molly whispered. “Chef José is freaking out.”
“Excuse me,” Embeth said to the Altschulers. “Chef José is freaking out.” Embeth kissed Mrs. Altschuler on the cheek. “We’ll have you over soon.”
Dinner was served. But every time Embeth was about to sit down to eat it, Jorge would ask her to have a word with a different guest. By the time Embeth had completed the rounds, all of Chef José’s magical foams had dissolved and her plate had been cleared.
Chef José came by to check on her.
“Did you enjoy the food, Embeth?”
“It was amazing,” she said. “Thank you so much for doing this, Chef José. You’re too good to us.”
“Anything for the congressman. I’m only disappointed that he himself did not get to eat it.”
“The vote. It couldn’t be avoided,” Embeth said for the hundredth time that night. “I’ll make sure to tell him how delicious it was. He’ll hate to have missed it.”
“Describe it in great detail. Make him suffer,” Chef José said. “What was your favorite part?”
“The foam,” Embeth said.
“Which one?” Chef José asked.
“Mine was the wasabi vanilla,” Molly said, suddenly at Embeth’s side again. “Embeth, I know we were going to make a thing of cutting the cake, but I think we should just serve it. You and the congressman can do a champagne toast before you do the opening dance.”
“Let them eat cake,” Embeth said.
By 9:30 p.m., his revised ETA, Aaron was still not there, and there was no choice but to open the floor to dancing. At 9:33, he sent a frenzied, typo-filled text that his plane had arrived and he was only a brief forty-five minutes away. Molly told Embeth that they should revise the plan yet again. It was getting late, and Embeth should speak.
“It seems odd,” Embeth said. “It’s an anniversary party, and I’ll be the only one speaking?”
“When the congressman arrives,” Molly said, “we’ll tell the DJ to play your song, and we’ll clear the dance floor for you and Aaron. Have you decided on a song, by the way? I have ‘Stand by Your Man’ at the ready.”
“Jorge and I were joking about that,” Embeth said.
“I know,” said Molly. “What song?”
“ ‘Crazy Love’ by Van Morrison,” said Embeth. “Yes, we’re old.”
Molly sent a text to the DJ.
Embeth delicately reached under her wig and scratched the back of her scalp. “I still think it seems odd for me to speak alone.”
Molly poured Embeth a glass of champagne. “I’m a professional. Trust me. Nothing is ever odd at a party unless the host makes it odd,” she said. “But I’m sure you already know that.”
“I’d like to come out to the song ‘It’s My Party (and I’ll Cry If I Want To),’ ” Embeth said.
“Irony. I get that,” said Molly. “I’ll make it happen.”
“How does one become a party planner anyway?” Embeth asked.
Molly looked momentarily confused at the introduction of a personal question.
“I know a girl who is a party planner and I wondered how one got into that field,” Embeth said.
“I studied hotel management as an undergraduate at Cornell,” Molly said. “I should go talk to the DJ now.”
EMBETH MADE HER entrance to the plaintive teenage wails of Lesley Gore. She walk-danced. She half-assed aerobic cha-chaed. She tried to look jaunty. She tried to look like she had no fucks left to give. El Meté was on her shoulder, but he stayed very quiet. The music came down, and the DJ said that Mrs. Levin would like to say a few words.
Embeth looked into the crowd. It was dark, and she couldn’t see Allegra or Margarita or Jorge or Dr. H
ui or anyone else. “I’m told Aaron is on his way,” Embeth began. “Ah, the life of a politician’s wife! Your husband is always on his way.”
The crowd laughed warmly at the joke that was barely a joke.
A moment later, the crowd magically divided. Aaron came down the aisle, like Moses parting the Red Sea.
“I’m here,” he bellowed. His gray curly hair bounced in the spotlight. “I’m here, Embeth Bart Levin, love of my life!”
The crowd awwwwed.
Embeth grinned stupidly. How handsome he still was. How ready to forgive him she felt. How she loved that man.
And maybe that was what her life came down to. For him, she had lied, cheated, eaten dirt, blinded herself. She had shielded him from unpleasantness as much as she could. She had protected him from Ruby, Destroyer of Worlds. When they wrote the Book of Embeth, the only thing to be said was that she had loved Aaron Levin as well as any woman could.
He finally reached the microphone. He squeezed her hand. He leaned in, and El Meté flew away. He kissed her, and then he whispered in her ear, “What did I miss?”
V
Choose
Aviva
Your name is Aviva Grossman. You are twenty years old, a junior at the University of Miami (Go Hurricanes!), and today is your first day as an intern for Congressman Levin, the Democrat from Miami, the Twenty-Sixth Congressional District of Florida.
You are super pumped. You believe in the possibility of government to effect positive change! You believe in the congressman! He’s such an inspirational speaker. He’s so young-looking and handsome, not that these things matter. But hey, it doesn’t hurt that he looks like a Jewish John F. Kennedy, Jr.
You are standing in your dorm room, contemplating your wardrobe. You have spent the last year in sweatpants and Birkenstocks. All of your “good” clothes are tight, because you gained twenty-two pounds your freshman year. You are still not fat, but you don’t know this at the time. You could have asked your mother to buy you new work clothes, but then she would have lectured you about your diet. She would have said, “Are you drinking enough water? Are you eating after ten?” You don’t want to hear it. You want to concentrate on your new job. You put on black tights even though it’s ninety degrees out.
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