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This Is My Daughter
A Novel
Roxana Robinson
THIS BOOK IS FOR DEAR VICTORIA
WITH MY LOVE
PART ONE
1
“You’ll like my daughter,” Peter told Emma, “no matter what she does to you. If she bites you.”
Emma looked at him, to see if she was meant to laugh, but Peter was driving, and did not turn. Emma considered his profile, looking for clues: the long straight nose, the sober deep-set blue eye. The line of Peter’s mouth was stern, and his tone had suggested not mirth but reproval. Disturbed, Emma turned away to face the road herself.
“I’m sure I’ll like her,” she said politely.
But it was an alarming announcement. She wondered what Peter meant: was he warning her that his daughter was difficult? Was he reminding Emma that she had no choice? In either case, Emma didn’t need to be told. She knew it was important that she like Peter’s daughter. She knew his daughter was difficult. But perhaps Peter meant neither of these things, perhaps this was an awkward joke, heavy with anxiety. Emma did not quite dare ask him what he meant.
Emma and Peter had been seeing each other for four months. Often Emma felt she knew him well, but still there were moments of complete confusion for her, dark silent pools set unexpectedly in an open rolling landscape. It took so long to know someone, Emma thought, to know easily, at once, what was meant by a comment, a tone of voice. Married, you took this ease for granted. Starting all over again, learning someone new by heart, seemed so slow. To Emma, it seemed at times impossible.
Emma was always afraid that Peter would discover something about her that he had never imagined, something that would turn him utterly against her, forever. She had seen him once, taking off a pair of wet gloves, peeling them off his fingers, ridding his flesh of them and flinging them in a crumpled mass onto a chair, where they hung for a moment and then fell to the floor. This was what she imagined would happen to her if she disappointed him.
Emma looked out the window. They were driving down Park Avenue, through the seventies. The big apartment buildings rose on either side, solid and immutable, with their clean stone facades and crisp canvas awnings. Uniformed doormen, brisk and authoritative in braid-trimmed hats, stood guard at each doorway. It was a neighborhood Emma knew well: Park Avenue, with its narrow, sooty, dignified strip of green, had, until now, run down the center of her adult world. When she had first come to New York, six years ago, she had lived with friends of her parents, in a tiny maid’s room in a big duplex at Park and Eighty-first. When she was married to Warren, she had lived between Park and Madison, on Ninety-second. Peter’s wife and daughter—and once Peter—lived at Park and Sixty-eighth.
Peter and Emma were on their way to pick up Peter’s seven-year-old daughter, Amanda. Peter had lunch with her every Sunday, but this was the first time Emma had been included. She had been pleased and flattered when Peter asked.
“You know I’ve met Amanda before,” Emma reminded him now.
“You have? When?” Peter asked.
“When I met you. At your cocktail party.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Peter.
“It was very brief. She won’t remember me,” Emma said. “But I remember her.”
They had stopped for the light at Sixty-eighth Street. The avenue sloped broadly down before them, diminishing toward the handsome Beaux Arts silhouette of Grand Central Station, which was backed by the cold blunt rectangle of the Pan Am Building. The narrow beds of earth that divided Park Avenue held neat evergreen trees, regularly spaced like musical notations, green chords struck evenly between the high stone-faced buildings. It was a clean and orderly vista, and the February sky overhead was a high pale blue.
Crossing the avenue in front of their car was a middle-aged black woman in a too-long overcoat. She held the hand of a small white girl. The girl, in a bright pink parka, green corduroy pants and scarlet boots, hung sulkily back, her body jammed into a stubborn angle of resistance. She wore no hat, and her hair blew in a wild halo around her head. The woman paid no attention to her reluctance, pulling the girl steadily along behind her. In the middle of the street the woman turned and said something, her face threatening. The girl stuck out her lower lip. When they started again the girl gave up her leaning, but each step was sluggish and resentful. Her boots slid reluctantly along the pavement, her head was down. The woman plowed ahead without looking back.
Children have no choice: they are at our mercy, Emma thought. She was glad to see, at least, that the little girl had refused a hat.
“What did Amanda do? When you met her,” Peter asked, turning to Emma. One eyebrow was raised, and Emma felt the full strength of his blue gaze. He was a lawyer, and there were times when Emma felt she was being cross-examined.
“Oh, not much,” Emma said. “Caroline was taking her around the party to be introduced. Amanda wasn’t keen on it.”
“Sounds like Caroline. Sounds like Amanda,” said Peter. The light changed, and he turned the car onto his street. They pulled up in front of his old door. The doorman, short, dapper, militant, in a long buff overcoat, with heavy corded epaulets, stepped at once to the door of the car.
“Hello, Sam,” Peter said.
“Good morning, Mr. Chatfield,” said the doorman loudly, touching his big cap. He had bright black eyes, and the stiff overcoat nearly enveloped him.
“I’ll be right down,” Peter said to the doorman, and closed the car door. The doorman looked at Emma and nodded, brisk but neutral.
Emma, left sitting in the car, wished that Peter had spoken to her instead of to the doorman. She watched Peter walk into the building, where he still owned an apartment. Through the heavy glass of the door she could see the elevator man step forward to greet him. All the people here knew Peter; he would meet an old neighbor in the elevator. Emma watched, pressing her forehead against the window like a child, as Peter stood before the elevator door. His figure, tall and solid in his worn corduroys and old raincoat, turned vague and began to vanish. Emma blinked, focusing, but Peter turned steadily to smoke. She pressed closer to the window, staring intently, to retrieve him. But she could not, and drew back from the pane, perplexed. She saw it was her own anxiety that had made him vanish; her breath had steamed a widening circle of mist across the windowpane, a pale film of obscurity that blotted him out. When she drew back, she watched the window dry, and clarity spread across it.
The elevator doors reappeared, but now Peter had gone. The doors had glided somberly shut behind him, and he was now inside the hushed vault of the elevator, rising deliberately toward his wife, his daughter, his apartment, his past life. For nine years he had been part of Mr. and Mrs. Chatfield on the eleventh floor. What would he do up there, what would he say? How much could you trust a man who was in the middle of divorcing his wife? Taking back all the promises he had made to her?
The doorman stood like a small belligerent statue: chin raised, legs planted wide beneath his huge coat, one gloved hand on his taxi whistle. He ignored Emma. She felt like a trespasser, illicitly parked before this building. She turned away, wondering what was happening upstairs.
Emma had been in the Chatfields’ apartment only once, a year earlier, when she was still married to Warren. Warren had been on a board with Caroline, Peter’s wife, and she had asked them to a cocktail party. That night, Warren and Emma had stepped off the elevator into the foyer with its black marble floors and yellow-and-white striped walls. The front door was open, and the rooms beyond were full of noise and color. The spaces were big, the ceilin
gs high. The surfaces shimmered: the porcelain figures on the mantelpiece, the satinwood tables, the Venetian glass mirror over the fireplace. The great satin curtains were fringed with dull gold, and held back with heavy tasseled cords. On the mahogany sideboard were twisting silver candelabra.
They stood for a moment in the front hall. A white-jacketed waiter came up, holding a silver tray of goblets, filled with pale wine. Emma and Warren each took one.
“This is quite something,” said Emma, looking around.
“I told you,” said Warren. He sounded smug, as though he were taking credit for the apartment. He turned. “Hello, Caroline,” he said, as a woman in brilliant blue came toward them. His voice was loud and jovial, his manner somewhat unctuous. Emma could see he was awed by Caroline.
“Warren, how nice to see you.” Caroline Chatfield was handsome, rather tall, and somewhat fleshy. She moved with authority, kissing Warren briskly on both cheeks. She then drew back, with a professional smile, to meet Emma.
“This is my wife, Emma,” Warren said. He turned to Emma and looked at her appraisingly, as Caroline did. Emma felt them both examining her.
Caroline at once held out her hand. She set her feet neatly together and gave a little comic-opera bow over the handshake. Her hair was shoulder length, blond streaked. She had very pale blue eyes and a pointed nose. She wore gold earrings, and a strand of pearls lay neatly against the yoke of her dress. The dress was patterned indigo silk, long sleeved, high necked, and full of discreet details: small neat tucks, stitched-down pleats.
“How nice of you to come,” Caroline said energetically. “Do you have a drink? I see you do.” She looked again at Warren and turned serious. “Now, you and I have to have a talk. The plans for the spring fund-raiser are foundering.”
Warren raised his eyebrows, smiling, conspiratorial. “Are they?”
“Have you spoken to Cynthia?” Caroline asked.
Warren shook his head. He was enjoying this.
“I wouldn’t look forward to it, if I were you,” Caroline said, and shook her head forebodingly.
“I think we’ll be able to deal with Cynthia,” Warren said.
Caroline turned to Emma. “Do forgive us for all this business,” she said charmingly. “Your husband is a treasure. We’re so thrilled to have him on the board.” Warren beamed. “He’s really stirring things up.”
Emma smiled. “I’m sure he is,” she answered, refusing to enter into the listing of Warren’s merits.
“But you know that about Warren, I’m sure,” Caroline said, withdrawing her attention. “Now there’s Serena, I want to talk to her before she leaves. It’s so nice to have met you,” she said to Emma. “Please excuse me, I hope I’ll see you later.” She moved off through the crowd, the silk pleats on her long skirt swaying briskly.
Warren watched her go. He stood visibly straighter, preening, exhilarated. “She is really something.”
“She is,” said Emma, noncommittal.
“She’s so elegant,” said Warren. “She always looks like that. Really beautifully turned out. Hair, dress, jewelry.”
Emma, who understood that this was a criticism of her, said nothing. She had grown up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where vanity was frowned upon, and attention to appearance was considered vulgar. Beauty, like jewelry, was a matter of inheritance: either it came down in the family or you did without.
Emma was wary of women like Caroline who put such energy and concentration into their own presentation, who took such obvious pleasure in it, who looked so sleek and glowing and expensive. Emma felt both disapproving and envious: Caroline made it clear just how sure of yourself it was possible to appear.
“I want you to meet Peter, too,” said Warren. “He’s right up your street, actually. He has a wonderful art collection. You’ll love him.” He sounded bossy and proprietary: he clearly felt in charge.
Emma said nothing. She did not always love people who had wonderful art collections: they often became peculiar when they discovered that she worked at an art magazine. Their voices took on a certain urgency, they leaned too close as they spoke. The acrid smell of self-promotion began to permeate the atmosphere. They insisted on showing her their whole collection, every piece of it. They mentioned prominent museum curators who had, they claimed, said glowing things about the collection. They mentioned prices they had paid; often they lied about prices they had paid. They demanded praise, recognition, respectful attention. Sometimes Emma felt that collectors were what she liked least about art.
Emma had looked vaguely at the pictures in the front hall. Without her glasses she could see only that they were drawings, in heavy European frames. Now she entered the big living room and looked around: it was full of splendor. The walls were covered with leopard-skin paper, and there were high white wooden bookcases. A bank of great French windows opened onto a terrace. Big low overstuffed sofas and curious chairs stood about on the huge Persian carpet. It looked as though the room had been there since 1890: rich shawls hung over the backs of the chairs, and small collections—old ivory objects, burnished fruitwood boxes—were spread out on the tabletops. On the walls were paintings, and Emma narrowed her eyes and moved toward the one nearest her, a still life.
The picture was, in fact, quite nice, unpretentious and handsome: an early nineteenth-century composition of vegetables, probably American. The shapes were solid, the forms precise, the colors lucid.
“That’s a favorite of mine,” someone said behind her, and Emma turned to see a man looking at the painting with affection. He was big and blond and very handsome, with bushy eyebrows and intense blue eyes. Emma was skeptical of him at once: he was too glamorous, too polished, too rich to be interesting. And anyone so handsome couldn’t be smart. Someone must have told him these were good pictures.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I do, actually,” Emma said.
Now he would tell her why it was so important, according to a famous scholar or a sycophantic curator. Or he would tell her where he got it. Emma hoped he wouldn’t tell her how much it cost.
“I love the red,” Peter said, reconsidering the painting. “It’s so bold, don’t you think? And I like all these interlocking curves. I like the way it all holds together.” He looked now at Emma, still smiling. He seemed completely relaxed. She looked back at the painting.
“Yes,” she said, “I like the red. Is it American?”
“As far as anyone can tell.”
Emma paused, still waiting for important people’s opinions, but none came.
“I also like the eggplant,” she offered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an eggplant in an American painting.”
“Have you in any European ones?” Peter asked.
“Well, no,” said Emma. “They just seem more likely in European painting. Americans were so genteel. They painted fruit and biscuits and teacups. Europeans were earthier. They painted vegetables and dead rabbits.”
Now he would ask her how she knew about paintings.
“It’s true, isn’t it,” said Peter. “Europeans painted kitchen food, and Americans painted dining-room food. Now, what do we conclude from that?”
“Oh, the usual, don’t you think?” said Emma. “Americans were always afraid of looking provincial. It was too risky for them, painting kitchen food: they might have been taken for cooks.”
“The old problem: poor self-image,” said Peter. “The anxious American. Now,” he said, moving firmly closer to Emma, “tell me something.”
“Yes?” said Emma. She was fixed in the beam of his attention by the clear blue eyes set beneath the thick eyebrows. He didn’t seem aware of his looks, he seemed to have none of the narcissist’s arrogance. In fact he seemed to have no arrogance about him at all: only ease. He seemed to enjoy himself. This interested Emma; she waited for his question.
“Do you have what you want to drink?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Emma. She felt let down: evidently she did not interest him. Didn�
��t he want to know more of her opinions on art?
“Because I need a refill,” he said. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”
“No, thanks,” she said, and drew away. He gave her another friendly smile and turned, moving off through the crowd.
Emma felt disappointed, and chagrined by her disappointment. He was much nicer than she had expected, and amazingly wonderful looking. She watched him stepping among the people, smiling at his friends. He moved past a satinwood table, she saw the back of his head reflected in the Venetian mirror in the front hall. He moved among the polished surfaces easily.
Warren found her then, and a moment later Caroline appeared again. Behind her was an elderly woman in a gray uniform with a white apron.
“Warren,” Caroline said to him, “I want you to meet my daughter, Amanda!” In front of Caroline stood a small girl, four or five years old. She had Caroline’s face, the wide cheeks, pale skin and pale blue eyes. The girl looked sulky and belligerent; her legs were slightly spread apart beneath the ruffled dress, her arms were crossed adamantly on her chest. Her shiny hair, light brown and flyaway, was cut severely. The bangs were too short, and went straight across her forehead, unbecomingly, with hard right angles at the temples—an uncompromising chop.
Amanda stared challengingly at Warren, saying nothing. Caroline put her hand behind her daughter’s back and Amanda’s stance shifted. She tilted slightly backward, the feet in their black patent Mary Janes braced against the carpet. Emma could see that, while Caroline was smiling at her friends, her hand was set against Amanda’s spine. Amanda crossed her arms more firmly across her smocked pink chest, her straight dark eyebrows gathered in a frown.
Caroline looked down at her daughter. “Say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, Amanda,” she said, smiling, very energetic. There was a fraction more emphasis on the last word than on the others, and there was a trace of warning in her voice. Amanda looked up grimly at Warren. She did not uncross her arms. Caroline leaned over, now clasping her hands demurely behind her back, tilting her head to one side as though this were fun.
This Is My Daughter Page 1
