“Hi, Francie,” Emma now said. She was tying up the line. What was Peter doing? “You’re up early.”
“I always get up early,” Francie said.
Emma, who doubted this, said nothing.
“Did you get a message that I called?” Francie asked.
“Oh, that’s right, I did,” Emma said guiltily. “On Sunday. Sorry I haven’t called you back. I was going to do it today.” Resenting the guilt, she said briskly, “So, what’s up?”
“I just wanted to tell you about something I’m doing,” said Francie.
“What’s that?” Emma said.
“It’s like a series of seminars,” Francie said. “I’m going to be giving them back east, this summer.”
“Seminars?” Emma said. She thought of European history; the politics of slavery. “On what?”
“On evolving. The success of the self. You know. Awareness. It’s a whole program.”
“Oh,” Emma said, in a different tone.
“It’s a really interesting series,” Francie said. “It’s really amazing.”
“Great,” said Emma. “Have you taken it yourself?”
“Yeah,” said Francie. “At this institute out here.”
“And where are you going to give it here?”
“Well, that’s what I thought you might help me with,” Francie said. “It’s a fantastic series, an amazing bargain. The whole series, five seminars of four hours each, is only two hundred and eighty dollars.”
“Amazing,” said Emma.
“Yeah, isn’t it? But I need a place to give them,” said Francie. “The institute here doesn’t really have a base in New York yet.”
“I don’t really know of a place,” Emma said.
“I thought maybe your apartment,” Francie said smoothly.
“It’s tiny,” Emma said. “It wouldn’t be any good.”
There was a pause.
“There wouldn’t be very many people at one time, Emma,” Francie said. “It’s a very peaceful series. You know, I mean there’s no arguing, or anything like that. It’s self-awareness.”
“My apartment is tiny,” Emma repeated. “I’ve moved, you know. There’s really no room.”
There was another pause. “So, you won’t help us,” Francie said.
“Francie, this isn’t fair,” Emma said.
“It’s really simple,” Francie said. “You have the chance to help or not to help.”
“Francie, you’re asking me to give up my apartment for your business scheme.”
“It’s self-awareness, Emma, it’s not business.”
“Where am I supposed to live? Where is Rachel supposed to spend the day? Or the evenings? My apartment is where I live. Why should you ask me to turn it over to you?”
Francie sighed. “Thanks, Emma.”
“Francie,” said Emma.
There was a long silence.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to see this,” said Francie.
“It’s not a question of seeing it. You’re trying to impose on me.”
“People in New York are so resistant to these ideas. It’s really interesting,” said Francie.
“I’m not resistant to the idea of the seminar. I’m resistant to giving up my apartment.”
“So, if we find a place will you take the seminar?”
Emma shut her eyes in irritation. “Francie, I have my own life. If I want to take a seminar, you have to trust me, I’ll sign up for it on my own.”
“It’s self-awareness, Emma. Everyone needs it.”
“That’s your view, Francie.”
“Do you think you’re so evolved that you don’t need it?”
Emma shook her head. “I am what I am. I’m not asking you to decide how evolved I am, okay? What about the parents?”
“What about them?”
“Why don’t you give your seminars in Cambridge, at their house?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Well, it’s not fair to ask me to give up my apartment, Francie, so don’t do it.”
“I’ll give you the series for nothing,” Francie said. “It’s self-awareness, okay? If you change your mind, call me back. Just let me know.”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” said Emma crossly.
“You know,” said Francie, now coaxingly, “you’re my only sister. I feel really responsible for you.”
“Francie, look. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“It’s okay,” said Francie. “You can call any hour of the day or night. This is something you need. Trust me. This kind of knowledge is important. I know you think it isn’t, I know you think only the conventional academic stuff is important, but I want you to try to open your mind. I know it will be hard for you, but I want you to try.”
“Francie, how would you feel if I started telling you that you should go to college?”
Francie laughed indulgently. “Trust me, Emma,” she said. “You can call any time.”
Emma hung up and stared at her computer screen. What was the point, she thought, in being good, in doing what was expected of you?
One summer afternoon, when Emma was nine and Francie six, they had gone into an old-fashioned general store in Cape Cod. Their father was buying the paper. The pinewood floor was dark and oil soaked, soft beneath their bare feet. Emma held Francie’s hand, showing her the things on the shelves, saying the names. “Shoe polish, Francie,” she said, “Cordovan.” At the counter, a stranger was buying an ice cream cone. Francie told Emma she wanted one and Emma told her no. Francie turned loud and fretful. She tugged at Emma’s shorts.
“I want ice cream,” Francie said over and over. She stamped her small feet, then squatted on the floor in a rage.
Emma bent over her. “Francie,” she said. “Not between meals. It’s not allowed.” Francie wailed louder, and when their father turned, with his paper, she was howling.
“What is it?” he asked, frowning.
“She wants an ice cream cone. I told her she couldn’t because it was between meals, but she’s still complaining,” Emma reported virtuously.
“She can have an ice cream cone.” Their father looked down at them, towering, perfidious. “What kind do you want, Francie? What flavor?”
Emma still remembered the sense of outrage, vast, irredeemable. The law being so casually flouted, the ground sinking beneath her feet. On the way home Francie sat beside her in the backseat of the car, licking the melting drips of strawberry. She eyed Emma, wary but triumphant. Emma had refused her own cone, on principle. Someone had to teach Francie about the rigors of the world; clearly their parents would not.
Now Emma stared at her manuscript, angry at Francie.
The telephone on her desk rang again. It was Francie again, she knew.
“Hello?” It was Peter.
“Hello,” Emma said, flustered.
“Do you have a minute?” Peter asked. His voice was gentle.
“Yes,” said Emma. She leaned toward the desk, turning her back to the door.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said. “I don’t know why I got so angry.”
“Oh,” said Emma. “Thank you.”
“I overreacted. I didn’t want you to leave,” he said.
“You made that clear,” said Emma. “I felt so miserable. I kept hoping and hoping you’d come out and find me.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I don’t know why I got so angry. I know you want to see Tess.”
“I’m caught in the middle,” Emma said. “I don’t want to leave either, but when I start thinking about Tess, I get frantic. It makes me feel as though I have to take sides with one of you against the other. I hate it.”
“I shouldn’t have tried to make you stay. It’s not fair.”
“Thank you,” said Emma.
“What do you think about moving in together?”
There was silence.
“I love you,” Peter said.
Emma felt tears, unexpected,
rise behind her lids.
She was unprepared for this. The idea seemed charged with risk. She had only just begun to feel peaceful on her own. Her habits were becoming her own; she turned the light off when she pleased. Silence was hers to break or stretch. She was wary of any male presence, demanding, intrusive, ready to impose itself. His ideas would become part of everything. He would be there in her rooms, all the time. He would have the right to her bedroom, his heavy wool suits would hang in her closet. What if Rachel quit? And would he love Tess?
“You don’t have to answer now,” Peter said. “But think about it. I think it would be easier for you. It’d be easier for both of us. The way it is now, you’re pulled in two.”
It was true that Peter was kind, and he slept all night with his arms around her. Still she said nothing.
“Is there anything else?” he asked. “I hear you hesitating. What is it?”
“Tess,” said Emma.
“One thing I don’t like, now,” Peter said, his voice gentler still, “is that I get to see her so little.”
“Really?” Emma asked, amazed.
“Really,” Peter said.
“And Amanda?”
“Will be a part of it too.”
Emma looked out the window. Across the street the white brick building had been cut diagonally in half by the slanting morning sun, the lower part drenched in somber shadow. The upper stories rose in a series of receding steps. These airy, outdoor stairs were fiery with sun, brilliant and angular against the deep sky.
“My sister Francie just called me,” Emma said. “She wants me to give up my apartment so she can give seminars in it, on self-awareness.”
“Tell her your apartment is full,” said Peter. “Tell her you’ve moved in your own private instructor.”
Emma laughed. It was a relief, talking to Peter. She felt such trust in him. And he pressed on, which she admired. Besides, he was part of her life already. She wanted to wake up with him in the mornings, drift into sleep beside him. Remembering his touch on her throat she closed her eyes for a second, slipping into that steamy bath.
She looked out again at the fiery stairs leading upward. There was always a reason to hang back, to refuse, to disengage. There would always be drawbacks, problems. Independence would blur easily into loneliness. It was brave to be independent, braver still to engage.
8
Peter moved into Emma’s apartment at the beginning of March. That spring was slow, and three weeks later it was still cold and raw.
Emma was working late, and it began to rain just as she left her office. When she came out of the subway at Fourteenth Street, it was after seven, and dark. By then it was pouring, and the water pelted down on her bare head. She had no umbrella, and there were of course no cabs.
There were never any cabs when it rained. At the first drop they vanished from the streets. Emma imagined them all rushing to a secret cab-gathering arena, deep in the unknown interior of the city. Here all the cabs lined up in gleaming yellow ranks, the rain drumming on their roofs. The solitary drivers sat patiently inside their steamy glass shells, their radios playing low as they waited out the storm.
Emma turned her collar up and tucked her pocketbook closely under her arm. The sidewalks shimmered with puddles, she felt water seeping through her shoes. Tomorrow they would have faint irregular stains, outlining islands of damp on her insteps.
The sidewalks were nearly empty. The small brassy discount shops that lined Fourteenth Street, their windows full of red lettering and extreme promises, were all closed. The street seemed wider in the dark, deserted. The few cars hurtled past, hissing fans of cold water onto the sidewalk. The rain dripped through Emma’s hair on her forehead, and she blinked against it. An exploratory drop started down her neck, slithered sideways and headed down her back. Her fingers were numb, and her shoulders hunched tightly against her neck. Five minutes, she promised herself, and I’ll be home. Five minutes.
Opening the front door Emma heard Mozart: Peter was there. She took off her coat and went in. He was in the living room, reading. He had changed into corduroy trousers, a plaid shirt and moccasins. He looked peaceful and happy, and when he saw Emma he spread open his arms.
“Em!” he said. “You’re soaked.”
“Really?” said Emma, smiling. She kissed him. His neck smelled delicious, and she closed her eyes. He pulled her down to him, but at that Emma stiffened. She didn’t want Rachel to find her on Peter’s lap.
“Not in front of the help,” she said decorously, standing up. She smoothed her rain-damp skirt. “Where’s Tess?”
“Kitchen,” Peter said.
“I’m going to say hello,” Emma said.
Tessie and Rachel were at the table. Tess was fresh from her bath, glowing and rosy, her blond hair dark with damp at the edges. Her face lit up when she saw Emma.
“Mommy!” she said blissfully, and held out her arms.
“Tessie,” Emma said, holding out hers. At the sight of her daughter something in her loosened, gave way; an answering bliss ran through her. She picked up the small heavy body, and Tess threw her arms tightly around Emma’s neck.
“Mom-my, Mom-my,” Tess chanted, in an urgent whisper. Emma kissed her, deep in the fold of her neck, and then turned to Rachel.
“Hi, Rache,” she said, “what’s up?”
Rachel leaned her chin on her hand, her face blank. “How do you mean?” she asked stonily.
If talking to Tess made Emma giddy with delight, talking to Rachel made her burdened by guilt.
“Oh, you know. Anything,” Emma said, ignoring Rachel’s sullenness. Tess reared back and began patting Emma, fiercely, on the shoulders, on the ears, on the head.
“The cleaners say they don’t have your red dress,” Rachel said.
“But they do, don’t they? Don’t you have the ticket?”
“You took it there,” said Rachel. Her eyes were heavy lidded and her face immobile. “You have the ticket.”
“Did I? I don’t know where it is. But they know me. I probably just left the dress on the counter. I was in a hurry.”
Rachel shrugged her shoulders ominously. Emma gave up and turned to Tess.
“Want to come in while I change?” she asked.
“She’s not finished her dinner,” Rachel said.
“Oh, she’s not?” Emma looked at Tess’s plate. “But nearly. She’s had enough. Tess, have you finished your dinner?”
Tess nodded, looking attentively at her mother, then at Rachel. Rachel pursed her lips and folded her arms.
“I’ll just take her with me while I change,” Emma said, not looking at Rachel. Rachel stood and began clearing Tess’s supper.
“You can leave that for when we come back,” Emma said, but Rachel ignored her, taking the plate and scraping it into the trash.
Emma carried her daughter off under a cloud of guilt. It was not because of Tess’s unfinished supper but because of Peter’s presence in the apartment. Rachel had sulked since he moved in, and Emma didn’t know what to say to make her stop. The thought of the discussion exhausted Emma—why should she have to explain her moral position to her housekeeper? She’d hoped that she could avoid it, and that Rachel would stop sulking by herself. When she and Peter knew what their plans were, Emma would talk to Rachel. Until then she didn’t want Rachel as either her judge or her confidante.
Emma hoped she would marry again; she felt uncomfortable as a single mother. She was cheating Tess, raising her in this unnatural, asymmetrical, fatherless household. But if it was Tess that made Emma want to marry, it was also Tess that made it difficult. Tess was three, healthy, energetic and noisy. She was used to having all Emma’s attention. Each time she was with both Tess and Peter, Emma felt tension rise, she felt torn between them. She was afraid that Peter would not put up with Tess’s constant interruptions and demands. Why should he? His life with Caroline had been so different. She knew he was used to calm and order, to immaculate rooms, quiet servants, a carefully
tended child. What must he think of Emma’s household? Sullen Rachel, in her turquoise sweater and tight jeans, and boisterous Tess, running in and out of Emma’s room. All this made Emma feel tense and helpless: her greatest fear was that Peter would begin to feel resentful toward Tess.
One night, when Tess was bouncing raucously on their bed, Emma had stood laughing at her antics. She’d looked at Peter, to share her delight, only to see his disapproving stare. What she saw was a beloved child, beautiful, joyful; he saw chaos, noise and lack of discipline.
“You don’t love her, do you,” she said, sobered.
“Not like you,” he said gently.
“At all,” Emma insisted.
“I’ll treat her better because of that.”
Chilled, she looked at him. She had brought a man into her household who did not love her daughter. At any moment he might lose patience with it all, with her, with Tess, with everything.
Since then Emma had felt she was living on a volcano. To prevent the eruption, she had shielded Peter from domestic mechanics. She never asked for his help, never asked him to look after Tess, to drop something off at the cleaners, to lend her cash for Rachel. Peter’s half of the rent was his only obligation. The running of the household was her responsibility. Emma felt that anything—anything—might be the last straw, might set him against her small daughter.
In the bedroom Emma took off her wet clothes while Tess waddled cheerfully about in her footed pajamas. She carried a stuffed raccoon under her arm and talked busily to herself.
It was seven-fifteen. Emma had to make dinner for herself and Peter, read to Tess and put her to bed. Tess’s bedtime was seven-thirty. If she put Tess down first, Peter would be testy at the late dinner. If she cooked dinner first, Tess would be whiny and exhausted tomorrow. Emma would have liked Rachel to cook their dinner, and let Emma put Tess to bed, but when she first arrived Rachel had declared her position. “I’ll do child care and cleaning,” she said. “I’m not doing dinner parties.” At the time, Emma had cared only about Tess’s care during the day, but now, looking back, she wished she had negotiated. She wondered if she still could. But Rachel was so angry at her now, Emma was afraid she might quit. And no matter how grumpy Rachel was toward Emma, she was tender and conscientious toward Tess, who loved her fiercely. For that, Emma would put up with almost anything.
This Is My Daughter Page 11
