Loving Emily

by Anne Pfeffer

  Somehow, I’ve managed to miss out on sex and go straight to its consequences.

  I picture flashing lights and ringing bells as I enter the waiting room. Attention, patients! First virgin ever to cross the threshold of an obstetrician’s office!

  I drum my hands on my knees, shooting to my feet when Chrissie’s name is called.

  “You’re stayin’ right here,” Chrissie says without missing a beat. I sink back down immediately, happy to sit in the waiting room.

  I sit there, staring at the wall, and as has happened so many times these past months, I’m thinking about where Michael would be if I hadn’t killed him. He’d be here, in my place, I think. Or more likely, in the examining room with Chrissie.

  Or would he? Michael had a way of quietly checking out when he came up against something unpleasant. I was always better than he was at doing the hard jobs.

  After Chrissie’s done, she says she wants to take me to dinner. “It’s the least I can do.”

  I check my watch. Emily’s rehearsal should have ended fifteen minutes ago. She’s probably with Masters right now.

  “Hold on,” I say to Chrissie. I whip out my cell. Thumbs flying, I send Emily a text. Hey baby what up?

  Hi

  That’s all she’s got for me? How was rehearsal?

  Fine

  I can’t help myself. Hows Derek? She’s probably in his car right now.

  Don’t be like this Ryan

  Instantly, I feel bad. Sorry. Its just that im crazy for you

  I know

  I’ll call you when I get home

  Okay

  Love u, I write.

  But she has already signed off.

  Chrissie is waiting. “One more,” I say. I call home and tell Rosario I’ll be home late.

  We go to Sal’s Diner. It’s one of those places where the waitresses wear fifties uniforms and each table has its own jukebox. We slide into a pink vinyl booth.

  “A jukebox!” Chrissie takes a quarter from her wallet and starts leafing through the song list. “I’m gonna splurge and get a song!”

  I’m moping about that text from Emily. I know? I say I love you and she says I know?

  “How about Baby Love? That seems fittin’.”

  I watch her slide the quarter into the slot, taking care to punch in the right code, so she gets Baby Love and not the song next to it.

  “Just think if I got The Monster Mash by mistake!”

  “Hang on.” I say to Chrissie, pulling out my cell again.

  “Checkin’ in with the little woman?”

  I don’t answer. I text Emily. U there?

  Yes

  Lets not fight

  I don’t want to either

  Ill be home soon.

  Where are you?

  Oops. I hadn’t planned to tell her about dinner with Chrissie.

  Got delayed

  Delayed???

  Double oops. Stopped for a quick bite

  No response. I can’t take this. Gimme a break Em. Tell me u love me

  Of course I love u. but I disagree with what you’re doing.

  But u luv me?

  I already said I did. Gtg

  She signs off.

  My pride won’t let me text her again. “I’m up for some tunes!” I say. “You wanna pick them?” I dig in my pocket and spill a pile of quarters onto the table.

  Chrissie gasps. “You bet!” She flips through the song list. “I’m gonna get all songs with “baby” in the title!”

  The waitress, wearing a name tag that says “Ethyl,” arrives with our water. “Top o’ the marnin’ to ye,” Chrissie says to her.

  Then, to me: “You don’t mind if I practice my Irish accent, do you?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  It turns out Chrissie can do a dozen accents, and has invented a cast of whacked out characters: a stoned out surfer astronaut who can’t drive his space shuttle; a new age yoga teacher from Brooklyn, and—in honor of her pregnancy—a Lamaze instructor from New Delhi. She begins hollering out birthing instructions in an Indian accent, making me laugh.

  “You’re great at those voices.”

  “You know who my idol is?” Chrissie says. “Lucille Ball. She’s my Instructor of Comedy.”

  I remember the posters on her apartment walls. It turns out Chrissie can do a wicked Lucy impression.

  “You sound just like her.”

  “I should. I watched ‘I Love Lucy’ my whole life. Or at least, I did when we had a TV.” She says it so easily that I figure I’m allowed to ask.

  “What do you mean? You didn’t always have a TV?”

  “Honey, sometimes we didn’t have food. We used to pick dandelions by the side of the road and cook ‘em up for dinner.”

  “Really?” I think of my uneaten hamburger, the one she took home, and shame sweeps over me again.

  “Yeah. But then we moved in with Judge Mayfair and his family.” Chrissie is matter-of-fact about it. “My momma’s a Domestic Engineer by profession. Housekeeper,” she adds when she sees me looking at her.

  “For six years I lived at the Mayfairs’ house with my momma. In their maid’s room.”

  “That must have been interesting.” I signal Ethyl for the bill and check my watch. Emily should be home by now. Unless Masters has sweet talked her into running away with him.

  “It worked out. I started helpin’ their cook, Jessie, all the time.”

  “So you learned how to cook and play Lucy Ricardo?”

  “And I learned how to play tennis. Beau taught me. The Mayfairs’ son. He’s two years older ‘n me.” Chrissie pulls a mirror and lipstick out of her purse and paints a pink mouth on herself.

  “What happened to him?” Besides fathering a baby.

  “Ole Miss and then law school. Meanwhile, I left home when I was eighteen to find fame and fortune in Hollywood!” She sweeps her arms out.

  “But you don’t wanna get out there and act, Ryan?” she asks. “I mean, you’ve lived in LA all your life.”

  “Not me.” I’d rather be shot execution-style than perform in front of people. I speak without thinking. “If I did anything in film, I’d go behind the camera.”

  “Like how? You mean directing?”

  I backtrack immediately. “Nah. I mean, I don’t really know.” It’s not something I think or talk about much. When your father is God, King, and Emperor all rolled up into one, you don’t usually assume you can follow in his footsteps.

  “So what do you like to do?” she says.

  That’s a good question. What I’ve done most of my life is drift around with Michael. After a minute, I say “I like to play tennis.”

  “Yeah, you’re really good, too,” she says. “I’ve seen you.” After a minute she asks, “Ben Swanson told me you used to train with him. How come you stopped?”

  “I dunno. Got tired of it, I guess.”

  “You’d be incredible if you worked at it.”

  Ethyl brings our bill, and I grab it.

  “Hey, I asked you!” She’s digging in her purse for her wallet.

  “I’ll pay.” I think of Chrissie’s hundred and forty nine dollars in the bank.

  “Well, thank you.” Her hand comes out of the purse holding a piece of paper. It’s a grainy out-of-focus picture of something unrecognizable.

  “It’s my ultra-sound picture. And look!” She points to a tiny nub protruding from this larger thing. “It’s a boy!”

  “Really?” I had already decided that, but it’s nice to have proof.

  “I’m naming him Michael.”

  That chokes me right up. As we walk out, I try to stop the burning behind my eyes by blinking my eyelids a bunch of times. I drop her off saying, “I’ll be in touch.”

  She’s naming him Michael. Wherever he is right now, I bet he liked hearing that.

  Chapter 31

  By now, even my parents have figured out I have a girlfriend.

  “So tell us a little about this young lady!” Dad
booms. He and Mom stand in the doorway to my bedroom. Mom’s purse is over her shoulder, and Dad’s wearing a jacket, holding his car keys.

  I put on my most sarcastic voice. “Don’t let me keep you from your important plans.”

  Dad counters with his determined-to-ignore-my-sarcasm face. “We have a few minutes before we have to leave.”

  They barge on into my room, Dad sitting in my desk chair while Mom perches on the edge of the bed.

  “Spill the beans,” Dad prompts.

  “Well, I’m getting good grades because of her.” I just got A’s on a Spanish quiz and a history assignment.

  “I like this girl already!” Dad says.

  I figure this is my chance to ask them. “She’s gotten me really interested in English history. As a matter of fact, there’s this summer program.” I describe it, stressing the intellectual discoveries and historical insights that await me in Merry Olde England.

  “Ryan, what a wonderful opportunity!” Mom claps her hands, while her bracelets clank together. She’s wearing leather pants.

  Dad nails me with a look. “And this girl’s going to England, too?”

  “Her name’s Emily.” I stare off into the distance.

  “Okay, so you’re going to be… studying history… with Emily? In England?”

  “Yes.”

  I catch a knowing look in his eye.

  “Alright, give us some information on this program, and we’ll think about it.” He’s onto me, but I can tell it’s a yes.

  “And we’d like you to bring Emily around for dinner one night.”

  “I’ll check our calendar and give you a date,” Mom says.

  “No problem.” All right! England here we come. I wait for them to leave, but they just sit there.

  “This is nice, having a chance to chat a little,” Mom says.

  Spare me. I stare at my framed poster of The Godfather, my favorite movie of all time. It’s personally autographed by Francis Ford Coppola. He’s friends with Dad. Ryan, it says. A chip off the old block. You’ll be giving me a run for my money one day.

  Yeah, right. I’ll probably be an unemployed derelict, lying around on my ass.

  “Well, I guess we’d better go.” Mom and Dad stand up. Of course, they’ll be gone all evening, while we stay with Ro.

  “Bye.” I turn my back on them, and after a minute they leave.

  • • •

  Mr. and Mrs. Wintraub have won four theater tickets at a raffle, and they’ve invited me and Emily along. I arrive in a sports jacket and tie and stand, chatting with them in their entry hall, while we wait for Emily. Eleanor smiles at me. “It’s good to see you again, Ryan.”

  I’m looking forward to an evening with Mr. Wintraub about as much as I would boot camp, or maybe oral surgery. I’m just hoping to get through the evening without pissing him off.

  Then, Emily comes down the stairs. I gawk at her. In this light, her eyes look intensely blue. Her dress has a low, round neckline, and her hair is up, showing off the back of her neck and her creamy, perfect shoulders.

  I hate how weird it is between us now. I wish things felt easy and simple again.

  Emily gets to the bottom of the stairs, and there is The Necklace. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wear it since the night I gave it to her.

  It glows against her skin. The simple white gold links pull your eyes toward them, while the heart, with its aquamarine in the center, points to the most kissable part of Emily’s throat. It looks rich and elegant. It looks expensive.

  She turns, smiling, to her parents, and so do I, and we both register the expression of shock on their faces.

  “Emily!” Eleanor says. “Where on earth…” She glances in my direction, then away.

  “Ryan gave it to me.” Emily’s smile fades as she looks from her mom to her dad and back.

  “What was the occasion?” Mr. Wintraub asks, his voice tight.

  Emily turns to me, a question mark on her face.

  I fumble for the right thing to say and don’t find it. “I don’t know, I just wanted to give her something,” I bleat.

  “How much did this cost?” Mr. Wintraub demands. We are still standing in their front entry. Mr. Wintraub’s practically standing toe-to-toe with me, jabbing his face into mine.

  “David! It doesn’t matter!” Eleanor puts a hand on his arm, but he pulls it away.

  “It does!” he says. “Emily can’t accept something like this. I don’t want her owing him.”

  “Mr. Wintraub,” I say. “Emily doesn’t owe me anything. It’s a gift. I paid for it from my savings account.”

  My eyes meet Eleanor’s, and she smiles at me in an encouraging way. She’s a cool lady. I wonder what she’s doing with this guy.

  “You wanted to give her a gift, so you went out and spent a small fortune from … what, your trust fund?” The way Mr. Wintraub says it makes it sound dirty, shallow. I can see myself through his eyes—a spoiled rich boy who uses money to buy people.

  And isn’t that in fact what I did? I wanted Emily to love me, so I bought her a crazy-expensive necklace, something that Mr. Wintraub could never afford to give Emily, or Emily’s mother, for that matter. And I did it with a four-figure wad of cash I had lying around, through no work or effort of my own. Ten minutes earlier, I had been proud of myself, proud that I had done something to show my girl what she meant to me. Now I’m ashamed of myself. I look at the floor, humiliated.

  “Dad!” I hear Emily now. “I know how Ryan meant this. He was telling me I mattered to him. That’s all. And it’s not his fault that he comes from a wealthy family. That’s your hang-up!”

  “I think I should go,” I say. I can’t believe that anyone wants to sit and chat at a restaurant right now.

  “Oh, so that’s your response?” Mr. Wintraub says. “Run away?”

  All of a sudden, I am looking at him from a great distance. He is edged in red.

  I force myself to take a deep breath, several of them. I count to five. Then, I speak carefully, choosing each word.

  “Mr. Wintraub, I really love your daughter, okay? She’s special to me.”

  I pause for a second, then continue. “She’s a beautiful person, and she deserves to have a beautiful necklace. If I can afford to give her one, what’s the harm in that?”

  A silence follows, while I have one of those weird moments where you think That was really awesome. I wonder who said that? And then you realize that it was you. I get over my shock and stare Mr. Wintraub down, defiant, no more polite-bowing-and-scraping Ryan. Now I’m giving him man-to-man-tell-it-like-it-is Ryan.

  I glance over at Emily, who sends me a look so scorching hot I’m afraid she’s going to ignite the draperies. Mr. Wintraub looks like he’s been sucking on lemons.

  “Well, shall we get going?” Eleanor’s voice is high and strained. Wordless, we walk out to the Wintraubs’ car to go to dinner.

  Should be a fun night.

  At the restaurant, Emily takes every chance she gets to hold my hand and gaze at me adoringly, which she knows will send her dad into fits of rage. His face is dangerously red, while a vein or something throbs in his temple. I can see it from across the table.

  Eleanor and I, the peace makers, make small talk like two lunatics, smiling too much and laughing too much. It’s a relief to go to the theater, and more of a relief to say good night and finally escape home.

  But Emily and I are back on the high burner again, hotter than ever.

  Chapter 32

  She and I go out to Venice Beach on a Friday afternoon. It feels so good to just be alone with her. We pull off our shoes and walk along in that uneven way you do down by the water, when the beach is slanted. Our fingers are interlaced and our feet sink deep with every step. I love the squawks of the seagulls and the beach sand between my toes. I feel myself relax, the nervous tension draining out of my neck and shoulders.

  It’s warm for January, but because it’s winter and the sun’s going down, the place is almos
t empty. We walk away from the water, find a patch of dry sand, then end up lying down. We kiss, and she presses her body against mine. My hand slides up under her shirt. We lie there for a while, fooling around, my hands moving under her clothes.

  As the sky darkens and we start to get cold, we walk back up the beach toward the boardwalk, with its stores and restaurants. I ask her “Are you hungry yet?”

  “Not really,” she says.

  “You want to get out of here? We’ll find a place to eat later.”

  My BMW’s in the shop, so I’m driving the extra car my family keeps for just such circumstances—a three year old Lexus sedan that Mom replaced with a new Jaguar.

  Mom’s Lexus is all alone in the deserted parking lot. I open the door to the back seat so we can throw in the sandy shoes we’re carrying.

  Emily gives me a playful push, saying “Climb in.” I do, my heart leaping like a jackrabbit.

  • • •

  We are lying together in my Mom’s sedan, on its wide back seat with its soft, expensive leather. I have my arms around Emily. I touch her shiny hair and put my face against her neck. I smell lavender and the salt of the ocean, as well as the leather of the car seats. A seat belt digs a hole in my hip, but it’s a small price to pay.

  I’m on my back, and she’s lying on top of me. We’re fully dressed, but I can feel her breasts, soft against my chest. I’m so turned on, I can hardly think.

  “I want to see you. I want to take off your clothes.” I can barely get the words out. The entire length of her body is pressed against mine, making coherent speech difficult. I close my eyes and try to think of a total turn off. Mr. Wintraub’s unsmiling face comes to mind.

  Light is shining in the windows onto Emily’s face. She looks like one of the angels they have in those paintings I’ve seen at the Louvre. She pulls back a little to look into my eyes.

  Almost out of my mind with wanting her, I slowly, painfully count to ten. I wonder if Mr. Wintraub owns any firearms. As I slide my hands up her back to unsnap her bra, our eyes meet.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she says. She looks as nervous as I’ve ever seen her.