Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  Later when we were alone, Emily sat next to me on the sofa in front of the tree, feet tucked beneath her. I had never seen her so content. I took her into my arms, and kissed her with all the complicated emotions I felt for her in that moment. “You move me.”

  She touched my lips with her fingertips, then smiled at me with anticipation. “Close your eyes.”

  “There’s more?”

  She laughed and slipped away.

  “What are you up to?” I expected some sexual romp to top off the evening. Emily dressed as one of Santa’s helpers, perhaps, straddling Santa next to the Christmas tree? After all the good of the holiday, I nearly laughed out loud at the thought that Emily was going to be a little bit bad.

  But as was my habit, I underestimated my wife.

  I took in the scent of pine and cranberry candles. Then I heard the sound, faint at first, slowly growing distinct. A chug, then another, until the whistle blew and I opened my eyes.

  Emily sat on the floor. She had removed the velvet tree skirt from around the Christmas tree, and underneath there was track waiting for her to place the train on to run.

  “Do you like it?”

  I could only stare.

  “I got you lots more track, and a bunch of different cars. You can fill the whole library with track and train.”

  Still I just sat there.

  “You hate it. It’s childish.”

  I could hear the disappointment in her voice, but I was frozen.

  She scrunched her shoulders. “It’s just that when you told me how much you wanted a train when you were young, one around a Christmas tree…”

  I looked at her, my throat working hard to swallow back what I hadn’t at first understood. I felt choked by emotion, amazement mixed with a foreign sense of embarrassment that I had given next to no thought to my wife’s Christmas gift.

  We made love that night with an intensity I hadn’t known existed. When she lay in my arms afterward, I stroked her hair. “You turned this apartment into a home,” I said. “You belong here. It should always be yours.”

  “It will be,” she said, kissing me. “We are going to grow old and gray here, with rocking chairs side by side.”

  I held her tight, something jarring me at the words. I hated the strange feeling, a strange fear of death I had always felt, but refused to examine.

  “No matter what happens to me,” I said, “I am deeding the apartment to you.”

  She went very still, then rose up on her elbow, her long hair sweeping my bare chest. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m giving you the apartment.”

  “Sandy, you don’t—”

  “Shhh,” I said, kissing her. “Merry Christmas, Emily. The apartment is my gift to you.”

  That was over two years ago now, and a lot had changed during that time. For one, I never got around to altering the deed. It was my feelings that had changed when I found I no longer wanted my wife.

  I was yanked out of my reverie, literally. All of a sudden, I heard Emily gasp, then yank my leash and bolt for the door.

  “What in tarnation?” I barked.

  “Quick, E!”

  I followed her, my little legs doing their best to keep pace, and just as we charged up the stone steps and inside, I caught the tiniest whiff of what I realized was the same human scent she had brought home with her the night before. But when I glanced back to see who it was, who she was clearly trying to avoid, the door had already swung shut.

  Back in the apartment, I went straight for the kitchen and lapped up water from the bowl on the floor. It was impossible not to make a mess with the tongue flailing about. I got nearly as much water on the floor and streaming down the front of me as in my mouth. But finally I was sated. In my towel bed in the corner, all I wanted was to sleep. But then there was Emily, making no effort to go to work as she returned to her station at the window and stared out.

  Heavy sigh.

  I dragged myself up and went to her.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice strained. She sank to the floor next to me, pulling me close despite my resistance. Her breath came in deep, gasping pulls, her face buried in my collar. She wanted something from me, but I hadn’t any idea what it was. Or perhaps if I am truthful, it was nothing I was willing to give.

  This went on for a good three days. Surreptitious inspection of hallways and courtyard on the way out, before dashing outside for obligatory walks, followed by rote distribution of my food and water. That, or quick jaunts to the Pioneer market a block away, from which she returned with everything needed to produce a staggering assortment of baked goods as if she planned to open her very own bakery. She made fruit pies and chocolate croissants, cupcakes and layer cakes with thick buttercream icing that piled up on counters and filled the pantry faster than she could eat them. There was not even a hint that she remembered she was actually employed at Caldecote Press.

  But if the days were bad, the nights were worse. When she first brought me home as Einstein, both of us had slept soundly. Since she found the journals, each night Emily woke up screaming. This was bad enough, but now something worse was happening, something harder to take.

  It was the scent that hit me the first time, bringing me out of a deep, dream-filled sleep. When I opened my eyes Emily was sound asleep on the floor next to me, wrapped in a thick comforter. Unsettled by her nearness and what it made me feel, I went to the library chair and slept there.

  The next night I wasn’t surprised when I found her on the floor next to me sound asleep, her eyelashes and cheeks wet, her hand holding my paw as if needing physical reassurance that she wasn’t alone. This time she was so close that if I had gotten up it would have woken her.

  I told myself I didn’t feel anything other than impatience that all the courage I admired had deserted her. Though really, whatever I felt hardly mattered. The situation gave me an idea as to how to help my wife, and in doing so, help myself.

  The next morning I rubbed against her leg, gave her puppy dog eyes, and even leaned against her like a lovelorn schoolboy. “Cheer up, woman,” I barked.

  She gave me a smile, distant, distracted, but she made no attempt to clean up and head for the subway.

  She wasn’t making my job easy.

  I huffed my frustration and started to leave her to her own devices, but yet again I had to ask, what good did that do me? I groaned. It was time to pull out the big guns. For all of the next day, then through the weekend, I did my best to charm her. I pranced on my hind feet, rolled over, sat close to her. But nothing helped. I even nudged her toward the kitchen counter and all those baked goods. When I turned back into a man, I still planned to divorce her. What did I care if she got fat?

  Sue me.

  On Monday morning, with no progress, I decided to take a different tack. I trotted into her bedroom, nosed into her closet, and started pulling out clothes. The shoes were easy; they were on the floor. The dress was harder, but after using my teeth to tug at the hem, it finally fell off the hanger.

  One way or another, the woman was going back to work.

  emily

  We are all imprinted by our mothers, that imprint luring us in like a friend or sometimes an enemy, causing us to become a carbon copy or a determinedly made original. We either embrace or reject, though the luckiest among us never realize there is an imprint at all.

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter thirteen

  “What in the world?” I managed.

  Einstein stood over a pile of my clothes, a pair of shoes, and my work satchel that he had dragged into the kitchen.

  He barked at me.

  “Go away,” I told him. Not that it did any good.

  With Einstein’s determined nudging, I got myself showered and dressed. I even boxed up the baked goods and headed for the door. After a crisp nod as if his work here was done, Einstein trotted over to a sliver of sun and curled up with a contented sigh as I headed out.

  I arrived at the Trigate
building late, though it hardly mattered. I had missed four days with nothing more than an e-mail to Nate Clarkson saying I’d had an emergency. I hadn’t responded to any e-mails or voice mails since.

  My attire was haphazard, though I only gathered this when Wanda, the full-figured African-American security guard at the main entrance raised a brow and said, “You get dressed in the dark, girl?”

  Glancing down, I tried to make sense of the bright yellow sweater over the brown-and-black floral dress, and the black loafers I normally wore with pants. I hardly remembered dressing at all, much less so badly. “It’s the latest style,” I said, rustling up a bag of German chocolate cupcakes and thrusting them into her hands.

  “Latest style for bag ladies, maybe.” She glanced inside the bag. “Though mmm-mmm, a mighty sweet bag lady.”

  I made it to my office without seeing anyone on my floor. After surreptitiously unloading the rest of the sweets in the break room, I tried to regain my control by diving into a manuscript. If closed doors in the workplace hadn’t been weird when you weren’t having a private conference or call, I would have shut mine to keep everyone out.

  I should have gone for weird.

  “You’re back.”

  I glanced up and found Victoria standing in the doorway. I managed a big, if forced, smile along with a reflexive squint. “Yep, I’m back. Got the emergency dealt with.”

  I might be struggling, but I was no fool. Not that it looked like she believed me.

  “Are you ready for the big meeting?” she asked.

  Big meeting?

  “You know about the big meeting, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Said with a scoff to cover the trepidation I felt over not having a clue.

  Had she been nice at all, she would have tossed me a bone and told me where the big meeting was being held. But this was Victoria. She left without giving me a hint. Fortunately, seconds later, the mass exodus of the Caldecote staff toward the main conference room made digging around in my e-mail for the lost, missed, or discarded big meeting memo unnecessary.

  Caldecote Press was a small publisher, more literary than mainstream in an age when mainstream was all most anyone cared about. I had always been proud of the fact that I had gotten a job with one of the few publishers who remained dedicated to books that mattered. What I frequently forgot was that Caldecote was owned by the media conglomerate, Trigate.

  Charles Tisdale had never succumbed to Trigate’s desire for us to publish big, commercial works of fiction or tell-all types of nonfiction. Charles had won the day by arguing that those books cost money to acquire, big money, the kind of money Trigate didn’t want to spend, at least not on its little publishing business.

  We had continued on our way, publishing award-winning work that got lots of attention for its importance but failed to consistently move books off store shelves. But every so often this mix produced a significant book that achieved blockbuster sales. Thankfully, the paradigm kept Caldecote out of bankruptcy, though never quite solvent.

  Every chair in the conference room was taken, the rest of us crowding around the perimeter to find out what was going on. Speculation ran rampant in the group of editors who stood on either side of me.

  Birdie nudged in beside me with a cupcake in her hand. “Have you tasted one of these? They are insane. Where’d they come from?”

  I shrugged.

  “What’s up? another editor asked.

  “Beats me,” Birdie responded, running her finger through the icing.

  Several of the younger editors looked at me. “What have you heard?”

  Somehow I had turned into a den mother for the younger women. Before Sandy’s death I had helped them with cover copy, letters to agents, brainstormed with them on ideas.

  I was saved from having to say I hadn’t heard a thing when Charles Tisdale walked in wearing his standard tweed jacket, khaki pants, and cordovan loafers. His gray hair was brushed back, his navy, burgundy, and forest green–striped bow tie perfectly tied.

  The room began to quiet, though a few hushed conversations continued as he headed for the front of the room. The second an unfamiliar woman walked in behind him you could have heard a pin drop.

  Birdie sucked in her breath. “Oh my God! That’s Tatiana Harriman. What’s she doing here?”

  The woman at the front of the room was petite, made taller by four-inch heels. Her hair was shoulder length, jet black, and cut so bluntly that it looked like it could slice paper. If I recalled correctly, Tatiana Harriman was fifty. I had read an exposé of her once, had seen a photograph. In person she looked younger, with the face and body of a thirty-five-year-old.

  “This can’t be good,” Birdie said.

  Nan Beeker grabbed my arm. “The rumor must be true!”

  “What rumor?”

  “That we’re getting sold,” Lori Monroe said.

  “I heard the same thing!”

  They all turned to me. “Even if we get sold, everything’s going to be fine, right, Emily?”

  Sold? Harriman? My sluggish brain tried to catch up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Charles said. “I have brought you here today to put rumors to rest. Many of you have heard that WorldPass Corporation has been courting Trigate.”

  “Yeah, for Trigate’s digital content,” someone muttered.

  A ripple of unease ran through the room.

  “Now, now,” Charles added calmly. “I am here to tell you that indeed Trigate and WorldPass have merged.”

  Tension buzzed through the room before someone blurted, “What’s going to happen to Caldecote?”

  “Please, stay calm,” Charles continued. “There is nothing to be concerned about. I have been assured that Caldecote Press is a priority.”

  “Yeah right,” someone scoffed.

  Tatiana Harriman glanced around the room like a teacher surveying her class, as if trying to put faces with outbursts.

  “To show their commitment to Caldecote, WorldPass has brought in Tatiana Harriman to head our prestigious publishing house.”

  Tatiana straightened and smiled, indifferent to the mouths that dropped open at the news.

  “No way,” someone said.

  “That’s insane,” another added.

  “People, people,” Charles said, attempting to speak over the growing cacophony of unhappy voices.

  “I’m a dinosaur,” he said, flashing the kind smile I had grown to love. If it hadn’t been for him, I was certain I’d still be an associate editor underneath Victoria. It was Charles who had shown me the ropes, pulling me into meetings so I could learn the things Victoria refused to teach me.

  “My way of publishing books is antiquated. As of today, I am stepping down as president of Caldecote Press—though I will remain on as a consultant for as long as Tatiana needs me.”

  From the look that crossed her face, I was sure Tatiana Harriman believed she didn’t need anyone. Ever.

  “And now I have the privilege to introduce you to Ms. Tatiana Harriman.”

  Charles pulled note cards from his breast pocket, then found his reading glasses. Not that a speech was needed. Everyone in the room already knew the legend that was the woman.

  She had been the youngest editor-in-chief of the big British tabloid magazine, Sass, before it was gobbled up by WorldPass, who promoted her to head up House of Mirth magazine in the U.S. In record time she had turned the struggling monthly into a thriving must-read, before WorldPass trotted her over to their foundering Chronicles, the literary magazine that made no money but was often quoted by world leaders.

  WorldPass contended that she saved the magazine, while the staff writers swore she ruined it. Not that it mattered. Now she was here, at Caldecote Press, and it didn’t take a genius to understand that she was here with a mandate that we start making money.

  I shuddered at the thought. Ruth’s Intention was on the verge of failing. Victoria wanted me to take a fall. My motherin-law wanted to take my home away from me. And as it turne
d out, my husband had been having a string of affairs before he died. Was it possible my life could get any worse?

  Birdie glanced at me. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

  I forced a smile. “Sure. I’m fine.”

  But when I straightened, Tatiana Harriman was looking right at me.

  *

  First thing the next morning, Victoria came into my office. Somehow I had managed to dress in a skirt and blouse that went together, and even managed to wash my hair. I hadn’t baked nearly as much the night before, though not as much was still a lot by anyone else’s standard, and I had managed to sneak most of that into the break room again.

  “I adore Tatiana!” Victoria beamed.

  “Tatiana?”

  “Ms. Harriman to you. By the bye,” she continued, “did you see the memo she sent out yesterday? The one about the importance of good health, eating well, and the mental benefits of dressing powerfully for work? The one that said that whoever was bringing all the cupcakes needed to stop?”

  I must have looked as confused as I felt, not to mention a tad uncomfortable since I knew exactly who was bringing the cupcakes.

  Victoria shook her head at me. “Do you even read your e-mail these days? Anyway, we’re supposed to take care of ourselves, eat healthfully, and dress as befits people who work in offices, not college campus coffee shops.”

  “She said that?”

  “I added the part about college campus coffee shops.” Victoria shrugged. “I think it’s a great idea. When Charles was here, everyone and their brother took Casual Fridays way beyond Friday, not to mention way beyond acceptable attire. I’ve never been so shocked as the day Lori Monroe pranced in here with a belly ring showing.”

  Victoria had no piercings, belly or otherwise. Not that I was one to cast stones. I had been as surprised as Victoria when Lori came to the office, midriff bare. But that was hardly the point. The message of Tatiana’s e-mail was clear: I couldn’t afford to miss any more work, I needed to stop baking, and I needed to find a way to make Ruth’s Intention succeed.

  Victoria left, and I dove into work. My voice mail was overflowing, my e-mail ready to explode. There were several messages marked urgent, including the infamous big meeting memo, though most were from the production head wanting a manuscript I’d been going through, checking the author changes.