Emma's Table (2 page)

He smiled to himself, secretly proud of his celebrity attachment.

He pictured his lady boss, smiling out falsely from every
television set and glossy magazine in the land. Emma paid him twenty-five dollars an hour—nearly twice what he earned at PS 431.

I'd better get going, he thought, or I'll be late.

Benjamin didn't move a muscle though. He just exhaled deeply and watched his breath curl away off into the sky, like a wisp of smoke from a chilly cigarette. When he turned away from the window, his reflection flashed back at him in the glass—quick as lightning, then it was gone. He twirled back again to find it, but without much luck. So he took a small step forward, and turned the whole damned window into a mirror—a full story high and a city block long. Benjamin studied his face in earnest then: the deep green eyes and wavy brown hair, the long sharp nose that looked best from straight on—not beaky at all.

Benjamin's fingers were nearly frozen by then—even inside his thick suede gloves, they felt as if they might snap off. So he walked on, past all that plate glass, only sneaking oblique glances at himself in profile, just like everyone else in the world. He went so far as placing a tentative foot on the black rubber pad that sent the store's automatic doors swinging inward—as if it might read his heart through the sole of his shoe—but those doors stayed closed to him this morning.

Still not opening time, he guessed—which made it easier for him to keep walking, straight down to Lafayette Street and to Emma Sutton, his difficult part-time employer.

She'd arranged to meet him at the fancy new auction house there.

In truth, Benjamin was quite fond of Emma. She surprised him too, from time to time anyway. She actually seemed to
take account of him, which was more than his own mother ever had; and the so-called work she asked him to do was a joke compared with his day job. He made dinner reservations and called people on the phone; supervised the workmen and her ever-changing travel arrangements; kept her stocked in shiny black Town Cars and steaming cups of coffee, no matter where she might be. And as silly as it was, Benjamin took pride in his work. He liked to get things right; he wanted to please her.

Occasionally, she seemed to appreciate the effort.

But she'd never asked him to an auction before. He worried about what she'd need him to do there.

Benjamin was walking quickly then, and not just for fear of antagonizing Emma. Lafayette Street was a bitter wind tunnel that morning. It was just two more blocks, but he knew they were long ones; and neither the tall buildings on either side of him nor the clear, sunny sky was doing a thing to cut the frigid wind at his back. He heard a sort of clattering behind him—not quite footsteps, but persistent—and right on his tail. He turned to find an empty coffee cup swirling in the wind, following him almost. He kept walking, and somehow the little cup kept pace, bouncing along the sidewalk in the wind. He tried going faster even—just to see—rooting for that cup every second. When the scraping sound grew faint, in fact, he slowed down a little, let the thing catch up with him again.

Benjamin checked his watch, and felt nearly confident for a change. It was before nine still. He might even make it to the auction house first. He let the pleasure of beating Emma to the punch wash over him like a blast of steam from a subway grate. He closed his eyes for just a second. When he
opened them again, he saw the little blue cup swirling out into the street.

He felt an icy slap at the side of his face when he stepped into the intersection, his overcoat flapping in the opposite direction. He watched the cup blowing wildly in the wind, sure to be run over in a matter of seconds.

Benjamin opened the auction house door.

 

JUST ABOUT THEN, A LITTLE GIRL ACROSS THE
river—Gracie Santiago—wedged herself tightly into the crook of a tweedy brown sofa. She spread her work onto the coffee table in front of her: ten sheets of red construction paper and a pair of safety scissors, a booklet of silver-foiled stickers and golden stars, a tub of white paste. Off to the side—sequestered safely from the rest—lay a baby blue envelope, stuffed to the gills and closed up tight, its metallic bunny ears bent back against the flap.

Gracie was making Valentine cards. The holiday was just a week away.

Her mother had suggested a box of cards from the grocery store, but Gracie dismissed that idea out of hand. She knew she had to do better than that. So she begged her grandfather for art supplies instead. He was a much softer touch than her mother ever was, especially when he picked her up from school. There was practically nothing he'd refuse her then, not if she asked him right, anyway. Gracie smiled down at the proof in front of her—all the supplies she'd ever need.

Back when she was a first-grader, two years before, Valentine's Day had been easy as pie. She'd given store-bought cards to every kid in class, and she'd received nearly as many
in return—one from every girl and most of the boys. She'd followed the same approach the very next year, copying out all her classmates' names, even the ones who weren't so nice, and the ones who hadn't given her a card the year before. The results had come as a terrible surprise, like falling off a cliff. Gracie received just a handful of cards in return, and not a single one from the Skinny Girls—the pretty ones who sat together at lunch, ruling the roost at PS 431.

People seemed to be growing meaner by the second.

Maybe if I was skinny too? she thought.

Gracie looked down at her pajamas—a riot of creamy ponies on a pink flannel field. She couldn't help but see how her body pulled those horses tight, the rolls of fat that strained at the seams. She'd heard of third-graders who hadn't received a single Valentine, their handmade bins, folded from sheets of white notebook paper, hanging empty from the sides of their desks.

Gracie was sick with worry.

She looked vaguely in the direction of the television set. How she'd love to turn it on. Forget all about Valentine's Day and her stupid red cards; just watch a Saturday-morning show instead. But Gracie wasn't allowed to touch the television until her mother woke up, so she only stared at the glassy black screen, as if a very dull program were on just then, her little mouth falling open.

She'd nearly forgotten her plan.

She picked up a sheet of construction paper and folded it neatly in half. Gracie was going to make beautiful Valentines for every single third-grader—even the mean ones, and those few who were less popular than she was herself. She'd hand them out the day
before
Valentine's Day. Maybe when her
classmates saw how nice she was, when they realized all the trouble she'd gone to—making them all such pretty cards—maybe then they'd see that she deserved one too?

It could happen, she thought.

Her grandfather thought it could.

Gracie picked up the scissors and cut five half hearts, guiding the safety blades around the tidy red fold. Then she opened them up—those mirror-image hearts—glittering them liberally and jeweling them with foil, until they twinkled beneath the overhead lights. She opened up the baby blue envelope next, pulling out photos of the same pretty blonde: Paris Hilton, a hundred times. Gracie was wild about the girl, her straight blond hair and toothpick frame. She cut out every picture she could find—some of them smudgy on cheap newsprint and others shining back at her from magazine stock. She pasted a picture onto every red heart, right at the center, its absolute place of honor; and at the moment of pressing her fat thumb down, gluing Paris Hilton onto Valentine cards, Gracie couldn't imagine that her plan might fail.

She thought of Missy Hendricks, with her pretty pink face and long blond hair—the third grade's answer to Paris Hilton, a classroom of girls kowtowing to her all day long. Missy reigned over PS 431 with an iron fist, heading up the posse of Skinny Girls, deciding everybody's fate.

Missy ignored her mostly, and her minions followed suit.

But not always, Gracie thought.

Missy had approached her at recess one day, not long before—just after Christmas, a month or so back. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Gracie could picture that blond hair still, like the wispy fluff inside corn on the cob, fluttering in the very smallest of
breezes. Missy leaned into Gracie as she spoke that day, and her long hair leaned along with her, in a perfect, swinging plane.

I should have known better, Gracie thought.

She could remember the way Missy smelled—of apples and cinnamon, like the dark red candle her mother kept on the kitchen counter.

Gracie popped up from the sofa and began fiddling with the elastic at her waist. It dug into her round tummy.

The thought of Missy Hendricks made her nervous.

She began smoothing the ponies on her flannel thighs, petting them. Gracie walked into the kitchen—lifting her feet high with every step, a little like a pony herself. She didn't want her mother to hear. She wasn't allowed to eat anything before breakfast. She opened the refrigerator and basked in its chilly white light—just looking at what there was to eat.

Gracie thought back to the playground in spite of herself.

She'd been wearing her brand-new parka that day at recess when Missy singled her out. It was a Christmas present from her mother, her favorite one—that puffy coat in fire-engine red. She'd thought it was odd, even at the time: What would Missy want with me? But Gracie brushed her doubts aside. It was Missy Hendricks, after all, the truest of queen bees. She was only too happy to trail in the pretty girl's wake, following her to that corner of the playground where the gym jutted out. It was private back there, where the popular kids played.

Gracie discovered a gang of kids on the other side. They began laughing and snickering as soon as she appeared.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Missy announced—talking into her clenched fist as if it were a handheld mike, “may I present Gracie Santi-HOG-o.”

Everyone laughed.

Gracie turned to leave. She should have known better. But Missy grabbed the sleeve of her coat, and the other kids—about a dozen or so—joined in the fun.

“Santi-HOG-o,” they cheered, “Santi-HOG-o.”

Gracie pulled away from Missy, but an older boy pushed her down onto the pavement before she could escape. She was afraid her downy coat might rip.

“Santi-HOG-o,” the boys screamed. “Go back to the barn!”

Things got worse by the second. They all began rushing then—laughing and screaming and oinking like pigs. The boys made a ring around her, and Gracie was trapped on the ground beneath them. She tried to stand, but it was no use: there was always another boy to push her back down. So she closed her eyes, and kept them shut. Gracie prayed that she could wait them out—all their shouting and cursing too.

And then they went silent in the blink of an eye.

Perfectly quiet, Gracie remembered.

She knew they were there still, but something had happened to shut them up. Gracie opened her eyes slowly. It was Miss Watson, her teacher, looking as angry as she'd ever seen her.

“What's going on here?” she barked.

Gracie thought her heart might break.

She loved Miss Watson with all her might. The last thing she wanted was for her to see her like this, to know—for certain—how unpopular she was. Gracie felt terribly ashamed.

“Get out of here,” Miss Watson said in a furious voice, yelling at the boys who were circled around her, the gang of Skinny Girls hanging off to the side. “I'll deal with you later,” she promised.

The children scattered to the winds.

Miss Watson helped Gracie to her feet. “Are you all right?” she asked, in her kindest voice. Gracie nodded, brushing the dust from the sleeves of her bright red parka. She kept her eyes averted, afraid she might cry—and not because of the kids on the playground. Gracie didn't care about them.

Well, that's not true, she thought.

She cared about them plenty, just not as much as she cared about Miss Watson. “I'm fine,” Gracie said.

She didn't want her teacher to think she was a loser.

“What happened here, Gracie?” Miss Watson asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I just fell down.”

“Gracie?” Miss Watson said to her—her voice filled up with disbelief.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Really.”

She'd rather have Miss Watson think she was a liar than know the truth about her. And no matter how many times she asked, Gracie would never change her tune. She'd never tell on Missy Hendricks, or those fifth-grade boys who pushed her onto the ground. She'd be as silent as a jungle gym, keeping her shameful playground secret until the day she died.

Gracie closed the refrigerator door.

There was nothing good to eat. There never was.

So she sneaked a pinch of oatmeal from the canister on the counter—all dry and flaky—and a clump of brown sugar from the cabinet by the sink. Then she ground them together in the palm of her hand, running a chubby finger over the sticky granules and sharp flakes. Gracie popped the concoction straight into her mouth. It tasted like heaven to her—so hard and sweet, like an oatmeal cookie almost.

And her mother would never suspect a thing.

 

WHEN BENJAMIN WALKED THROUGH THE FRONT
door of FitzCoopers, Emma was the first thing to catch his eye. She
is
Emma Sutton, he thought. There was no getting around that. She also happened to be the only one in furs. A long, silvery chinchilla hung down from her shoulders—its wide sleeves empty, as if she were a double amputee. He could make out a tweedy gray pantsuit beneath it. He knew there was an outsized handbag dangling from the crook of her arm. He knew it just as well as he knew his own name. It was simply hidden from view at the moment, beneath a drapery of fur, like an expensive leather secret.

At least it's cold outside, he thought.