Emma's Table (23 page)

Benjamin turned up at four thirty every Sunday, biding his time until Emma came to collect him. Sometimes he rehearsed his weekly report, but he didn't need to today. He was thoroughly prepared already. He wasn't much interested in the rest of the apartment: her high-tech library and the countless formal rooms, all that Bauhaus like so much upholstered currency—only traded at auctions, but never sat in at all.

Benjamin preferred the kitchen by far.

He'd always preferred kitchens, ever since he was a boy; and he was hopeful still of stumbling onto the kitchen of his dreams: a snug little room no bigger than a minute, with flowery paper on the walls and steamy windows from the everlasting warmth—a batch of muffins in the oven maybe, or a pot of soup on the boil.

It must have been from a movie, or some television show.

He could picture the nook where the family took its cozy suppers. It wasn't about architecture though; he knew that.

Benjamin resigned himself to Emma's breakfast table—a chilly sea of white Carrera marble in the corner of the room.

He found Tina Santiago sitting on the navy banquette.

“Whoa!” he cried.

Tina rolled her eyes as if he'd made a bad joke.

Benjamin couldn't have been more surprised if he'd found his own mother sitting there—or June Cleaver, raised up from the dead. “Jesus, Tina,” he said. “What are you doing here?!”

She couldn't possibly have any business with Emma, could she?

“Are you here for me?” he asked.

“Why would I be here for you?” she replied.

He heard the trace of backbone in her voice; he saw it in the set of her mouth too, as if she'd applied a steely coat of lipstick. Benjamin was confused, and impressed by her nerve. He felt more than a little guilty at the sight of her: he'd thought so often of her yellow papers since their difficult meeting at the beginning of the week—Tina's battered food log. They came back to him, over and over; he couldn't get them out of his eyes, those six wrinkled pages with their pale blue lines.

He'd begun to second-guess himself almost as soon as he'd gotten home that night. Tina was clearly the likeliest source of Gracie's junk food—he wasn't discounting that—but he'd behaved as if it were a foregone conclusion. He owed his clients better than that—the benefit of the doubt, at least.

Benjamin knew he'd fallen down on the job.

He'd let himself become identified with Gracie, turning the girl into a chubby little version of himself, and Tina into his own mother—her attention fixed firmly on herself. His compassion had evaporated like a puddle of water in high desert air. But Tina was suffering too, her scrupulous food log should have made that plain, and his proposed solution—shuttling her off to a shrink with a sharp elbow of blame—had no doubt hurt her even more.

He pledged to make it up to her.

“Are you here to see Emma?” he asked her kindly.

“Didn't she tell you?” Tina replied.

“Tell me what?” he said. “Who?”

He heard a laugh track tumbling out of the maid's room next door, all saccharine and canned. He peeked in, expecting to find the housekeeper, but he saw Gracie instead, sitting cross-legged in an easy chair, watching cartoons in a shiny yellow dress. She looked like a taffeta piñata, stuffed to bursting with sweets.

Nothing was making any sense.

“I work here now,” Tina announced.

Benjamin wondered if she was lying. But there she was, as plain as day. She'd never have made it past Emma's building security if it wasn't true.

But doesn't she work at a candy factory? he thought.

He was sure she did, that he'd read it in Gracie's file.

“What's going on here?” he asked finally, staring at her as if he were lost in the forest and she a vaguely familiar elm.

“Didn't she tell you I was coming?” Tina asked.

He shook his head from side to side.

But he'd heard the ring of truth in her voice. Benjamin didn't say another word; he waited for Tina to explain.

“After our last meeting,” she told him, her eyes flashing at the memory of it, “I was crawling out of my skin. I didn't know what to do.”

Benjamin nodded his head.

He could picture that. He hadn't been nice to her at all.

“It was after hours,” she told him. “So I called your emergency number, the one you wrote on the back of your card. I had to speak to you.”

Benjamin could understand that too, but it still didn't account for her turning up here.

“I called four or five times,” she said, “and finally a woman picked up. She said she was your boss.”

But Spooner's my boss, he thought.

It took him a moment longer to understand: it was Emma—his tiny cell phone in her capable hands. He remembered the night she'd found it.

“I told her everything,” she said, “and she offered to meet us the next day.” Just my luck, he thought. “I couldn't believe it was Emma Sutton,” she told him, cracking a smile, in spite of herself. “And she believed me,” Tina said. “She knew I didn't do anything to Gracie.”

She paused then—waiting for him to jump in.

“I didn't, you know,” she said, looking straight at him.

“I know,” he mumbled—so softly that she might not have heard him.

The expression in her eyes was the final argument in her favor. No one could fake despair like that. “I know,” he repeated, a little louder that time.

Better safe than sorry, he decided. He didn't want to hurt her any more than he already had.

“She promised to get to the bottom of it,” Tina said.

He heard the blind faith in her voice. He didn't blame her. If he were in her place, he might feel just the same.

If anyone can fix a problem, he thought, it's Emma.

He gazed across the table at her—trim and pretty in a black sweater, her wavy hair long and loose. It was as if he hadn't seen her since that very first day at the principal's office, when he tried to pick her up on that long wooden bench.

He smiled at the thought of how differently all this might have turned out.

“She gave me a job too,” Tina said.

“As what?” he asked. Now she was hitting close to home.

“Her assistant,” she said, smiling up at him.

My
job, Benjamin thought, the resignation weighing him down. He'd been sacked already by the sound of things. His feelings were hurt, of course, but he couldn't help seeing the justice of it.

“I gave notice at the plant already,” she told him.

Benjamin looked across the room, gazing deep into Emma's fancy oven—a light glowing softly from the inside. It looked like a long tunnel to him—like a passage to China, or the end of the world. He wished he could crawl inside it.

“Congratulations,” he said, trying for cheerful. He wouldn't go down as a poor loser, at least.

“And she's made an appointment for us already,” Tina said. “With the best endocrinologist in town.” She rolled right past him, like a rubber ball down a red dirt road. “He's going to run every test there is,” she added, her pure excitement shining through. “And if that doesn't work,” she said, “Emma promised that we'll keep going until we find the thing that does.”

Benjamin walked to the sink for a glass of water.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, letting the cool water run over his fingers. He looked down the drain as he spoke.

“You think?” she asked, dripping with sarcasm.

“I know you won't believe it,” he said, turning back to her, “but I was only trying to help.”

Tina's look confirmed that he was right: she didn't believe him at all.

Benjamin stayed right where he was—in watery exile at
the stainless steel sink. This kitchen was Tina's kingdom now. They looked each other up and down, neither of them knowing quite what to do—not until Gracie settled the question for them, walking in with a big crystal bowl in her hands. It was filled up with candy.

“Mr. Blackman!” she said, walking straight up to him and presenting the bowl. “The reds are sweet,” she explained, “and the greens are sour.”

Benjamin saw her fingertips dyed to match—sweet and sour both.

He took a green one.

“Where did you get those?” Tina asked sharply.

“From the lady,” Gracie said, sounding a little vague. She looked down at her patent leather shoes.

“Put them back where you found them,” Tina said. “Please.”

Gracie pouted her way out of the room. “And no more candy,” Tina added, turning back to Benjamin and blushing fiercely.

“I didn't give them to her,” she said, looking guilty all over again.

“I know that,” he told her.

“You do?” she asked, a little surprised.

“Of course I do,” he said. He watched the relief washing down her face. He studied it for a moment longer. “I made a real hash of it with Gracie,” he said. “I'm sorry for that.”

Tina walked to the oven and peeked inside.

He felt a pang of nostalgia: he'd probably never set foot in this kitchen again.

“We're a tough case,” Tina told him, gazing into the oven still. “I know that.”

“Who isn't?” Benjamin replied.

She smiled a little.

“I don't know what scares me more,” Tina said, turning around to face him then. “The prospect of your beating up on me still, or your leaving us alone.”

She leaned up against Emma's fancy blue oven.

“I don't know how to help her,” she admitted.

Benjamin couldn't believe he'd ever doubted her. He saw then—as plain as day—that Tina felt guilty because she couldn't
fix
her daughter's problems, not because she'd caused them.

“Stick with Emma,” he told her. “She'll get you the help you need.”

Benjamin supposed he should probably get going. No one there had much use for him anymore.

“I didn't want her at first,” Tina told him. “The baby, I mean. I was only eighteen years old,” she said, “just a baby myself. I wasn't near ready to be a mother.”

Benjamin stood where he was. Tina wasn't finished with him yet.

“I was furious at her father,” she said. “And at myself even more.”

Tina didn't owe him any explanation, but Benjamin supposed she was entitled to tell her side of the story.

“But that all changed as soon as we got her home,” she said. “It all made perfect sense to me then.
Gracie
was the reason I'd worked hard in school, the reason I'd kept my nose clean.”

Benjamin hadn't imagined any of this.

“I could never hurt her,” she said, sounding mystified at the very notion.

He hadn't even tried to imagine it.

“I wanted to help her so badly,” he said. Benjamin looked Tina straight in the eye. He needed her to know it was the truth. “I know that's no excuse,” he said. “Meaning well.”

“It's a start,” she told him.

Benjamin felt his face softening and his shoulders wilting down. He didn't understand why she was being so nice. I wouldn't be, he thought, if our places were reversed.

He supposed it was the mother in her.

“You screwed up,” she said. “That's all. It could have been bad, but it turned out fine.” Tina looked around the fancy kitchen. “I wouldn't be here,” she said, “if it wasn't for you.”

She walked back to the marble table.

“A new job for me,” she said. “And specialists for Gracie.”

“I know,” he replied. “But it shouldn't have to work like that.”

“Listen,” she said, sitting down at the banquette. “You should take my old job if you only want things to go right.”

Benjamin squinted back at her. He didn't understand.

“Those chocolates come out perfect every time,” she said.

She was very beautiful.

“But the rest of the world isn't like that—all cut-and-dried, good or bad.”

Benjamin sat down too.

“So we keep on going,” she said. “You patch yourself up and move along.” She made it sound nearly true. “It's not like we have a choice,” she told him, shrugging her shoulders and wrinkling her nose.

Benjamin looked out the kitchen window onto Emma's stunning view of Central Park. He wished he could take Tina and Gracie outside for a walk. It turned out he liked Tina Santiago—very much, in fact.

He almost forgave her for stealing his job right out from under him.

“So you're taking over this weekend?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, as if she were surprised. “The weekends are
yours
,” she told him.

Now Benjamin was confused.

“I'm Monday to Friday,” she said. “
You've
got the weekends, just like before.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked—if he hadn't been fired.

“Because Emma asked me to come,” she said, a little proudly. “She wants me to hear your weekly report and join you all for dinner.”

 

BY THE TIME CASSY WALKED INTO CENTRAL PARK—
about an hour or so later—the dusky afternoon was settling into darkness. The swooping succession of silver-toned streetlamps, dotted over hill and dale, flickered on in a single stroke. Cassy was nearly breathless at the abracadabra of so many lights switching on at once. She'd never suspected Central Park of any showmanship at all. To her, it was like a big, fake plant—a rubber tree made of rubber, or an orchid cut from silk: just more of the city masquerading as countryside.

She could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually set foot in the place—usually at someone else's behest, and never, of course, at night. But she had to admit, the effect was amazing: all those lamps interrupting the darkness, like dozens of moons glowing overhead.

She nearly slipped on a patch of ice.