Emma's Table (9 page)

Tina gazed back at Gracie's bed, as if to change the subject.

It wasn't just the dress. She saw a pair of bobby socks, all snowy white with lacy yellow edging, and a pair of patent leather shoes, their shiny toes peeking out from under the bed.

You'd think she was going to a wedding, Tina thought.

She began to have misgivings about the Diet Club. She knew that Benjamin wanted them to go. It might be useful for a concerned mother, but Gracie was only a child. What could they possibly do there, she wondered, that would be worth a damn to her? Talk about calories and exercise?

She pictured cautionary filmstrips about the lives of fat children.

Tina saw a long yellow ribbon dangling over the edge of the bed, not quite touching the floor. Gracie liked to wear it in her hair.

Her heart sank deeper.

She wasn't taking her daughter to the Baptist church that night; she knew it in a flash. She wasn't going to sit her in a room brimming with fat kids. Tina might not have a solution to Gracie's problem yet; she might not have a diagnosis even, but that was her problem, not Gracie's. She was going to shield her daughter from places like the Diet Club, and Benjamin Blackman could go straight to hell if he didn't like it.

Gracie didn't need to be told she was fat.

It's not exactly breaking news, Tina thought.

The little girl was already powerfully aware of her body, she was sure of that much—ashamed of the rolls of fat that showed when she sat in the bathtub, the way she towered over her classmates on the playground at school.

How could she not be? Tina wondered.

She wasn't going to rub her nose in it, not any more than she already had.

“Mommy?” the girl asked softly.

Tina looked down at her.

“Can you turn that frown upside down?” she asked, repeating a line from one of her favorite television shows.

Tina was instantly sorry she'd let her concern show.

She looked back at Gracie, as if weighing the request—tapping an index finger against her chin. “You know,” Tina said, dragging it out, as if she could go either way, “I think I
can
turn my frown upside down”—all the words coming out in a rush. She made a funny face too: a big, toothy smile, and her eyes as wide as she could manage.

Gracie giggled.

Tina sat down on the floor beside her and wrapped an arm around her daughter's shoulder.

“I'm sorry about the cookies, Mommy.”

“That's okay,” she said. Tina meant it too: the cookies were perfectly okay. She watched confusion bloom on her daughter's face. She must have thought she'd be in trouble.

“Are they good?” she asked.

Gracie nodded with enthusiasm, a cheerful smile peeking out.

“
That
good?” Tina asked, sounding impressed. “Well, pass them over then,” she said, taking the box of cookies from Gracie's outstretched hand. She plucked one out and ate it thoughtfully. “Mmm,” she hummed—not bad at all.

She was going to have to talk to her father again about giving the girl sweets.

Gracie burrowed a little deeper into her mother's body.

Tina felt proud of her close escape, grateful that she'd let the awkward moment pass. Why should she be angry? Because the little girl was hungry? Because she wanted a cookie?

Tina decided something else then too, which had been a long time in coming: there had to be something wrong with the girl, physically wrong. Gracie wasn't fat because she sneaked the occasional gingersnap, or a dozen of them—and Blackman and that bitch school nurse should stop blaming and start helping. They'd be hearing from her, she thought, a burst of confidence shining through.

She offered the girl a cookie.

Gracie shook her head warily.

She probably wants it too, Tina thought, relieved that the girl hadn't taken her up on her offer. She closed the box up tight.

“I've got some good news and some bad news,” Tina said. “Which would you like first?”

“Bad, please,” Gracie announced, without the slightest hesitation, her face composed, ready for the worst.

“I'm afraid the party's canceled,” she said. It was the easiest out she could imagine.

Gracie looked unmoved. “Why?” she asked, her voice flat.

“You know,” Tina replied, “I'm not exactly sure. I'm sorry though. I know you were looking forward to it.”

“Not really,” Gracie said.

“Is that true?” Tina asked.

Gracie nodded. “I was looking forward to dressing up,” she said.

“I can see that,” Tina told her, motioning toward the finery on the bed.

Gracie looked at the dress with a little sigh.

“What's the good news?” she asked.

“Well, I thought we could go down to the Rec Center and have ourselves some fun,” Tina said—inventing her good news on the fly, the same way she'd devised the bad. “We could go swimming if you want?”

“Swimming in
winter
?” Gracie cried, giggling at the very idea.

Tina nodded, smiling, squeezing her daughter's arm with pleasure. “So what do you think of that idea?” she asked.

“I think that's very, very, very good news,” Gracie said.

Tina stood up and walked toward the bed. She picked up the yellow dress on its sweetly scented hanger and danced it back to the closet, her daughter watching her every step. She twirled the taffeta, flicking it out in front of her—like a bullfighter's cape in canary yellow.

Gracie was transfixed.

Tina prayed that the pool would be open.

 

EMMA SLID THE ROASTING PAN BACK INTO THE
oven, switching off the interior light with a flourish that looked a little like victory. She walked to the dining room to check on the table she'd set earlier that day.

“Oh,” she cried, nearly bumping into Bobby when she pushed though the swinging service door—its useless little porthole window about six inches too low for her, or anyone other than a smallish child, ever to see through properly.

“Sorry, dear,” he said.

He held his palm flat against the far side of the door. He wouldn't let her push another inch until he'd gotten himself out of its swinging path.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.

She hadn't heard him come back in.

Emma watched him gazing at the dining table. It was beautifully set, of course, but she knew Bobby well enough to know that he wouldn't care about that. She watched a mystified look take hold of his handsome face. He wasn't worried about serving pieces, or whether she'd remembered the bread plates. Emma didn't have the faintest idea what Bobby was doing in the dining room then, but she knew with certainty that they were on different errands there.

“Who's coming to dinner?” he asked finally, smiling like a child—her answer the toy surprise waiting for him at the bottom of a cereal box.

“It's
Sunday
,” Emma said—to remind him.

But Bobby looked puzzled still. She gazed at his strong features—the deep-set eyes and Roman nose; she watched him worrying his lower lip with his two front teeth. He had no idea.

“Cassy,” she told him, only slightly surprised by the chill in
her voice. “Your daughter comes to dinner on Sunday nights.” Emma's surprise led quickly to hurt, which was just a brief pit stop on the road to anger.

“Honestly!” she huffed.

She didn't want to make too big a fuss about it, but Cassy had been coming to dinner every Sunday night since Bobby moved back in.

Emma needed to change the subject.

She began surveying the table instead, counting the number of settings she'd laid. But she couldn't quite turn the page. Look at him, she thought, taking her husband in—that luxurious mane of curly hair.

Does he even
care
? she wondered.

She hoped he did.

Maybe he was confused? She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Emma checked the napkins then, scouting for wrinkles. She liked a crisp fold. Checking the table always made her feel better.

But how do you forget a thing like that, she wondered—the same dinner, with the same people, every single week? She felt her anger rising up like a tide, its undertow of sadness eddying right beneath the surface.

He probably has to cancel a date with one of his little cupcakes, she thought, her anger seeping out.

Emma had a strong desire to speak again, though she had nothing particular to say, nothing that Bobby wouldn't have heard a thousand times before. She only wanted the feeling of something sharp passing her lips.

Not now, she decided, dragging herself back from the edge of speech, gripping her anger and drawing it close—a silent bride with a fiery bouquet.

Emma felt proud of her tact.

Back in the old days, she used to give way to cyclonic temper tantrums, earth-changing eruptions she hoped might force her husband's hand. Why can't he give me the respect I deserve? That's all Emma wanted to know. It was like the title track of a well-worn record album with her. She knew its flip side just as well: I should have left him first. But Emma didn't want to leave Bobby—not at all. She was delighted to have her husband back, and she knew very well that no material changes in him would be forthcoming.

So what was the use of a temper tantrum?

She didn't even let herself fantasize about them anymore. All they ever did was swing the power over to his side of the ledger. They never got her what she wanted—which was ironic really, because she wanted so little from him.

Emma wasn't one of those wives looking for a soul mate.

God, no, she thought.

The prospect of all that talking made her seriously tired. She could hardly bear to have women friends, in fact, for all the constant
sharing
they required.

No, Emma had always wanted something quite different from her husband, and from their marriage: a thorough immersion in each other's daily lives. It might not sound like much, but it sounded perfect to her. Calendars synched up, and appointments doubly confirmed, whereabouts forever known. That was all she'd ever wanted—for him to know about her auctions on Saturday morning, and the family dinner on Sunday night.

Is that too much to ask, she wondered, for intertwined minutiae, no messiness at all?

Of course, Emma never asked for anything—not outright anyway. For her, expressing need of any stripe, especially one so naked as that, would be worse than whistling out on the street, or letting her shoes clap loud against the pavement when she walked.

She looked up from the dining table.

It was no use. She was too distracted to check the table settings properly. She'd have to come back later. She looked over at Bobby again; he didn't look chastened in the least.

That's the problem, she thought, feeling so defeated, as if she'd waged a ten years' war without speaking a single word. He didn't feel guilty.

Emma knew that wasn't the whole problem. Once upon a time, Bobby had wanted a different kind of marriage with her too: all freewheeling and sexy and close. He wanted to talk about their troubles, and he wanted regular sex. He wanted to be
there
for her—like a cheesy love song come to life. She supposed it was romantic, in a way, but Emma couldn't have a marriage like that; it would be much too much for her. She wouldn't even try, and since the details of her engagement calendar didn't interest him in the least, no one was getting what they wanted in the Sutton household.

And the damned thing still won't die, she thought, nearly smiling as she shook her head.

“You look nice,” Bobby told her.

Emma laughed at the ridiculousness of it: missing all her cues, as usual—the scowling face and steely voice, her erect spine, all gone to waste. She looked down at her gray wool slacks and the matching cashmere sweater, all plain and perfect.

And I don't look any nicer than usual, she thought, as a matter of fact.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling back at him.

“I'm going to go in to finish the paper,” Bobby said. “Before Cassy gets here,” he added, walking out.

Emma didn't believe him for a second. He probably has to cancel whichever chippie he has lined up for tonight, she thought. She knew she was being irrational. They spent their evenings together.

“Damn tarts,” she spat, in spite of her strong suspicion that there weren't any.

She felt frustrated and foolish both, but sometimes she just had to vent.

Her gaze landed on a sterling wine coaster at the far end of the table. “The wine!” she cried, clapping her hands and charging like a bull through the swinging service door. She'd forgotten the wine for the table and the backup bottles for the sideboard. She bent down to the wine cooler beneath the counter and brought out three bottles of her favorite red.

It's lucky he made me so mad, she thought.

Otherwise, she might have forgotten the wine.

Emma opened a bottle and poured herself a glass, then sat down at the kitchen island. She knew it was foolish, but she really meant it: she'd rather be angry than forget to decant the wine.

She took a sip, and wrinkled up her nose. Needs to breathe, she thought, standing up again.

Emma opened the second bottle, but not the third. She only wanted that one close by, in case she needed it later. She tasted the wine again. It was better already. She surveyed her immaculate kitchen, wanting to ferret out any problems in
advance. But everything was just the way she liked it, gleaming with the shine of religious scrubbing. You'd certainly never know that anyone was cooking, she thought proudly—all the pans and pots and measuring cups cleaned and stowed the moment she was finished with them.

Emma sat down again and took a long sip of wine.

Sometimes she wished she were the type to cry.

 

“
WE DON'T HAVE TO GO
,”
MELORA SAID
. “
NOT IF
you're feeling pressed for time.” They were standing in front of the Whitney Museum.