The Oriental Wife (20 page)

“Hello,” Sophie said, bending down over Emma, “hello, little treasure, and how are you today?” Emma lifted her face as though to the sun, scrunched her eyes together with what seemed to be an appraising look, and then laughed up at her. “Her grandfather is right,” Sophie said to Louisa, “she is laughing at all of us.”

“Is that true?” Louisa asked Emma. “Are you really laughing at all these good people who love you so much? It’s very naughty of you.” It all seemed perfectly natural, her voice was like any young mother’s talking to her baby, but it struck Sophie that Louisa had not yet looked at her.

“Are you keeping your mother company while your daddy’s away?” she asked Emma, holding up a rattle in front of her. “And do your grandparents come to visit you, and take you to the park?”

“Not the last few days,” Louisa said flatly. “The weather hasn’t been good enough.”

“But you are keeping well, Louisa?”

“I’m all right.” She spoke to Emma again. “You’ve been in a good mood all day today, haven’t you?” Emma reached her arms toward her mother just as Mrs. Sprague bustled in, with Sophie’s flowers in a tall blue vase.

“Just look what Mrs. Joseftal brought,” she said brightly, and then, setting them on the table, swooped down on Emma. “My little girl wants to be picked up, doesn’t she,” she crooned. “She wants her old Aunt May to pick her up, I can see that.”

Sophie glanced at Louisa, who had slumped back on the couch. “Come,” Sophie said briskly, “why don’t you put her next to her mother? I will sit on her other side, and we can have a little visit.”

“No, she wants to be held now that I’ve got her,” Mrs. Sprague said, “she’ll only make a fuss if I set her down again. Her stomach’ll get upset and I’ll be up half the night with her. I’ve got enough to see to.”

“Perhaps I could hold her,” Sophie suggested.

“I don’t think she’d take to that, she don’t really know you.”

Sophie could feel Louisa’s eyes on her in warning: she was not to offend Mrs. Sprague, she was not to let this escalate. “It’s only that I know you have so much to attend to,” she said smoothly, “I would like to help if I could.” Grudgingly, Mrs. Sprague transferred Emma to her arms, hovering there for a minute as though waiting for Emma to protest; when she didn’t, Mrs. Sprague had no choice but to leave the room and go do all those things Sophie had referred to.

“Here, I will put her in your lap,” Sophie said to Louisa.

“You’d better not,” Louisa said sullenly. “Mrs. Sprague won’t like it.”

Sophie jiggled the child in her arms for a minute—she could feel her getting restless—and then said, “You cannot let her bully you like this, Louisa.”

“Ssshhhh.” She raised an eyebrow in her old, mocking way. “She may be listening. She listens at doorways sometimes.”

“But this is ridiculous,” Sophie said in German. “You have to take charge. You must make her understand that you are the mistress here.”

Louisa reached out her hand to Emma, who grabbed a finger. “We mustn’t talk German in front of you, must we? We don’t want the first word you speak to be German.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, I heard you. I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work.”

“Then you must get rid of her, you must find someone of a different character.”

“And what character would that be?” Louisa asked, with a flash of anger. She shut her eyes. “Please. Please don’t talk about it any more.”

Emma began to cry. Sophie jiggled her energetically, but the child did not stop.

“She wants you to rest her head against your shoulder,” Louisa said. Sophie obeyed, and immediately the crying subsided.

But Mrs. Sprague had heard. “Is she all right there?” she called, on her way into the room. “I don’t mind taking her, I can put her in her high chair in the kitchen and talk to her while I’m cooking.”

“It’s all right,” Sophie said. “Look, she is happy now.”

“Make sure her nose isn’t pressed against you, she’s got to breathe.”

Louisa was leaning back, her bad arm folded in front of her. One of the cushions had come dislodged, and was half on the floor; Mrs. Sprague rescued it, tucking it behind Louisa’s back. “Thank you,” Louisa said, without opening her eyes.

“I was thinking we could have a nice piece of pie round about now,” Mrs. Sprague said, a mug of coffee in her hand. “I’m just warming it in the oven.” The phone rang; Louisa started up, pushing herself off the couch with an effort, but Mrs. Sprague got there first.

“Furchgott residence,” she said, and then, turning her back on them, laughed girlishly. “Yes, yes, it’s me, Mr. Furchgott, I like to answer the phone properly, just in case. How are things out there in Oregon? I’m sure you’re getting much nicer weather than we are here … Yes, gray and cold, not a peep of sun … Of course she is, she’s fine and dandy, happy as can be, aren’t you, my little lamb?” Here she turned around and winked at Emma. “You don’t have to worry about her, you know that, I’ve got everything under control … Yes, about four o’clock, and I was just heating up some pie for Mrs. Furchgott and Mrs. Joseftal, she’s come to see us. Would you like to speak with her? I mustn’t take up all your time.” She set down the receiver, took Emma out of Sophie’s arms, and stood there crooning to her, just next to the phone; Sophie was sure Rolf could hear.

“Hello, Rolf,” she said stiffly. “I hope you are having a successful trip.”

“Yes, thank you. Everything seems to be in order. And there?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” she said. “We’re all fine here. A nice little visit. I caused a little upset by bouncing Emma
too hard a moment ago, but Louisa knew exactly what to do. That’s always the way with mothers. Shall I put her on?”

“Please,” he said. Louisa struggled to her feet, while Mrs. Sprague looked at Sophie with unconcealed dislike.

“Hello, Rolf,” Louisa said.

Sophie turned to Mrs. Sprague. “We should let them speak in private.” Mrs. Sprague seemed about to protest, but Sophie forestalled her. “Come,” she said decisively, and turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen, with Mrs. Sprague, Emma in her arms, following behind.

But Louisa’s voice was still audible. “Yes, I did … It was all right … No, I haven’t yet, I haven’t had a chance, I’ll do it tomorrow … Yes, I told him … I will … I haven’t forgotten … I was going to do it when the weather cleared up a little.”

Aware that both she and Mrs. Sprague were listening, Sophie launched into conversation.

“I have never been to Maine,” she said, as Mrs. Sprague settled Emma into her high chair and handed her a rusk. “I understand it’s very beautiful.”

Mrs. Sprague addressed herself to Emma, who was sucking blissfully. “If it weren’t for you, my precious, I’d go back there right now, wouldn’t I? There’s not many people who would put up with this setup. They don’t know what it’s like for your old Aunt May, do they, darlin’?”

“I am sure it is not easy for Mrs. Furchgott either,” Sophie said, on an intake of breath.

Now Mrs. Sprague turned to look at her. “She ought to be put away, that’s the truth of it. Better for her and everyone else.”

Just then Louisa called out, “Mrs. Sprague, Rolf would like another word with you if you’re free.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Joseftal,” she said grandly, getting to her feet. “He must have forgotten something he needed to tell me. Maybe you could keep an eye on this little girl for me.”

But Emma, her face smeared with crumbs and spit, began to cry as soon as Mrs. Sprague left the room, drumming her legs frantically against her high chair. Sophie wiped her face with her handkerchief and lifted her out, but Emma would not be consoled. “Don’t you worry, it will be waiting for you when you get back,” Mrs. Sprague was saying down the phone.

“Now that’s what I call a real gentleman,” she said triumphantly, reentering the kitchen. “So nice to be appreciated, isn’t it, Mrs. Joseftal?” Emma, turned calm again at the sight of her, was restored to her high chair. Mrs. Sprague twisted open a jar of orange baby food and began spooning it into the child’s mouth. “Won’t we be happy,” she crooned, “when your daddy’s back with us … won’t we just.”

Sophie went down the hall to the living room, where Louisa was staring, like Gustav, out at the street. The light was just starting to fade; following Louisa’s gaze, Sophie saw a woman in a red coat wheeling a stroller to the entrance of the apartment building, a shopping bag dangling from her arm. She pulled open the door with one hand, propped her shoulder against it, wheeled the stroller up the steps and halfway through the door, then reached back for the shopping bag, which she had set on the top step. Sophie was suddenly conscious of how much of ordinary life required two good hands.

Crossing the room in swift strides, she sat beside Louisa. “Listen,” she said in German, “you must gather your strength together, you must get rid of that woman. If you cannot do it for yourself, then for Emma’s sake.”

“Emma loves her better than anyone in the world. And why shouldn’t she? She has the right to her loves.”

Sophie could think of no answer to this, except to repeat what she had said already, on a rising note: Louisa had to rouse herself, she had to muster the strength to defeat Mrs. Sprague. And still Louisa stared at her, slumped and beaten. “Listen to me. You have got to fight now, it’s the only way. You cannot let yourself go under.” But what if Louisa had no fight in her? She touched her hand. “I’ll help you, Louisa, I promise. Let me help you.”

Just at that moment Mrs. Sprague appeared, humming a little tune. “Wouldn’t you know it, I forgot to drink my coffee, and now it’ll be cold. Seems like I never have a chance just to enjoy a nice cup of coffee these days.”

Sophie stood. “I will come for you on Saturday, Louisa, and we will go to the park. They say it will be fine on Saturday, I heard it on the radio this morning.”

L
ying in a lumpy hotel bed on his first morning in Oregon, awakened by the cries of strange birds he hoped might be eagles, Rolf had remembered his parting from Louisa—a peck on the cheek, a falsely cheery line about enjoying herself while he was gone—and been flooded with remorseful tenderness. It seemed to him, struggling out of sleep, that his love for her was intact inside him, only walled away waiting to be reclaimed. This optimism did not last through his first evening at home.

He arrived on a Sunday. Louisa, seeming not to notice that Emma was shrieking in her playpen—was actually turning blue—greeted him and told him wistfully about going to the park with Sophie the day before, about Emma clapping her hands at the birds. It was Mrs. Sprague, of course, who had to pick Emma up and soothe her.

There was a chicken roasting in the oven, courtesy of Mrs. Sprague. The Sunday papers were waiting for him—Mrs. Sprague went very far in her solicitude. She had put on lipstick for the occasion, and a red necklace. “Get away with you now,” she said, thrusting out her hand, when he complimented her. “What do you mean flattering an old woman like me?” It would have been pleasurable to bask in Mrs. Sprague’s own pleasure, to sit listening to her account of Emma, to describe for her the redwood trees and
the immense circular saw at the lumberyard, descending as though from heaven to slice through the logs of some lesser wood. There had been as much solemn majesty in the one as in the other.

But Louisa, sitting opposite in her zippered housedress, choked on her very first mouthful of chicken, her eyes bulging. Mrs. Sprague jumped up nimbly and handed her a glass of water. “You must be careful, dear. I thought I’d cut that meat up small enough for you, but you let me know if you want it smaller.” Each time he looked at Louisa after that, she was chewing doggedly, or wiping the plate with one finger and then furtively licking it, to sneak the food into her mouth. When she finished—Mrs. Sprague was just asking him about the birds out there, wondering if they had the same seagulls as in Maine—she stood up, plate in hand, and started for the sink. “You leave that for me, dear, I’ll clear up,” Mrs. Sprague said, and after hovering for a minute Louisa disappeared from the room.

A couple of days later Otto arrived—sweet, kind Otto, so unlike Rolf. Rolf was a hero at the office, and to Mrs. Sprague, but even Sophie disapproved of him now, he had heard it in her voice when he spoke to her on the phone that morning. “This woman believes she is the child’s mother. I cannot think she is the right person to have there with Louisa.” There was nothing wrong with Louisa, she told him, that time would not put right. No doubt Otto was waiting for his chance to say the same.

When Rolf got home from the office, Otto was dancing around the living room like a sprite, Emma in his arms, while Louisa laughed at them from the sofa. “Hello, Rolf, I’m in love with your daughter,” Otto said. Rolf told him
drily that everyone felt that way and went to hang up his coat.

Then he went into the kitchen to say hello to Mrs. Sprague, who grumbled that Otto was getting the little one overexcited. “I’ll be up half the night with her,” she said, and he had to repress a sense of gratification that someone at least was not charmed. It was the first time Emma had not clamored for him on his arrival.

When he returned to the living room Louisa was smiling at him, a gay inviting smile, not a plea for forgiveness; she asked him in a wifely voice how things had gone with Mr. Starin that day. Pretty well, he said. Otto was crooning to Emma, but Rolf could tell he was listening. He should have been pleased that Louisa was so vivacious, he should have been pleased with the whole scene—his wife, friend, daughter laughing together—but it felt like a fraud, something manufactured to reproach him. Otto, he sensed, was willing this mirage into being for his benefit, keeping Louisa afloat on his own effervescence. He retrieved Emma from Otto’s arms and brought her into the kitchen for her bottle. Mrs. Sprague seemed more than ever like an ally.

It was Otto who cut Louisa’s pork chop for her at dinner, deftly, talking all the while. Rolf had always left it to Mrs. Sprague. “Remember the penknife you gave me on my birthday? Remember the pony ride?” Otto said, ignoring Mrs. Sprague altogether. But already Louisa’s energy was fading, her expression confused. She didn’t remember, she said apologetically, she had no memory of a pony ride at all.