Emma's Table (22 page)

“Will you let me know what your wife thinks of it?” Emma asked, walking toward her car. Tanaguchi nodded quickly, his eyes glued to her as reverently as a national monument. He was keeping strangely close.

Does he want a ride from me too? Emma wondered.

She wasn't sure where her obligation ended. She owed the man something, she was sure of that, but hadn't she made it up to him already—the stunning table a perfect tit-for-tat? She wanted to get into her car and drive away, but she could see that Tanaguchi wasn't finished with her yet.

“I didn't call because of the table,” he said, looking down
at the sidewalk between them. He sounded nervous, on the verge of a painful admission.

But hadn't he just bought a table?

“Or not
just
for the table,” he said, clarifying a little.

Emma's car began to look extremely appealing to her. She suspected him of a low-grade crush or—worse—some kind of revved-up fandom.

“I spoke to the secretary general this morning,” he said—the man who ran the United Nations. Tanaguchi looked back at her as forthrightly as a child. “I told him all about you,” he said.

“Really?” she replied, as if she were flattered.

Emma wasn't interested in the least. She tried to signal her driver through the tinted windows, opening her eyes wide in their sockets. She'd had enough of conversations like these to last a lifetime, with their promising beginnings—her name dangled in front of some prominent man, the head of the United Nations, the chairman of Goldman Sachs—but they came to nothing soon enough. Those conversations were never about her, really.

Her fans had a way of placing themselves front and center.

“I told him how kind you were,” he said.

Emma felt a pang. Her “kindness” was a sore spot still.

“It was nothing,” she said. “Really.” She'd changed her mind about the conversation though; she'd just as soon hear how it turned out.

What if the secretary general had pieced together what a scoundrel she was?

Emma looked down at the sidewalk herself.

Her alligator shoes looked beautiful—perfectly still on the concrete walk.

Mr. Tanaguchi grew more animated. “We've been asked,” he said, his voice full of pep, “the Japanese delegation, I mean, to chair a commission on relief efforts in the wake of natural disasters.” He sounded excited about it, as breathless as a teenage girl confessing a crush to her very best friend.

“The secretary general asked me to lead the charge.” He had so much to say, the words came tumbling out.

Emma could see how proud he was.

She congratulated him, but she was confused as well. She wondered why he was telling her any of this. She took another step toward her car.

It's nothing to do with me, she thought.

“It's a serious problem,” he said, looking straight at her.

“Yes, I know,” she replied. “You can't open a paper these days without seeing something about it.”

She was ready to leave, but Tanaguchi kept close to her.

“And it's not just here,” he said, sounding desperate. “Not just Katrina. It's a worldwide problem.”

He was shadowing her every step. He didn't want her to get away.

“It's affecting the welfare of people in nearly every country,” he said, looking her square in the eyes.

Emma could see the sincerity. She wished she had a taste for public service herself—as if it were a living room arrangement she might whip up. Oh, well, she thought, shrugging it off—fresh out of sofas.

“And we could do so much more with a global response,” he said. “In most cases anyway.”

He was on natural disasters still.

Emma realized that she'd been a red herring in his conversation with the secretary general, just a boldfaced name to be
dangled down, nothing to do with her at all. “I wish you good luck with it,” she said, moving decidedly toward the car.

Her driver hopped out—
finally
, she thought—opening the door so she could slip inside.

“We were hoping—” he said, a little more quickly now, as if he saw his moment slipping past.

Emma heard it too: he was getting to the point.

She feared a dinner invitation.

“We'd like you to be the spokesman,” he said.

“Of what?” she asked. “Your committee?”

Tanaguchi nodded. She watched his tiny head bouncing up and down.

“Why me?” she asked.

“We think you'd be perfect,” he said, scarcely able to contain himself. “Reliable and trustworthy,” he told her.

Emma could think of a few people at the Internal Revenue who might disagree.

“The media will cover anything you say,” he continued. “And people will listen to you.”

It didn't sound like a terrible idea, actually.

Emma thought of Elizabeth Taylor and her AIDS work; she thought of Audrey Hepburn and UNICEF. It couldn't hurt, she supposed.

“You know,” she said, getting straight to the point, “I've had some trouble lately.” She straightened her camel-haired posture and steeled her handsome face.

“I'm sure you heard about it,” she added.

“We've all had our troubles,” Tanaguchi told her. “They only make us stronger in the end,” he said, smiling kindly.

He sounded as if he were sure of it.

Emma felt grateful to him—the stranger she'd screwed
just two days before. She knew, then and there, that she'd accept his offer.

“It's very kind of you,” she said. “May I think about it?”

“Of course,” he replied. “May I call you?”

Emma nodded as she stepped into the car. “I'll need to know what the job entails,” she said. Her driver closed the door behind her. She saw Tanaguchi nodding through the tinted window. He looked as if he could make her out still, but she knew he couldn't. She smiled back at him anyway as she settled herself into her seat, wrapping the chinchilla around her shoulders. She'd grown chilly lingering outside.

Emma felt something like happy—for the first time in a long time.

Her Tanaguchi was like a gift that kept on giving, offering her so many chances to redeem herself: first with the table, she thought, and now with this—an opportunity to become a public servant, working on the side of the angels.

Tornado-ravaged angels, she thought, smiling to herself.

“Let's head home,” she told the driver.

Benjamin's cell phone rang again—for the fourth time in half an hour.

Emma fished it out of her bag. She wanted to turn it off, but she didn't know how. All the buttons were so tiny. So she answered it instead. “Hello?”

“Is Benjamin Blackman there?” It was a woman's voice—youngish, by the sound of it. Not the girlfriend, at least; Emma was glad of that.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “He's not here.”

“I'd like to speak to his supervisor then,” the woman continued.

Emma was confused—for about a tenth of a second.

But no one on earth would refer to
her
as Benjamin's supervisor. It must be someone from school.

She should take a message, and leave it at that. But the woman on the phone sounded plainly distraught, her voice fluttering toward the end of its rope, just a step or two away from an explosion of some kind—either in tears or in rage, Emma couldn't tell which.

Plus, today was a day for good deeds.

And God knows when that'll happen again, she thought.

“This is she,” Emma spoke into the cell phone.

It wasn't a lie, not technically anyway.

“I need to make a complaint about Mr. Blackman,” the woman said.

Emma was intrigued. She'd never had a moment's trouble with Benjamin herself; she couldn't imagine what a “complaint” against him might be.

“With whom am I speaking?” Emma asked.

“Tina Santiago,” the woman said. She offered to spell it for her, as if Emma were taking notes, or looking her up on some official roll.

“Okay, Tina,” Emma said softly, repeating her name back to her, the way she'd learned to do on all those daytime television shows—taking questions from the studio audience and creating a personal bond.

“Why don't you tell me what's going on?” she said.

Then she settled back into her seat, into her newfound career as a social worker. It was her third good deed of the day, and it wasn't even dark yet.

It wasn't much of a sacrifice either: the uptown traffic was terrible.

“It's my little girl,” the woman began.

Emma felt out of her depth at once. She thought of her daughter and her mother; she thought of herself too, her father smirking from the sidelines. What Emma didn't know about little girls could fill a very thick book.

“Her name's Gracie,” Tina said.

Emma might not know about girls, but she knew a kindred spirit when she heard one—the sound of a woman who was convinced she'd wrecked a life.

“Go on,” she said.

Sweet 'n' Sours

BOBBY STRETCHED OUT IN HIS FAVORITE CHAIR,
the soft one that was covered in old kilim rug. He reached his legs onto the ottoman in front of him—theoretically comfortable, but not.

He knew it should have been curtains for him: like the little red fox who steps into a steel trap, those ragged metal teeth springing down to bone. Bobby could almost picture Emma parading down the corridors of his not-so-secret apartment building. He winced at the thought of it.

But here he was still—all in one piece.

He fingered the kilim-covered button on the chair's armrest, trying to concentrate on the Sunday paper, plodding through the sections like a diligent schoolboy—even the slim afterthoughts of automotive and society news.

He couldn't pay attention to any of them.

Bobby was bewildered by his good luck still. Against all odds, a kindly farmer had set that red fox loose.

It doesn't make any sense, he thought, looking up from his paper to the rainy landscape hanging on the window wall, the very one that Emma had rejected all those years before.

“Would you like some more coffee?” the housekeeper asked, poking her head into the spacious room, careful to keep the rest of herself at bay.

“No, thanks,” he said, smiling back.

Bobby looked back at the painting, at the pointillist clouds in its canvas sky. They were raining down still, just as they had for twenty years, even as wintry sun smiled into the room, pouring in through large casement windows and firing up the fancy rugs.

He felt a little warm.

He had half a mind to take his sweater off, but he was so satisfied with things as they were just then that he was loath to change a single one of them. So he stayed as he was, a little overheated beneath that layer of Shetland wool.

This wasn't Bobby's secret apartment.

It wasn't even the West Side, the longtime home to his kilim-covered chair and the horsehide ottoman beneath his feet. The sun had never poured into his secret rooms—not like this, he thought—and for all the times he'd moved that rainy landscape, from place to secret place, it had never once hung on such lushly paneled walls. Bobby was as confused as if he'd stumbled onto an old-time lover in a brand-new bed, smiling up at him from crisp white sheets.

He and his things were installed at Emma's place: the armchair and the ottoman, the secret landscape that was painted in oils.

It was all her idea too.

He was mystified by his brilliant wife, but thrilled at the outcome all the same.

Just then, he heard a crashing racket from down the hall—a rainstorm of clattering metal and a heavy, thudding fall. He jumped up from his chair with a heartfelt pang for the new housekeeper: he'd be sorry to see her go.

But it was Emma he found sprawled out on the dining room floor, a riot of silverware on the glass-topped table, and plenty more strewn on the rug around her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she said, sitting up and giving her head a rueful shake. “Other than being a clumsy ox,” she added.

Bobby reached down and helped her up.

“You're Cyd Charisse in my book, kiddo.”

He wasn't accustomed to seeing his wife in such disarray. Even in prison, she'd been so self-possessed. He had to admit that her clumsiness gave him a glinting pleasure.

Emma smiled as she struggled to her feet.

Bobby straightened the Persian rug she'd tripped over, and gathered up the chunks of a striped Venini vase. The housekeeper dashed in and snatched the ruined pieces from his hands, spiriting them away.

They knew how Emma loathed the evidence of carelessness.

He began to gather silverware from the table. The pieces felt cumbersome in his hands.

“Leave it,” she said. “I can do that later”—rolling her neck a little gingerly and shaking out her arms.

“You're sure you're okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she nodded.

Still, he watched her closely; Bobby knew all too well his wife's propensity for marching past a sprained ankle or any number of bruised ribs.

She must have seen him looking. “Really,” she said, “I'm fine.”

He stayed to help her set the table. He found himself wanting to, though she'd made it clear enough—over the years—that she considered his help in such matters more in the nature of a handicap. He began with the large serving pieces, plucking them from the jumble of fallen cutlery.

Emma liked doing chores by herself.

“If you want a thing done right,” he'd heard her say, often enough, “then go it alone.”

But Bobby suspected she'd make an exception for him that afternoon. They'd been so accommodating to each other all week long. He picked up the salad forks, one by one—only the shorter ones, with three tines instead of four. Then he circled the table, and placed them down on the far left side of the white linen place mats.

She didn't object, which he took as a good sign.

“How's dinner coming?” he asked.

“Easy,” she told him. “We're having paella from the seafood shop on Madison.”

Bobby smiled back at her. It was unusual for Emma to delegate, especially where food was concerned. “I'm glad to hear you're taking it a little easier,” he said, smoothing out a ruffled place mat.

They went back to their work.

“I found a beautiful table,” she told him, worrying her finger over a scratch on the glass tabletop. “At auction,” she said.

She seemed to have shaken her injuries off.

“For here?” he asked. He kept his head down low, concentrating on the dinner forks in hand.

She hummed that it was.

“What's the matter with—” But he stopped himself in plenty of time, checking his impulse to ask what was wrong with the one they had.

Emma squinted back at him, waiting for his conclusion.

He smiled at her instead, silent as a stone.

What difference does it make, he thought, as long as the damn thing isn't mirrored? Bobby despised the old mirrors she'd installed on the dining room walls. It was like a carnival fun house, those wavy distortions all freckled with black. He kept working the puzzle of cutlery, its pieces strewn across the defunct table.

“The auction you went to last weekend?” he asked.

Emma nodded back at him, her eyes a little wider.

“With Benjamin?” he added, grinning slyly.

She was surprised that he could marshal so much detail, but Bobby had always seen more than he'd let on.

“That's right,” she replied, smiling as she nodded.

“Tell me about it,” he said, starting in on the spoons—his brow furrowed and his back a little tight. He was concentrating on his work and feigning interest in the table too—so many new activities all at once.

“It's Nakashima,” she said.

He heard the trace of thrill in her voice.

Bobby knew that Nakashima was a Japanese designer; he could even summon up a vague image of a chunky-looking thing—the kind of table that looked as if the tree trunk were built right in.

“That's wonderful,” he said. “I know you've been looking for one.”

Emma smiled at him again.

Bobby was as determined to accommodate her new table as she was to tolerate his clumsy help with the settings—not to mention his egregious behavior, earlier in the week. They were a pair of red foxes, it turned out, only recently spared from that steely trap, a little bruised and timid, but sticking together all the same.

It was less than a week since Emma had discovered his secret apartment.

Bobby couldn't fathom that he was standing there still. He was sure that he'd destroyed their fledgling reconciliation, that it had been dashed into as many pieces as a porcelain teapot slipped from soapy hands.

But Emma had gone a different way instead.

He'd been frightened to come home that night—the Monday before—once he knew that Emma knew. So he'd killed time at the secret building, hunting for the super and a spare set of keys.

I'll be needing them, he'd thought.

But the super had gone home for the night, and the surly doorman told him he'd have to wait until after the dinner rush, so Bobby headed back to Emma's place, bracing himself for the very worst. He pictured china flying and drinks splashing wet, his suitcase packed and ready to go, but he found his ex-wife in a calmer state: her face drained of color, and looking every one of her sixty-two years. Emma was tired and hurt, not raging at all. She looked as if she'd walked all the way home from his secret building—via mainland China perhaps.

“Are you in this?” she asked him, when he walked in the
door. Her voice was quiet. “Are you in this or not?” she asked. “That's all I need to know.”

It was a simple question, he supposed, but he studied her carefully, as if she might have buried a card trick deep inside it. Was she really leaving the answer up to him? He stared at her intently, as if to catch her sleight of hand, to see for himself how the trick was done, but all he saw was her navy ensemble, and a fair bit of sadness around the eyes.

“It's a yes-or-no question,” she said.

“Yes,” he told her. “Definitely, yes.” He meant it.

Emma nodded back carefully, as if she were contemplating a roast in the oven. “So what's this all about then?” she asked, opening her fist and producing the secret keys.

Bobby looked down at his feet. There was nothing to do but apologize—which he did, again and again.

“I'm in this,” he swore, more persuasively than before.

Emma looked a little skeptical, but she kept nodding.

“It's just that I need a little room sometimes,” he told her.

“We have fourteen of them here,” she replied briskly.

“And you've filled up every one of them,” he said, more aggrieved than he would have expected. He was surprised to find his anger at such an inopportune moment.

Bobby was hurt at how little she'd taken him into account.

“I'm here too,” he said.

She nodded back as if she understood; he thought it was unlikely though. “You're here too,” she mumbled, repeating it back as if she were trying to remember it for a later date.

“I know I should have said something,” he told her. “But…”

“But what?” she asked. She didn't sound angry; she only wanted to know.

“I didn't think you'd care,” he said.

But Emma cared plenty, and she proved it too: the very next day, she had her driver ferry them to the West Side. They walked the secret rooms of Bobby's apartment as if they were tourists—or better yet, shoppers, choosing which pieces to ship across town.

“Anything you want,” she said. “Within reason.”

Bobby smiled at that.

Emma complimented his eye, and she deferred to him too, only sticking yellow Post-its onto everything he liked. They were solicitous of each other—like children at a scary movie, keeping each other close.

“Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly, circling the kilim-covered chair.

“Absolutely,” she said, sounding certain.

It was as big a gesture as she'd ever made, and by the time he got home from the office that night, the pieces were already sprinkled through the apartment—like a greatest hits album of Bobby's secret life, all his furniture married up with hers.

And now she was letting him set the table.

Would wonders never cease?

“I know who's coming to dinner,” he said, a teasing note in his voice.

“You do?” she said, playing along.

“Well, it
is
Sunday night, after all,” he told her. “What more is there to know?”

 

AS BENJAMIN CLIMBED THE STAIRS FROM THE SUBWAY
and onto the street, he watched the sun sinking low in the afternoon sky. He'd only been underground for twenty
minutes, riding the train uptown again. But there's no arguing with a sunset, he supposed. He saw trails of orange and gold streaking through the sky, leading straight to the sun that hovered off in the west, burning orange and red through the gaps in Central Park.

He felt nostalgic for the weekend already.

It was colder now. He pulled a brown woolen cap over the crown of his head. He was on his way to Emma's place to make his Sunday presentation and join the Suttons for dinner.

Melora had pleaded a previous engagement.

He'd left her at home, watching
The Virgin Queen
on television.

He screwed up his courage and walked into Emma's building, smiling at the liveried doorman in bright white gloves and brassy buttons as big as golden doorknobs. The old man greeted him like he always did, clapping him hard on the back and crooning a line or two from some topical song.

“
Don't change a hair for me
,” he sang, “
not if you care for me
.”

Benjamin paused a moment, as if he were thinking hard, but he knew right away it was a hopeless case. He never knew the doorman's songs.

“
Stay, little Valentine
,” the doorman sang, even louder, “
stay
.”

“Sorry,” Benjamin said, shaking his head. “You got me again.”

“Jesus,” the old man moaned. “Don't you know any songs at all?”

Benjamin shrugged his shoulders and walked sheepishly on. Everyone knew where he was headed. He found a younger man in the elevator, dressed just like the first. This one's job
was to press the button for Emma's floor, and keep him company on the ride upstairs.

He couldn't be trusted to go alone.

He let himself into Emma's place through the back door, just like always, walking straight into her big white kitchen, all clean and clear and swabbed down with disinfectant—those bright white tiles as ready for an emergency appendectomy as any bowl of corn flakes.

He smelled an herb roasting in the oven.

Rosemary, he thought, or maybe thyme.