“Is there a happy ending?” he asks.
“He’ll leave her. His pride. He’ll marry a younger woman, move to Brooklyn; they’ll have babies. One day he’ll be in the city. He’ll see her across the street, walking her dog. Her hair will be gray, but he won’t notice. His heart will stop. It might start to rain.”
Emma has lost all self-consciousness, is radiant in the dim light of the coffee shop. Her story over, she’s quiet for a moment. Across the street, the couple is gone. Emma turns and looks at Charles, as if she is stepping out of another world. She is suddenly aware of herself again, and her small frame stiffens.
“I want to see where you live,” he says.
18
In Queens, Anne lies with her robe open on the hospital examining table, wondering why she doesn’t feel more vulnerable. The doctor, young and intense, has injected the local anesthetic into her belly, and she can feel the area growing numb. The vial containing Charles’s blood sits on the nearby countertop. How dark and thick blood is.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Brody?” the doctor asks.
“Fine, thank you.”
“I’m going to put some petroleum jelly on your stomach in preparation for the ultrasound,” he says.
Anne feels the texture of the cold jelly as the nurse spreads it. Then the doctor begins to run a metal wand over her stomach. Anne looks over at the monitor and sees the embryonic life growing inside her. She reaches out and squeezes the nurse’s hand. She’s immediately embarrassed by her gesture and withdraws her hand. The nurse pats Anne’s arm.
The nurse takes the ultrasound wand from the doctor and he picks up a long needle.
“Please,” Anne says. “Be careful.”
The doctor gives her a calm smile. Dr. Halpern has assured her of his expertise. Anne determines right then and there to stick with Dr. Halpern if she decides to have the baby. You don’t have to be rich to get good medical care, she thinks, just lucky.
She turns her head away as he inserts the needle into her stomach.
“All done,” the doctor says.
It’s dark when Anne walks out onto the sidewalk and around the corner to the brightly lit commercial street. Evening shoppers are out in force and she joins the throng. She has a sudden craving for peanut butter cookies and she ducks into the nearest grocery and buys two packs, one of which she tears open and begins to devour even as she waits in line to pay.
19
Charles and Emma walk under the cloudy night sky, toward Chinatown.
“Don’t expect much,” she says as they reach the old brick building. Emma unlocks the front door and begins to climb the stairs; Charles follows close behind. Her anxiety increases with each step. Stay calm, you’ve come this far. Stay calm.
Emma opens the door and Charles follows her inside. The restaurant’s neon sign bathes the room in a dim crimson glow. She turns on a light and stands expectantly while Charles looks around. The Saturdays she’s spent combing the thrift shops and sidewalks of lower Manhattan have yielded eclectic treasures. The fruit crates cribbed from the Chinese grocer are filled with thirdhand books. A fringed shawl is draped over her bed. There’s a Persian rug worn through in several places, a lamp in the shape of three puppies, an old manual typewriter, a wedding photo of a handsome black couple circa 1910. Her plates and glasses are mismatched and colorful. Until now Emma was proud of her apartment, but suddenly-with Charles Davis there-it looks shabby, depressing, a place where a crazy girl trying to pass for normal might live.
Emma drops her coat and bag on the bed and goes to the stove. “Can I make you a cup of tea?” She can feel him behind her, standing there, judging her, seeing her for who she is. She fills the kettle with water. The first patter of raindrops sounds against the roof above them. She turns and he’s staring at her.
“What?” she asks. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Then he smiles gently, almost tenderly. “I was just admiring your apartment.”
“I have Earl Grey and some lovely jasmine I found on Mott Street. Very intense,” Emma says, grateful to have something to actually do. She opens the tin of jasmine tea; its sweet exotic fragrance drifts up into the air. Charles leans in to smell the tea and as he does, he gently touches her hand.
“I’d better stick with the Earl Grey,” he says.
Emma turns and reaches for the box of tea bags. She wishes he’d chosen the jasmine, it requires more steps to prepare, would have given her more excuses to avoid looking at him. Reaching for two mugs, she knocks over a small plant, a sad little mum she bought on impulse and couldn’t bring herself to throw away after its single bloom died. The plant falls to the floor, spilling dirt. Emma lets out a little cry. She’s such a pathetic little fuckup. She falls to her knees to clean up the mess. Charles kneels beside her.
“I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have many visitors.”
“I’ll take care of this. You get the tea.”
She stands up and busies herself with the tea while he cleans up the plant.
“I’m afraid this plant has had it,” he says.
“With my brown thumb, I’m amazed it’s lasted this long.”
As she pours the boiling water into the mugs, she notices that he’s crossing the room, approaching her dresser. He picks up the framed photo, the one photo she treasures above all others, the one photo she didn’t want him to notice.
“You and your father?” he asks, holding up the faded color print of Emma and her stoned, long-haired father on the beach at Lake Canoga-scruffy, weedy Lake Canoga-her father with his goofy smile, his proud, goofy smile, proud of his nine-year-old princess, his baby, his Emma. She remembers that day so vividly, just the two of them driving through the hills to the lake, her daddy getting stoned, reaching over and rubbing her head, singing along with Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young: “Teach your children well… Feed them on your dreams… and know they love you.”
But then he fucked her over. Too bad. So sad.
“You look like him,” Charles says.
“Do I?”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know. Four months after that picture was taken, he left us.”
“Just left?”
“He went to work and never came back.”
“That must have been tough.”
Tough. “How do you like your tea?”
“Straight up. Do you have any pictures of your mother?”
Emma brings Charles his mug of tea and makes a point of sitting in the chair farthest from him.
“I wish I had some cookies to offer you,” she says.
“Do you have any pictures of your mother?” Charles repeats.
“My mother? She keeps promising to send me one, but she’s so busy,” Emma says as casually as she can.
“Remarried?”
“Yes.” All these questions make Emma want to scream. Instead she folds her hands in her lap and takes the plunge. “I have a confession to make.”
