look, in wonder and confusion and want, and he enters her slowly, slowly, opening her up with his eyes. And then he stops.
Emma begins to cry. He kisses her and whispers, “Let go, Emma, let go.”
And Emma does let go, arching her body, encircling him with her arms, her legs, pulling him in, closer, closer, until she doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore, doesn’t care-feeling, for the first time in her life, a pleasure as deep as her pain.
25
Emma arrives at work the next morning to find Anne Turner standing at the kitchen counter drinking a glass of grapefruit juice.
“Hello, Emma.”
“… Good morning.”
“Is it?”
“Is it?”
“A good morning.”
“I guess so.”
“Outside, I mean,” Anne says.
Emma can’t look at her, can’t answer, wonders what the rich bitch is doing in the kitchen. It’s late; Emma has come in late on purpose, just to lessen the possibility of this very thing happening. Calm down, breathe easy, don’t gulp air.
Dumb cunt, I fucked your husband.
“Oh. It’s chilly out.”
Emma knows it will look suspicious if she rushes off too quickly. She has to look and sound natural, as if this is just another day. She tries to muster a smile, but it feels more like a tic.
“I love cold weather,” Anne says.
“I do too.”
“Do you?”
Anne is staring at Emma.
“How did your speech go?” Emma asks, grateful that she’s thought of the question. She puts a hand up on the counter and tilts her head, hoping the gesture makes her look relaxed, interested, normal.
“Sisterhood is powerful,” Anne says with a little smile.
What does that mean? Why did she say “sisterhood”? And that little self-satisfied smile-Emma wants to slap it right off her face. To just keep slapping until she kills the bitch. Slaps her dead.
“Sisterhood?” Emma asks.
“We women have to stick together. We can’t start behaving like men.”
“No, we can’t,” Emma says vehemently, shaking her head. How does Anne manage to look so good? She always looks good. Suddenly Emma feels dowdy and hopeless. And afraid. She shouldn’t be here. She’s making a terrible mistake.
BadGirlSickGirl.
“Charles and I are a little late getting started this morning,” Anne says.
“Oh, he’s not…?” Emma gestures toward the office.
Anne shakes her head. “He’s still in bed,” she says with a wifely, proprietary grin.
“Excuse me,” Emma says, needing to get away from Anne, away to the safety of her office, her work, Charles. No-Charles offers no safety. What a fool she was to think so. She moves toward the hallway that leads to the offices.
“Emma?”
Emma turns.
“Do you enjoy working for my husband?”
Emma feels herself start to sweat. “It’s an interesting job.”
“He’s an interesting man.” Anne reaches into a cabinet and takes out a bottle of vitamins. She shakes one into her palm and washes it down with juice. “His work seems to be going well. Does he discuss it with you?”
“No. Just a word now and then.” Emma fidgets with the hem of her jacket and feels a pounding behind her eyes.
“And do you have aspirations?”
She can’t tell her about her book, about Charles helping her, about the two of them working together. Emma tries desperately to think, to think what to say.
“Are you all right, Emma?”
“Fine. I… I want to go back to school. I think I’d like to teach.”
“Charles used to teach.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He hated it.”
Emma’s headache is making her dizzy; her eyes feel like hot grapes. She closes them for a moment. Then she gestures toward the office. “I better get to work.”
“You and me both,” Anne says with a warm smile. “Have a good one.” She turns and goes, leaving a hint of perfume in the air, something floral, exhilarating, and very expensive.
Emma stands there for a moment, at the edge of the vast white kitchen, stark morning light pouring in the window. The whole gleaming room seems to be mocking her: Got too big for your britches, didn’t you, dumbshit? The cold rich room knows who she really is-how sick and sad and hopeless she really is-and it wants no part of her kind.
Emma turns and rushes down the long hallway. She collapses against her desk and tries to calm herself. Her head feels as if it’s about to explode. She reaches into her bag for her bottle of aspirin, shakes out four, and swallows them down. She rolls up her sleeve quickly quickly, lights a match and watches it burn for several seconds before blowing out the flame and pressing the glowing ember against the smooth white flesh of her inner arm. The head ache the pain the panic subside for a merciful moment. Suddenly the rug, the thick Persian rug filled with soft warm tones, looks so comforting, and Emma sinks down to the floor and lies on her side.
Charles closes his eyes and lets the hot water beat down on his face. His body aches a little, in a nice way. He feels his familiar masculine pride. He thinks of last night, of how he lost himself, of how long it has been since he’s lost himself. Emma. Lovely, mysterious Emma. His need to understand her is becoming almost obsessive. And to protect her. Charles turns the faucet to cold, ice cold-he’s even back to ending with a cold rinse, a long- abandoned ritual of his twenties. He feels his skin tighten, his brain sharpen, under the frigid assault.
Emma is sitting at her desk, so absorbed in her writing that she doesn’t look up. He walks behind her chair and puts his hands on her shoulders. He feels her stiffen.
“Please don’t,” she says.
Oh, here it comes, Charles thinks: the second-thoughts syndrome. He bends down and kisses her neck. She bolts out of her chair.
“I made a mistake last night,” she says.
He’s taken aback-she’s fierce, standing there clenching and unclenching her fists.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. It didn’t look like a mistake to me,” he says with a slight smile.
Emma is not amused.
“And I don’t plan to make it again,” she says.
“Emma…”
“Please don’t patronize me. I’m here to work. That’s where it begins and that’s where it ends.”
“Did you run into Anne?”
Emma doesn’t answer.
“I’m so sorry, Emma.”
“So am I.”
