that Emma could be such a part of his work, in a way that she’s never been… Suddenly all Anne wants is for him to be out of her sight, to be alone. A bath, a hot bath.
“I don’t know, Charles, I honestly don’t know.”
“I love you, Anne, and I’m very sorry.”
Without answering, Anne walks past him, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her…
Charles races down the hallway toward the elevator. The door is closing-he sticks out his arm to stop it. It rolls open and he steps in. Emma is backed into the corner, her forearm covered with bloody scratches.
“Did Anne do that?”
She quickly rolls down her sleeve. “Leave me alone.”
My God, she did it to herself.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
She stares straight ahead as the elevator begins its descent.
“Emma, talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“There’s everything to say.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Be reasonable.”
“Don’t you mean obedient?”
And she turns on him, fierce. A bloodstain appears on her sleeve. They both notice it. She turns away, breathing in quick, shallow gulps, her lower lip trembling. She might leave town, and the book isn’t finished; he needs her, needs to protect her-she’s suicidal, isn’t she?
“Emma, listen to me. I’m going to tell Anne I want a divorce.”
Emma tries to disguise her shock, and her hope-but it sparks in her eyes. She just keeps staring straight ahead. Charles lets his words sink in.
“And from now on, we’ll work at your place. You’ll never have to see her again. Emma, you must know you’re more important to me than she is. Didn’t we prove that today?”
Still she won’t look at him.
“I love you, Emma. But I won’t force you to do anything. It’s all up to you.”
The elevator doors open. Emma turns and looks at Charles, a dare in her eyes. Then she walks away.
34
At this hour, in the dark belly of night, the streetlights of Central Park glitter like lost jewels. Charles stands at the window in his study, tracing the path of a lone taxicab as it makes its way beneath the spindly web of trees. He hopes that whoever is in the cab is beautiful and young and that the night holds them gently.
Charles turns away from the window and reaches for the bottle of Chivas on his desk. He pours himself another drink and takes a long, slow sip. The only light comes from a small desk lamp with a green glass shade. Charles is comfortable in its shadows.
It isn’t really Emma’s book anymore. He’s changed virtually every sentence, suggested whole scenes, molded Zack, given the mother complexity and pathos. It’s written in his style; it has his voice. It’s his book now. Besides, he needs it so much more than she does. It’s his resurrection. If Emma publishes the book, it will destroy her. Her past will come out, the media will create a sideshow, and she’ll be turned into a freak: The Girl Who Murdered Her Mother. She’ll have a psychotic break. What had the psychiatrist said? Incipient schizophrenia. Charles has to protect her. She’s all alone in the world.
He walks into the outer office. She’s left a sweater, a simple gray cardigan, on the back of her chair. He picks it up and feels the wool, running it slowly between his fingers. Then he presses his face into the sweater, and smells Emma, his Emma, and thinks of their day together, their lovemaking. They gave each other so much of themselves-from the beginning, really. What he’ll do is set up some kind of fund for her, from the earnings. He’ll call his old Dartmouth classmate, Dan Leber, he’s one of the best psychiatrists in the city. When they finish their work, Emma will need a good long rest somewhere, somewhere in the country, somewhere peaceful.
Charles goes back to his desk and pours himself another two fingers of Chivas, which he downs in a swallow. He’ll have to be very careful from here on in. If he can just keep things on keel for another two weeks, that’s all the time he needs, he’s that close. Portia wrote him a letter, demanding to see the book. And so he’ll show her what he has. He gathers up the manuscript and slides it into a manila envelope. He switches on his computer, its screen bathing him in a ghostly glow, and types the title page: The Sky Is Falling
A novel by
Charles Davis
For the briefest time, between the reveler’s last hour and the laborer’s first, Manhattan feels like a ghost town. In the unearthly calm and quiet, Charles walks out of his building with the manila envelope under his arm. The mailbox is a block away, but it feels like a mile. Charles loves the stillness, the sense of having stepped into a world with its own rules. Of course he’s doing the right thing, the right thing for everyone. He reaches the mailbox and opens it. For a moment he hesitates, and then he drops in the envelope and the box clangs shut.
35
Anne can’t sit still. She’s overwhelmed by anxiety, and she hates this overdecorated suite at Kayla’s hotel. She wants to rip down the hideous window treatments-acres of swag-infested paisley. The coffee on the room- service tray is cold but she takes another gulp anyway, lights a Kent, and flicks on the television. She races through the channels until they blur into a vomitous kaleidoscope of American culture. She walks into one of the enormous bathrooms and turns on a hot bath. Then she turns it off. She tosses her cigarette into the toilet. When she walks back out into the living room Kayla is standing there.
“You look strung out,” Kayla says.
“Oh, I’m way beyond strung out.”
The two friends hug long and hard.
“It’ll all be over in a few hours. Sit down,” Kayla says, picking up the phone. “Yes, could you send up a big pot of mint tea, please?… I said sit down.”
Anne obeys. Only Kayla could look so good fresh off the red eye; relaxed and fit in faded jeans, a white T- shirt, and a navy cashmere blazer-she calls it her Goldie Hawn uniform. Her frizzy hair erupts around her round face, which-to the untrained eye-looks makeup-free. She finds Mozart on the radio, takes off her blazer, kneels, pulls off Anne’s flats and begins to give her an expert foot massage. Anne closes her eyes and rests her head against the back of the sofa.
“Thanks for coming, Kayla.”
“You couldn’t have kept me away. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“You sure?”
Anne nods.
“I called my ‘friend,’ ” Kayla says.
“Will she take the job?”
“She will. It’s not going to be cheap, though.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” Anne says.
Anne and Kayla are the only people in the clinic waiting room. It’s a pleasant room painted in mellow tones; Bach plays softly. Dr. Arnold comes out. She’s reassuring, maternal, with shoulder-length gray hair superbly cut, a handsome face, warm gray eyes. She greets them, gives Anne a Valium, explains the procedure, tells her she’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.
