easily encompassed. And I was thinking: imagine, just like that, I have them in my power. The Tanner Corporation! The great, almighty Tanner Corporation. That afternoon, I went out and ordered my Pontiac.”
“There was never,” Pearl said, “the slightest thing tacky about the Tanner Corporation.”
Their appetizers arrived on chilled plates, along with a slender, pale green bottle of wine. The waiter poured a sip for Ezra, who tasted it as if it were important. “Good,” he said. (It was strange to see him in a position of command.) “Cody? Try this wine.”
“Never,” said Pearl, “was there anything nickel-and-dime, in the smallest, tiniest way, ever in this world, about the Tanner Corporation.”
“Oh, Mother, face it,” Cody told her. “It’s a trash heap. I’m going to strip it to the bones.”
You would think he was speaking of something alive — an animal, some creature that would suffer. Pearl must have thought so, too. She said, “Cody, why must you act toward me in this manner?”
“I’m not acting in any manner.”
“Have I ever wronged you, knowingly? Ever done you harm?”
“Please,” Ezra said. “Mother? Cody? It’s a family dinner! Jenny? Let’s have a toast.”
Jenny hastily raised her glass. “A toast,” she said.
“Mother? A toast.”
Pearl’s eyes went reluctantly to Ezra’s face. “Oh,” she said, after a pause. “Thank you, dear, but wine in all this heat would settle on my stomach like a rock.”
“It’s a toast to
“Partner? Who would that be?”
“Me, Mother.”
Then the double doors to the kitchen opened and in came Mrs. Scarlatti, glamorous as ever, striding on rangy, loose-strung legs and tossing back her asymmetrical hairdo. She must have been waiting for her cue — eavesdropping, in fact. “So!” she said, setting a hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “What do you think of my boy here?”
“I don’t understand,” said Pearl.
“Well, you know he’s been my right hand for so long, ever since my son died, really
Ezra was rising, as if something momentous were about to happen. While Mrs. Scarlatti went on speaking in her rasping, used-up voice — telling his own mother what an angel Ezra was, a sweetie, so gifted, such a respect for food, for decent food served decently, such a “divine” (she said) instinct for seasonings — he pulled his leather billfold from his pocket. He peered into it, looked anxious for a moment, and then said, “Ah!” and held up a ragged dollar bill. “Mrs. Scarlatti,” he said, “with this dollar I hereby purchase a partnership in Scarlatti’s Restaurant.”
“It’s yours, dear heart,” said Mrs. Scarlatti, taking the money.
“What’s going on here?” Pearl asked.
“We signed the papers in my lawyer’s office yesterday afternoon,” Mrs. Scarlatti said. “Well, it makes good sense, doesn’t it? Who would I leave this damn place to when I kick off — my chihuahua? Ezra knows it inside out by now. Ezra, pour me a glass of wine.”
“But I thought you were going to college,” Pearl told Ezra.
“I was?”
“I thought you were planning to be a teacher! Maybe a professor. I don’t understand what’s happened. Oh, I know it’s none of my affair. I’ve never been the type to meddle. Only let me tell you this: it’s going to look very, very peculiar to people who don’t have all the facts. Accepting such a gift! And from a woman, to boot! It’s a favor; partnerships don’t cost a dollar; you’ll be beholden all your life. Ezra, we Tulls depend on ourselves, only on each other. We don’t look to the rest of the world for any help whatsoever. How could you lend yourself to this?”
“Mother, I like making meals for people,” Ezra said.
“He’s a marvel,” said Mrs. Scarlatti.
“But the obligation!”
Cody said, “Let him be, Mother.”
She swung on him so quickly, it was more like pouncing. “I know you’re enjoying this,” she said.
“It’s his life.”
“What do you care about his life? You only want to see us break up, dissolve in the outside world.”
“Please,” said Ezra.
But Pearl rose and marched toward the door. “You haven’t eaten!” Ezra cried. She didn’t stop. In her straight-backed posture, Jenny saw the first signs of her mother’s old age — her stringy tendons and breakable bones. “Oh, dear,” Ezra said, “I wanted this to be such a good meal.” He tore off after Pearl. Scattered diners raised their heads, thought a moment, and went back to eating.
That left Cody, Jenny, and Mrs. Scarlatti. Mrs. Scarlatti didn’t seem particularly distressed. “Mothers,” she said mildly. She tucked the dollar bill inside her black linen bosom.
Cody said, “Well? Does that wrap it up? Because I should have been in Delaware an hour ago. Can I give you a lift, Jenny?”
“I guess I’ll walk,” Jenny said.
The last she saw of Mrs. Scarlatti, she was standing there all alone, surveying the untouched appetizers with an amused expression on her face.
After Cody had driven off, Jenny walked slowly toward home. She didn’t see Pearl or Ezra anywhere ahead of her. It was twilight — a sticky evening, smelling of hot tires. As she floated past shops in her sundress, she began to feel like someone’s romantic vision of a young girl. She tried out a daydream of Harley Baines, but it didn’t work. What did Jenny know about marriage? Why would she even want to get married? She was only a child; she would always be a child. Her wedding plans seemed makeshift and contrived — a charade. She felt foolish. She tried to remember Harley’s kiss but it had vanished altogether, and Harley himself was no more real to her than a little paper man in a mail-order catalogue.
In the candy store, two children argued while their mother pressed a hand to her forehead. Next came the pharmacy and then the fortune-teller’s — a smudged plate glass window with MRS. EMMA PARKINS — READINGS AND ADVICE arched in curly gold letters that were flaking around the edges. Handmade signs sat propped on the sill like afterthoughts: STRICTEST CONFIDENCE and NO PAYMENT IF NOT FULLY SATISFIED. In the light from a dusty globe lamp, Mrs. Parkins herself paced the room — a fat, drab old woman with a cardboard fan on a Popsicle stick.
Jenny reached the corner, paused, and then turned. She went back to the fortune-teller’s door. Should she knock, or just walk on in? She tried the handle. The door swung open and a little bell above it tinkled. Mrs. Parkins lowered her fan and said, “Do tell! A customer.”
Jenny hugged her purse to her chest.
“Keeping warm?” Mrs. Parkins asked her.
“Yes,” said Jenny. She thought she smelled cough syrup, the bitter, dark, cherry-flavored kind.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” Mrs. Parkins said.
There were two armchairs, puffy, facing each other across the little round table that held the lamp. Jenny sat in the chair nearest the door. Mrs. Parkins plucked her dress from the backs of her thighs and settled down with a groan, still gripping her fan. “Radio says the weather ought to break tomorrow,” she said, “but I don’t know if I can last that long. Seems like every year, the heat just hits me harder.”
Yet her hand, when she reached for Jenny’s, was cool and dry, with tough little pads at the fingertips. She fanned herself while she studied Jenny’s palm. It made her work look commonplace. “Long life, good career line …” she murmured, as if riffling through a file. Jenny relaxed.
“I suppose there’s something special you want to know about,” Mrs. Parkins said.
“Oh, well …”
“No sense beating around the bush.”
Jenny said, “Should I get … well … married?”
“Married,” said Mrs. Parkins.
“I mean, I could. I have this chance. I’ve been asked.”
Mrs. Parkins went on scrutinizing Jenny’s hand. Then she beckoned for the other one, which she barely
