“Where you learned to paint. What other stuff you’ve done. Et cetera.”
“I can’t say I ever really learned. And I haven’t done anything in years, Francie.”
“How come?”
Anne shrugged. “Family life.” Her gaze turned inward. “And I guess I got discouraged.” She brightened. “But are you really telling me you like it?”
“I am.”
“That means a lot. The truth is I’m so jealous of you. I’d kill for a job like yours, Francie.”
“I’m not an artist,” Francie said.
“Neither am I.”
“Don’t be so sure. I’d like to see more.”
Anne thought. “They’re all packed away in the basement,” she said. “Except one I did of my husband, just after we got married. My last real effort, now that I think of it.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bedroom. You can go up. First door on your right.”
Francie went into the hall, climbed the stairs, entered the first room on the right. A bedroom, with a king-size bed, and over it, in oil, the head of a dark-eyed young man, all greens and browns, edged in white. Not as good as the grapes in technique, but it resonated more-whether because of Anne’s artistry or the subject’s resemblance to Ned, Francie didn’t know. An astounding likeness, not photographic, but in affect, and perhaps all the more powerful for that reason. It froze Francie on the spot, there at the foot of Anne’s bed. She stared at the painting, unaware of time, unaware of anything until a car door slammed, close by.
Francie hurried downstairs, through the hall, into the living room. Anne looked up with a smile. “Find it okay?”
“Yes. Anne-”
“And what did you think? I’ve never been that happy with it, but it’s Em’s favorite for some reason.”
“Em?”
“Emilia. My husband started calling her Em, and it stuck.”
Francie heard the front door open.
“Speak of the devil,” Anne said.
15
A nightmare that began with cute domestic touches.
“Honey, I’m home,” called Ned in a parody of a sitcom-daddy voice. Not someone who sounded like him, but Ned: beyond doubt.
And a girlish voice responded, “Dad. Don’t be such a dork.”
Francie, motionless in Anne’s living room, her motionlessness that of the dreamer desperate to flee the nightmare but suddenly paralyzed in every muscle, heard the words, heard Ned’s voice, and Emilia’s, Em’s-Em, Em, Em, a warning often sounded, completely missed-heard their voices strangely distorted, as though all sounds but the highest treble and deepest bass had been eliminated. Visual distortion came, too. Colors-the walls, the rug, Anne’s face-veered toward yellow.
“In here,” Anne called back, her eyes brightening. She glanced at Francie with the expectant look of someone about to introduce people certain to like each other, about to bring two positive components of her life together. Francie felt blood rushing to her throat, her cheeks; she blushed like the kind of schoolgirl she’d never been.
Footsteps in the hall. All her senses, all her thoughts in turmoil, Francie glimpsed her face in the mirror over the fireplace. She looked normal, even composed. No trace of a blush, no discomfort, completely cool. How was that possible? She should have beheld an image of terror and shame. Then Ned walked into the room, his daughter, Emilia, Em-with his dark eyes, his erect posture-at his side. He saw Francie, stopped dead, went white: horrified. Horrified for all to see.
Anne saw. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Ned,” she said. “Just a sprain. Please don’t worry. And the great thing, the important thing, is we won the match.”
“The match?” Ned said.
“We’re in the finals! Ned, this is Francie, my new tennis partner. Francie, my husband, Ned.”
Their eyes met. Ned tried to hide what was going on within, but he couldn’t do that from Francie. She saw horror-his first thought must have been that Anne knew all, the second perhaps that Francie had had some kind of breakdown and come to confess-give way to confusion. Neither moved to close the space between them, to shake hands. Francie spoke first. “Hello,” she said, not coming near the right note, unable to remember how to say hello to someone for the first time.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, also hitting it wrong, and adding a faltering little smile that was off target as well.
Francie, aware of Anne’s glowing face, almost a caricature of enthusiasm, tried to think of something to say. She met people all the time, always knew what came after hello and nice to meet you. But this time nothing did. There was no light remark, no easy meaningless flow. The room and everyone in it grew yellower and yellower, and the urge to bolt from it grew as well, almost overwhelming her. At the same time an inane phrase- nice to meet you, too — readied itself in her mind. But nice to meet you, too was playacting, a lie. She didn’t want to say it, not unless she absolutely had to, didn’t want to smile and be a villain; she just wanted to get out. The silence went on and on. Surely Anne, so sensitive to atmosphere, would notice, would feel the awkwardness.
“Well, then,” Ned said. “I guess congratulations are in order. As long as you’re not really hurt. Sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” Anne said, somehow missing not only the silence, the awkwardness, but also the fact that while Ned was speaking to her, while he was saying sweetheart, his eyes were still on Francie. “Never better, in fact. Winning a match like that-and it was all thanks to Francie-is just so…” Words failed her.“How would you put it, Francie?”
All eyes moved to her. Her tennis self took over, rescuing her.“We haven’t won anything yet,” she said automatically.
“You see, Ned?” said Anne with delight. “That’s my partner, right there. Just like Vince Lombardi.”
“Thanks,” Francie said, and Anne started laughing at the way she said it, but she was the only one.
“Who’s Vince Lombardi?” Em said.
The question was directed at Ned. He licked his lips and quoted: “ ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.’”
“Puke,” said Em, glancing at Francie to see if she really thought like that. Francie caught the glance-this was a child she could like; at the same time, she was aware of the proud paternal smile that flickered briefly on Ned’s face, despite everything. Em came first. Again Francie glimpsed herself in the mirror and was stunned to find a smile on her face, too.
“Not that I’m suggesting she resembles Vince Lombardi in any other way, ” Anne was saying. “Quite the opposite, as you can plainly see. In fact, the men on the other courts are always-”
“I’ve really got to get going, Anne,” Francie interrupted, her voice much too loud, or so she thought.
“But Ned just arrived,” Anne replied. “You’ve hardly had a chance to meet. At least finish your drink first. And why don’t you have one, too, Ned? Even if it is that Romanian stuff.”
“I’m not really-”
“Come on, Ned. You wouldn’t want Francie to think you’re a wine snob.”
Ned’s mouth opened. Francie knew what was on his mind: Francie knows better. He said nothing, went into the kitchen. Em moved closer to her mother, gazed down at her ankle. Francie had already seen the Ned in Em; now she saw Anne in Em’s graceful stance. “How did you win playing on that?” Em said.
“Your mom’s tough.” The words popped out of Francie’s mouth unbidden. Now her subconscious was defending Anne, shoring her up. Not hard to understand why, like the guilty parent who buys her child an ice cream cone an hour after the spanking. Her next thought was conscious, and she kept it to herself: she’d better be.
Em was looking at her in surprise.
