Love and Other Impossible Pursuits (23 page)

“I think I should move in here with you,” I said.

Jack set the bottle down on his kitchen table and looked at me with his velvet eyes, soft and dark as navy blue ink.

Here is what we did not say:

I did not say, I know you are planning to leave me. Don't. Don't leave me.

He did not say, I'm sorry, Emilia. I can't do this. I can't move so quickly into another relationship. My marriage has barely ended. I'm not in any shape to start over again with someone new.

But you love me, I didn't say.

That doesn't matter, he didn't reply. I just can't right now. I'm confused. I'm in pain. I need room to figure out how to be without Carolyn and William before I can figure out how to be with someone else.

Here is something else we didn't say:

I did not say, You are mine. You cannot leave me because you are mine.

He didn't reply, I cannot bear how much you want me. I cannot stand the force of your desire. It has burned through my family, separated me from my son. I cannot be with you because I am afraid you will burn through me, too. You will set me on fire and there will be nothing left of me that isn't black and smoldering.

I did not say, You love me, too. You want me that way, too. I didn't burn your house down by myself. You are your own arsonist.

He did not say, That may be true, but that's even more reason for you to go away. Arson, fire. Who needs this shit? Take your thermal haze and get the hell out of here.

And here is yet more we didn't say:

He did not say, My son does not love you.

I did not say, It doesn't matter. I love you so much that it will spill over you like golden light. My love will fill your ink blue eyes and blind you to what I don't feel for your son.

This is what was said:

Jack said, “Can you live without furniture?”

Chapter 23
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

S
ince
Sunday night Jack and I have spoken in modulated voices, treating each conversation as if it is an outing over cracking ice too thin to bear the weight of our remorse. We do not discuss William, or the Meer, or how close we came to uttering unthinkable words. We just tiptoe around each other, taking such exaggerated care with every comment, every gesture that it feels like we are a couple of lunatics trapped in a very pretty three-bedroom asylum. Even the refusal of a second cup of coffee is suddenly so fraught that breakfast is exhausting enough to force me back to my bed for two hours of restorative napping after Jack has left for work. One of the blessings of Jack's being a partner in a law firm is that he can arrive home at ten or eleven o'clock at night without having to make even the excuse of an unusually heavy workload, so at least we are spared achingly courteous takeout dinners.

This morning Jack wakes early and stands over me, elegant and handsome in his dark gray suit and pink shirt, his hair wet from the shower, his fresh-shaved cheek fragrant from the astringent lotion I buy him.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very well.”

“I have a deposition this afternoon so I can't pick up William after school.”

“That's fine.”

“Would you prefer it if I called Carolyn and asked her to have Sonia stay with him until I finish work?”

“No, I'll get him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because it's no problem.”

“I said, I'll get him.” My voice is harsh. I have violated our rule of polite discourse and I cringe.

Jack leans over and wipes a speck of invisible lint off the toe of his shiny black loafer. To his shoe he says, “What are you going to do with him?”

“I don't know, I thought I'd pitch him into the model boat pond. Unless it's frozen over, in which case I'll try the Lake.”

He stands up, his face grim, unsmiling.

“I'll bring him home,” I say. “I'll give him a nondairy snack, and we'll play Lego or dinosaurs until you get home.”

“You could rent a DVD.”

“I don't need to rent a DVD. He's not allowed to watch TV, remember? We'll be fine.”

“If you're sure.”

“I'm sure. It will be fine.”

Jack nods. He buttons his suit jacket, and then unbuttons it. “I've been thinking about that thing in the park. That Walk to Remember.”

“You have?” I haven't. I have not thought about it at all.

“Do you still want to go?” he asks. He does not give me time to answer. “I think we should go. All three of us. I think it'll be good for us. We should do it together.”

“Okay,” I say.

He leans over the bed, stopping with his lips a few inches from mine. I lift my face and close the distance between us. It is the first time we've kissed since before the incident at the Meer, since our fight. It's a plain kiss, not particularly soft or tender, but it is familiar and firm.

“I'll see you tonight,” he says.

“Don't worry. William and I will be fine.”

We aren't, of course. When William sees me waiting for him outside the Red Room, he frowns. He cocks his head to one side, seems to be considering his possibilities, evaluating the situation. Then he walks over.

“I'm not going with you,” he says.

“It's Wednesday, William. On Wednesdays you come to our house.”

“Not today.”

“Yes, today. Today is Wednesday.”

“No, Emilia.” William shakes his head firmly. “I'm not going with you. Not anymore. You threw me in a lake. In Harlem.”

“It was the Harlem
Meer
. And I did not throw you in. You slipped. We slipped. It was an accident. Accidents happen. Get your coat on.”

“No!” William yells.

Sharlene pops her head out of the Red Room, her attention attracted by the vehemence of his cry. “Use your inside voice, William,” she says.

“Tell Emilia I'm not going with her,” he says and runs to the door. He ducks under Sharlene's arm and into the classroom.

“Oh for God's sake,” I mutter, following him. One or two of the nannies give me sympathetic smiles. They've been there; they know what it's like to deal with a recalcitrant child whom you are not permitted to discipline but for whose behavior you are responsible. The mothers, on the other hand, shake their heads or cast disapproving scowls my way. Who am I to impose my adulterous presence on a little boy who wants only his mother, his real mother, the one who should never have been usurped in the first place?

“I'm sorry about this,” I say to Sharlene when I walk into the classroom. “Come on William. We've got to go.”

“William is having a hard day, Emilia,” Sharlene says. “He's been having a difficult time processing what happened in the park this past weekend.”

I no longer love and admire Sharlene. Sharlene is an idiot. Sharlene should not be allowed to teach small children.

“There's not a whole lot to process. He slipped and fell. His feet got wet. It's no big deal.”

“I think it was a big deal to William. I think he's having a hard time feeling safe with you right now. Safety and security is a big issue for children, particularly for those whose sense of stability in the world has been compromised by divorce or other trauma.”

Sharlene is sitting next to William in the book nook. He has taken out an oversized dinosaur reference book and is reading it, licking his forefinger and ostentatiously turning the pages. I stand over them, shifting from foot to foot. I am hot in my winter coat.

“William,” I say. “I'm sorry about the Meer. I'm sorry you got wet. I'm sorry about all of it. I just wanted to show you that part of Central Park. The Harlem Meer is one of my favorite places and I wanted to show it to you. I had hoped you would like it as much as I do.”

William squints and leans closer to his book.

“William,” I say. “If you come right now I'll take you to buy a copy of
The Secret Garden
. You can prove to me that it's not too hard for you. And we can get the other Lyle books, too. All you've got at our house is
The House on East 88th Street
.”

Sharlene takes her hand and lays it gently over the page. “William, are you ready to go home with Emilia?”

“No,” he says.

“Do you think you might be ready soon?”

“No.”

She removes her hand. “I think we should call Jack or Carolyn,” she says. “I don't like to force him, not when he's feeling so fragile.”

William is about as fragile as the outcroppings of schist on the bluffs above the Meer.

“Fine,” I say. “I'll call Jack.” Jack, however, is not at the office. Jack is not reachable on his cell phone. Jack, according to Marilyn, is in a hearing and will not be free before five o'clock.

“William isn't registered for any afternoon programs,” Sharlene says.

“We're going home, William,” I say.

“No!” William bellows.

“I'm afraid I don't think we have a choice,” Sharlene says. “I'm going to have to call Carolyn.”

“Of course you are,” I say. “Why not? Things haven't quite deteriorated to a complete shambles. I still have one or two tiny shreds of dignity. You'd better call Carolyn so we can lay waste to what's left.”

“Emilia, this isn't about you. It's about William.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

         

I
wait for Carolyn. Not because I am a masochist, not because I believe I deserve the laceration she is bound to give me, but because today is Wednesday and Wednesday is Jack's day with William. I can't just leave and deliver him into the hands of the enemy with nary a peep. I want Jack to know I went down kicking and screaming.

Carolyn swoops into the Red Room like an avenging angel, like a mother hawk come to rescue her fluffy chick. She is smooth and sleek, smooth hair, smooth skin, smooth lips, long sleek legs, long sleek cashmere coat. I can actually feel myself growing shorter and more rotund. In a few minutes I will be a hobbit.

She gathers William to her narrow, stingy bosom and says, “William, darling. Are you all right? My poor darling. Are you frightened?”

Sharlene seems embarrassed by this lavish display of inappropriate maternal concern. “He's fine, Carolyn. He's just having some difficulty with the schedule this week, that's all.”

Sure, be sensible now, traitor, I say silently.

“William, darling, there's no need for you to go to your father's house,” Carolyn says. “Sonia is waiting in the lobby. You're coming home.”

“It's Wednesday,” I say, as if that is the problem. As if William is confused about what day it is. As if William has not been reciting the days of the week, in order, since he was fifteen months old.

Carolyn shoots me a malevolent look. She hustles William to his feet and out the door. I follow. On my way out I pass the clothesline drooping with family drawings. I spot William's right away; it is the only one taped down the middle. I peer at it, trying to discern the features of the lightly drawn angel baby. She has curly hair, and she is smiling. Her wings are very elaborate, decorated with curlicues, hearts, and, for some reason, dollar signs. Isabel makes a pretty angel. William has done a beautiful job.

“Isn't it lovely?” Sharlene says.

“Yes,” I say, and leave the classroom.

When the door to my elevator opens to the lobby, I see Carolyn and William just stepping out of theirs. I curse the notoriously unreliable 92nd Street Y elevators, steel myself, and follow them. Carolyn hands Sonia the booster seat and grips William's mittened paw.

“Hello, Sonia,” I say.

Sonia nods. “Hello, Emilia.”

“You really take the cake,” Carolyn says to me.

“What?”

“You have some goddamn nerve. Trying to force yourself on my son after what you did to him. It's sick. You're a sick person, you know that?”

The lobby of the 92nd Street Y is full of people heading up to the gym, old women on their way to the senior citizens' center, parents of preschool children, older children attending after-school programs. Carolyn's voice is low but it carries. We are putting on a little show.

“I didn't do anything to William. It was an accident. We slipped, and his feet got wet. It was water, for heaven's sake, not hydrochloric acid.”

“How dare you?” Carolyn steps up to me and pushes her pretty face close to mine. The irises of her eyes are pale blue. Even the whites of her eyes are blue-tinged, like skim milk.

“How dare I what?” I say, backing away slightly.

“You took him to Harlem!” she hisses. “And don't think I don't know about the skating. You sent him out on the ice without a helmet. You're lucky he wasn't killed.”

I sigh. William ratted me out.

“You have some objection to your child visiting Harlem?” The woman who has interrupted our conversation is about four and a half feet tall, no more. She has a dowager's hump and wields her walker like a weapon. Her voice is deep and raspy; it holds too much gravel to come from such a brittle, bird-boned frame. “You say Harlem like it's so terrible. You should be ashamed, young lady.”

Carolyn steps away from me, and looks down at my defending crone, her mouth agape.

The old woman continues, her face raised to us like a wrinkled moon. “Many a night I danced in Harlem, listened to music, ate dinner. All alone or with my girlfriends. We had no carfare, we walked home. All the way. No one laid a finger on us. So you should maybe think again before you make such criticisms of Harlem. And let me ask you this.” She raises a gnarled finger and shakes it at Carolyn. She is so small that she is shaking it not in Carolyn's face but at her belt. “Do you pay her social security taxes, this young girl you're yelling at? Do you put money into a pension plan for her? What about overtime? Do you pay time and a half? Maybe instead of criticizing your nanny for showing your child the city in all its beauty you should be thinking about behaving less like an overprivileged fat cat!”

“She is not my nanny,” Carolyn says. “She is my husband's wife. And I'd kindly ask you to mind your own damn business.”

“It is my business, my friend. It takes a village to raise a child. You should read the book. Hillary Clinton. It's wonderful. I'm your village, my dear, whether you like it or not.” The old woman humps her walker away, toddling along behind it.

“I'm not just Jack's wife,” I say. “I'm also William's stepmother.”

“And what does
that
mean?” Carolyn says. “I'll tell you what. Nothing. It means nothing. You have no rights to my child. None. None, do you understand me? If you ever cause him harm again, if you ever throw him into a lake, or take him to Harlem, or take him skating, or even into Central Park, so help me God, I will have you arrested for child abuse.”