9

Tess, hovering alone by the front door of the apartment, was talking quietly to herself.

“Are they not here yet?” she asked earnestly. “Is Peter and Amanda not here outside the door?” She paused, motionless, in the act of listening, her ear set against the heavy door.

In the dining room, Emma was setting the table with fancy blue mats, and paper napkins printed with jungle animals. At two places she put small pink-wrapped packages: these were flowered barrettes, roses for Tess, daisies for Amanda. Emma could hear Tess’s low serious voice.

“They will be here soon,” Tess promised herself.

Tess had been waiting all morning. She had been waiting all week, ever since the moment Emma had told her that Peter’s daughter, the mysterious grown-up Amanda, was coming to lunch.

That morning, when Emma came into Tess’s bedroom, Tess awoke at once, sitting urgently upright. Her slept-in face was miraculously fresh, the pale skin smooth and translucent.

“Today is the day that Amanda comes,” she said, blinking with sleep, but already full of purpose. “I would like to wear a party dress.”

“It’s not really a party,” said Emma.

“But it’s kind of a party,” Tess pointed out. “We are having guests to come. I think a party dress would be a good idea.”

Tess thought this every day. She yearned for lace, ribbons, petticoats, as though she had been brought up in a bordello. Emma slid the footed bottoms of Tess’s pajamas down her pearly legs.

“Amanda won’t be wearing a dress,” Emma said. “She’ll be in everyday clothes.” Emma had a sudden image of Amanda: stony eyed, implacable. “You’ll want to be able to play,” Emma said, “How about your sweater with the ducks? And the white blouse with the ruffle?”

“My blouse with the long ruffle?” asked Tess, interested. “All the way around?”

“That’s the one,” said Emma.

Now Tess trotted in to report that no one had yet arrived. She wore corduroys and the duck sweater. At her neck rippled the white ruffle. Tess leaned heavily against her mother’s side. She sighed loudly. “I wish they would come,” she said, despondent.

“They’ll come soon,” Emma promised.

“I wish they would come now,” said Tess. She put her head down on the table in despair.

Emma patted her. Waiting was dreadful for a child. There was no sense of time passing, no belief that it ever would.

“They’ll come soon,” Emma repeated: Peter was always on time.

Tess raised her head. “But Amanda’s mommy is not coming?”

“No,” said Emma.

“But where is Amanda’s mommy?” Tess asked, squinting.

Emma had explained this before. “She’s at home, in the house where she lives with Amanda.”

“And Amanda doesn’t live with her daddy?”

“No. She’s like you. You don’t live with your daddy,” said Emma. She wondered if Tess really understood who Amanda’s father was, and where he lived.

Tess stared up at her. “Mommy,” she said, “how old is Amanda?”

“I’ve told you,” Emma said. “Seven.”

“Seven,” Tess repeated. Awed, she said, “But, Mommy, I don’t play with such old girls.”

“But you will with Amanda,” Emma reassured. “You’ll have fun with her.”

“Will I?” asked Tess, hopeful.

“You’ll be friends,” Emma promised. At that moment they heard the front door.

“They’re here!” whispered Tess.

Peter closed the door with a jubilant slam. He wore a tweed jacket against the cool April morning, a wool scarf. He brought in with him a swirl of fresh air, and his cheeks were rose from the chill and excitement. Smiling, he raked his wheat-colored hair back from his forehead. His gestures were swift and generous, as though he had energy and happiness to spare.

“Hello, sweet,” he said to Emma.

Amanda, in jeans and a tan jacket, looked small beside her father. His hand was on her shoulder; she leaned away as though it were a tether. Her hands were deep in her pockets, her face seemed pinched.

Tess, brazen with excitement, ran headlong toward them. When she reached them she stopped, suddenly shy.

Peter, exuberant, stooped to pick her up. “Hello, you,” he said, and swung her into the air for a kiss.

Tess, her eyes fixed on his, rose in his hands, in a swift spiraling arc. Peter leaned up toward her. He was a man who had left his wife and child, he was the source of grief and loss, but in this moment, lifting Emma’s daughter up to a flying kiss, he declared himself again a man of family, a man who loved, who could be forgiven. The swoop was full of spirit and hope. At the peak of it Peter lifted his face to kiss Tess, his lips prepared for her small mouth, the earnest sweetness of her kiss, redemption.

But Tess, self-conscious, embarrassed in the presence of this glamorous stranger, struggled in his arms. She twisted her head sharply, away from his kiss. “Put me down,” she commanded, squirming. “I want to be down.” Obedient, disappointed, Peter set her down.

Tess turned to face Amanda. Amanda stared briefly, then coolly turned away. Tess shuffled a step closer and put her hands behind her back. She was Waiting for it to begin, for them to start being friends. Amanda looked over her head, into the distance.

Emma stepped forward. “Hello, Amanda,” she said. She leaned over to kiss her, but as she neared Amanda’s face, the child jerked back. Her expression was so alarmed, then so chill, that Emma lost heart. She put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and gave her an awkward hug instead. Amanda flinched slightly as though at a blow.

Peter squatted between the two girls, putting a hand on each one’s shoulder. “Amanda, I want you to meet Tess, Emma’s daughter,” he said. “Tessie, this is Amanda. She is my daughter.”

Amanda looked down at Tess. “Hello,” she said.

“I am Tess,” Tess announced. She raised her shoulders elaborately, then dropped them.

Amanda looked around the hall, mute, her hands deep in her pockets. She hates being here, Emma thought, her heart sinking. She hates everything: the air.

“Amanda, why don’t you give me your jacket, and I’ll hang it up,” Emma said.

Amanda looked around without moving. There was a pause. She shifted her gaze to the top of the doorframe. She was waiting to go home.

“Amanda?” Peter said. “Give Emma your jacket.”

Amanda looked at him, remote. The jacket was zipped tightly up to her chin. Emma pictured someone—Caroline?—kneeling on the rug in front of her, smiling, zipping Amanda into a warm snug cocoon.

Peter’s eyes did not leave Amanda’s face. “Amanda,” he repeated. “What did Emma just say to you?”

Amanda’s hands were rooted deep in her pockets, her arms close at her sides. She looked intently into the middle distance. Tess stood beside her, staring up at Amanda’s face, respectful, fascinated, anxious. There was a pause.

“Amanda,” Peter said again. His voice was firm.

“She can keep it on, it doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “Tess, why don’t you show Amanda your room?” She wanted them to be alone together, away from the noisy thrust of their parents’ expectations.

“Come on,” said Tess at once. “Want to come to my room, Amanda?” She beckoned officiously and started off down the hall. Reluctant, Amanda followed. Tess turned back. “Come on,” she said brightly, as though Amanda were a puppy. Amanda followed slowly. Her hands in her pockets, she gave a small contemptuous kick with each step. She stared boldly around as she walked through the rooms, like a monarch in exile.

Emma turned to Peter. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

The lunch was planned for Amanda: onion soup, quiche, salad. Ice cream and cookies. Emma lifted the lid on the saucepan: steam rose warm and damp against her face. On the dark surface floated filmy strips of onion. The quiche was in the warm cave of the oven. Emma began to make the salad dressing; Peter slid the long loaf of French bread from its paper jacket.

“God,” he said forcefully.

“She doesn’t want to be here,” said Emma.

Peter looked up. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “This is her only chance to see her father. This is my new life.”

“She doesn’t want you to have a new life,” said Emma.

Peter began slicing the loaf, quick, deliberate diagonal strokes. “I told her she had to be nice to Tess.”

“They’ll be fine,” Emma said, wondering if they would. “In a while. It’s hard for Amanda. She’s jealous of Tess.”

“Well, she’ll just have to learn not to be,” said Peter.

“You can’t tell her how to feel,” Emma said. She poured a smooth ribbon of olive oil into the glass jar. The yellow-green oil coiled swiftly, dissolving into itself.

“Yes, I can,” Peter said. He began buttering, hard, the slices he had cut. “Everyone controls their feelings.”

“No,” said Emma. “You control your actions. You can’t control the way you feel.”

“Of course you can.”

“No,” said Emma again. She poured a dark globe of vinegar into the oil. “You can’t make yourself love someone.”

“Children love whoever loves them,” Peter said. He began setting the slices onto a metal pan. “I love Amanda, you love her, Caroline loves her. Tess will love her. What more could a child want?”

Emma, who did not love Amanda, said nothing. She screwed on the top and shook the jar. Inside, the oil and vinegar dispersed into tiny globules. With each shake they shattered more, glistening, jostling, tiny: they would never dissolve. Each time Emma saw Amanda, the child’s hostility rose up at her in great waves, chilling, repelling. What if she could never love her?

“Ready?” Peter asked.

“I’ll get the girls,” Emma answered.

Approaching Tess’s room, silent on the carpet, Emma heard them talking and paused outside the door. First she heard Tess’s high, serious piping, then a silence, then Amanda’s low voice.

“It’s your turn to take a card,” Amanda said. After a pause she asked, “Where’s your mom’s room?”

“You mean my mommy’s?” asked Tess, uncertain. Emma disliked the word mom.

“Your mom’s,” Amanda repeated, a thread of contempt in her voice.

“My mommy’s room is in there,” Tess said, conciliatory. “My mommy’s and Peter’s. They share that room together.”

Amanda did not answer.

“This is my room,” Tess said hopefully.

There was a pause.

“My room is bigger than this,” Amanda said, as if to herself. There was a fluttering sound, cards being shuffled. “A lot bigger,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “It’s your turn.”

“I have a closet,” Tess offered, but Amanda did not answer.

“Want to see it?” Tess asked.

“No,” Amanda said cruelly.

There was another pause; cards slid about on the rug.

Amanda said, “I won. Look.”

“Why?” Tess asked.

“I have all four elephants. Look.”

“But you won last time,” Tess said wistfully.

“I won this time too,” Amanda said.

Emma stepped into the doorway. The girls were sitting on the rug, the cards scattered in ragged lines in front of them.

“Hi, guys,” Emma said. They looked up. Amanda, holding Emma’s eyes with hers, made a swift guilty gesture. Certain cards slid quickly behind the curve of her hand.

“We are playing the animal game,” Tess said, “and, Mommy, Amanda is the winner.”

“That’s how it is,” Emma said. “Sometimes one person wins, sometimes the other.”

“Yes, but she is always the winner,” Tess said sadly. “And you know, Mommy, I like to be the winner.”

Amanda stood, making a wild swirl of the cards with her foot. “We’re finished now, anyway.” She glanced at Emma, then away.

Emma gave her an admonitory look to let Amanda know she knew how she had won. But Amanda lifted her chin and would not meet her eye.

At the table Emma and Tess sat side by side, facing Peter and Amanda. Tess picked up the package at once.

“What is it?”

“A present,” said Emma.

“Can I open it?”

“Why don’t you save it for dessert? Amanda has one too.”

Amanda eyed her package without speaking.

Emma ladled the soup into bowls, and Peter set into each a perfect crouton. Tess leaned over her bowl, nearly plunging her nose into the liquid. She gave a long, audible sniff. “What is this soup, Mommy, is this soup I like?”

“It’s onion, Tess, I don’t know if you’ve had it before. But Tess,” Emma said, “it’s not polite to lean into your bowl like that, and sniff at your food.”

Stricken, Tess looked up at her mother. She said nothing, putting her hands in her lap and leaning back in her chair. Amanda looked at Tess, now interested.

Emma saw her mistake too late. “It’s all right, Tessie,” she said. “It’s just not something you should do next time.”

She had made it worse. Tess dropped her head; her chin pressed against the white ruffle. She sat motionless, head down.

“Tess,” Emma said, but Tess would not look up.

Amanda now watched Tess intently, without courtesy or compassion, staring as though Tess were on display. Tess had put her spoon down; Amanda now picked hers up with meticulous care, and, fastidiously, began to eat. After every few spoonfuls, she picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth. She ignored Peter and Emma.

Emma, watching Tess, began sipping her own soup. Peter, with tactful indifference to the whole thing, was eating steadily.

“Good soup,” he said. He looked at Amanda and waggled his eyebrows. She looked away.

Tess’s head dropped lower and lower. Her shoulders began to jerk with little coughing sobs.

“Tessie?” Emma said, but there was no answer. It was no use. Emma put down her spoon. She picked Tess up from the chair and carried her into her room, where she sat down with her on the bed.

“Tessie, I’m sorry I said that to you, in front of other people,” she said. Tess was now sobbing openly, brokenly.

“Amanda is a big girl,” Tess said. “You shouldn’t say those things to me in front of a big girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said again, hugging the small heated body. It was her own rule, not to criticize Tess in public: why had she broken it? It was Amanda, she realized. She was trying to protect Tess from Amanda’s scornful glance, the raised eyebrows, the condescending smile. She didn’t want Amanda judging Tess; she was trying to correct her before Amanda noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said again. She would have to get better at this. She took Tess on her lap. She could feel the sobs lessening. She kissed the top of her head and held her until she was quiet.

When they returned, Peter smiled at Tess.

“Here she is,” he said. Cheered, Tess climbed back in her chair and picked up her spoon.

After a moment, Emma turned to Amanda. “Amanda, where do you go to school?”

Amanda looked at her, then away. “Nightingale.”

Emma nodded. “That’s a very good school. And did you know, Tess, that it’s the name of a bird, too? A bird with a beautiful song.”

“The name of a bird? Is your school the name of a bird?” Tess had bounced suddenly back into good humor, her face full of hilarious incredulity.

But Amanda saw nothing amusing about the name of her school. She looked coldly at Tess without speaking.

“The name of a bird, and the bird with the most beautiful voice in the world,” said Peter.

“A school with the name of a bird,” Tess said, mirthful.

“And Amanda is in the first grade there,” said Emma, trying to move on. “And what’s your favorite subject? What part do you like the best?”

“Reading?” Peter prompted. “Music? Arithmetic?”

For the first time, Amanda’s mouth broke out of its strict tautness into a curve. The corners slid reluctantly into a smile. “Daddy,” she said, “we don’t call it arithmetic.”

“No?” said Peter. Everyone waited. Tess leaned forward.

“It’s called math, Daddy,” Amanda said, with exquisite condescension.

Peter shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said, “I’ve done it again. I’ve said the wrong thing.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Math,” he whispered sternly to himself. “Not arithmetic. Math. Math.”

Amanda allowed herself to giggle. “Why did you say ‘arithmetic’?” she asked, as though the word itself were absurd.

“Why did I?” Peter asked. He shook his head. “It’s hard to say. These things just come to me. Sometimes ‘arithmetic’ just jumps in front of another word I’m trying to say. It gets there first. Sometimes, in the morning, I ask for a cup of hot arithmetic.”

Both girls laughed out loud, and Tess looked at Amanda.

“A cup of hot arithmetic!” she said exuberantly, sharing the joke.

But at this, the notion that they were allies, Amanda quieted at once. Her face closed, and she looked down at her soup. Soberly she lifted a spoonful to her mouth.

Tess tried again. Her eyes fixed on Amanda, she laughed shrilly, hoping to recover the moment of shared hilarity.

Amanda ignored her; the moment was over, it was as though it had never been. Precisely she opened her mouth for her soup.

Tess watched her hopefully, but Amanda stared steadily in front of her, ignoring Tess, and Tess’s face fell.

Peter drank from his water glass, watching the girls from the corner of his eye. “I should have known that ‘arithmetic’ wasn’t what big girls would call it.”

Emma, watching, thought, He is so brave, he tries so hard. She looked at Amanda.

Amanda ignored them all. She chewed slowly, swallowed. She licked her lips, then wiped her mouth with icy hauteur. She turned to Tess. “Where’s your nanny?”

“My nanny?” asked Tess. She looked at Emma. “What is my nanny?”

“She means Rachel,” said Emma.

“My baby-sitter? My baby-sitter is Rachel. She’s not here. It’s her day off.”

Amanda stared. “Why do you call her your baby-sitter?”

“Because,” Tess said, nodding for emphasis on each word, “she, is, my, baby-sitter.”

Amanda raised her eyebrows and took another mouthful.

“Amanda has a nanny who looks after her,” Peter said. “Her name is Maeve.”

“I’ve always had her,” Amanda said. “Since I was born.”

“Maeve takes Amanda to school in the morning, and picks her up in the afternoon,” said Peter.

“That is like my baby-sitter,” Tess said happily. “The same which my baby-sitter does.”

“They’re different,” said Amanda loftily. “A nanny does more than that. She’s better than a baby-sitter.”

Emma hoped Amanda would not tell Tess that a playgroup was different from school. She tried to remember if Rachel had gone out or not. She hoped Rachel was not in her bedroom, ten feet away.

“A nanny isn’t better, Amanda,” Peter said. “Just different.”

Amanda shrugged her shoulders.

Tess leaned forward. “My baby-sitter is a brown. Is your nanny a brown?”

Amanda frowned. Emma, praying that Rachel was out, said, “Not a brown, Tess. Rachel is black.”

Tess shook her head stubbornly. “No, she is not black. Her skin is brown.” Tess pushed her chair back and stood up. “Come, I’ll show you.”

“No,” Emma said quickly, “it’s Rachel’s day off. We’ll let her have some time to herself.” She turned to Amanda, changing the subject at random. “Now, Amanda, do you have a birthday coming up soon?”

“May,” Amanda said to the air.

“My birthday is in May too,” Tess said, climbing back onto her chair.

“Is it?” Emma asked. “I thought your birthday was in August.”

“Yes,” said Tess. “Sometimes it is in June.”

“Tell us what you do on your birthday,” Emma said to Amanda.

“My mom takes us to the movies,” Amanda said. “And then afterward we come home and have cake and presents.”

“Presents?” Tess asked.

Amanda stared at her. “At birthday parties you have presents.”

Abashed, Tess tilted her head and said nothing.

“Remember at Samantha’s?” Emma said. “We took her a present.” Tess nodded.

“How old are you?” Amanda asked her.

“More than three,” Tess offered.

“Four?” asked Amanda.

Tess shook her head.

“She’s three,” Emma said. “Right, Tess? You’ll be four on your next birthday.”

“But I am more than three, because my three birthday is past,” said Tess anxiously.

“True,” said Emma. “You’re three and a half.”

“Three,” Amanda murmured to herself.

Troubled, Tess watched her.

“Amanda, are you being mean to Tess?” Peter asked suddenly.

Amanda twisted her head ambiguously, shrugging her shoulders. Emma stood.

“If you girls are through, let’s have the quiche.” She picked up their bowls. “Peter, will you bring in the salad?”

In the kitchen she said, “Don’t be too hard on her.”

“What is the matter with her?” Peter asked.

“It’s her first time seeing you here. It’s hard for her.”

“It’s hard for all of us.”

“She doesn’t like you living with another little girl.”

“Well, I do,” said Peter. “She has to get used to it.”

Emma pulled the tray from the oven, and without looking at him, said tentatively, “Maybe after lunch you should take her out somewhere with you. Maybe she’d like a walk in the park or something.”

Peter frowned. “A walk in the park? It’s about thirty degrees outside.”

“Or go to a museum, or something.”

“A museum. Dragging Amanda from room to room at the Whitney. That’d cheer her up, I’m sure. My God.” Peter put his hands on his hips. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want her here?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Emma said guiltily. “It’s just that I think she’d like being alone with you.”

Peter laughed unpleasantly. “Are you kicking us out?”

“Of course not,” Emma said.

“Why can’t we stay here? I thought the girls could play a game together after lunch.”

Emma thought of Amanda’s surreptitious hand among the cards. “I just think Amanda would rather be alone with you,” she said, but she was retreating, she had lost.

“She has to get used to my life the way it is now,” Peter said. “This is where I live. I’m not spending the afternoon dragging her through the streets like a homeless person.”

Emma said nothing.

“Where do you want me to go?” Now he sounded not angry but desperate, and Emma reached out to him, smoothing his hair.

“Here,” she said, “stay here.”

In the dining room, the girls sat in silence. Tess gazed longingly at Amanda, who stared fixedly into the distance. Emma slid them each a neat wedge of quiche, its crusty surface crumpled and steaming.

“Now.” Peter sat down. “See if you can eat it without eating the tip first.” The girls looked at him. “Not the tip.”

“But I want to eat the tip first,” Tess said cheerfully.

“Right,” Peter said. “Everyone does. Try not to.”

Tess shook her head serenely. “I want to.” She picked up her fork and stabbed off the point of her piece, then ate it, watching Peter. “Mm,” she said. Peter and Emma laughed.

Amanda ignored her, picking up her fork and cutting the slice in half lengthwise. She took a bite from the outer portion.

“There you go,” said Peter. “That’s another way. Good for you, Nanna.”

Tess said suddenly, “My present!”

“What is it?” asked Emma.

“It’s gone!” Tess’s voice was piercing. “Where is my present?” She put her head down on the table, then threw it back, banging it against her chairback. “It’s gone!”

“Stop it, Tess,” said Emma, getting up. “What are you talking about?” The package was not there.

“My present is gone,” wailed Tess. She squirmed in her chair. Emma squatted beside her, looking under Tess’s plate, beneath her mat. She looked under the table. The package was gone. Beside her Tess keened, her voice shrill, intolerable.

“Stop it,” Emma said, rattled. “It’s here somewhere. Stop whining.”

Peter looked under the table. “Where was it?”

“By her glass,” Emma said. “It’s got to be here. It was here when we sat down.”

“Where is my present?” Tess whimpered.

Amanda glanced sideways at her. She put her hands beneath her thighs and swung her legs under the table.

“We’ll find it, Tess,” said Emma. “Don’t worry. It’s here, it has to be.” She looked again under the table, as though she might have overlooked a bright pink package among the chair legs. Peter stood by Tess, frowning.

Emma picked up Tess’s plate, her mat. “Stand up for a second, Tess,” she said, “maybe you’re sitting on it.”

Tess slid off her chair. The seat was empty.

“It’s gone,” Tess said, collapsing into sobs. “It’s gone.”

The day, which she had so eagerly awaited, was ruined. This girl, the glamorous older girl who was to become her friend, would never be her friend. Tess had lost the card games. Amanda had been contemptuous of her age, her baby-sitter, her birthday. Amanda had mocked and ridiculed her. The day that had begun with such excitement had held nothing but disappointment, and now the one certain pleasure—the present from her mother—was gone.

“This is bizarre,” Emma said to Peter. “Where is it?”

Amanda picked up her water glass and drank lengthily.

“Amanda,” Peter said. He folded his arms, his mouth grim. Next to her small frame he looked suddenly very large.

“Amanda,” he said again, “do you know where Tess’s present is?”

There was a pause. Slowly Amanda shook her head. She did not look at him.

“Amanda,” Peter said, “look at me.”

After a moment she turned. She looked at him, her eyes hooded.

“Answer me,” Peter said, his face bleak. “Do you know where Tess’s present is?”

Amanda did not answer.

“Stand up,” he said.

Amanda deliberately turned away from him. She looked straight ahead. She picked up her spoon and dropped it lightly, negligently, on her mat.

Tess, next to Emma, slid down against her mother’s leg. She collapsed onto the floor and began to cry in earnest. “Ssh, Tess,” Emma said. She was watching Peter.

Peter leaned over Amanda, took her by the shoulder; this time his grip was not proud, not loving. Amanda twisted away from her father’s hand, her face darkening angrily.

Emma almost spoke, almost stepped forward to stop him. Peter was too angry, too powerful, to confront this small child. But Emma had her own small child, smaller, wailing with despair against her leg. She saw again Amanda’s hand slipping the cards out of sight, heard her low voice spurning each of Tess’s innocent offerings. Emma felt her own heart tighten, her own chest rise angrily. Her throat felt hot and swollen. Her own child lay weeping on the floor.

“Stand up,” said Peter. His voice was terrible.

Nothing could save Amanda now. It will never work, thought Emma. In that long instant before Amanda reluctantly stood, it felt to Emma like the last moment on top of a ski run, when you pause, thrilled, terrified, your heart sinking inside you. You see before you the endless icy slope, descending, descending. You realize now, clearly, that it is too steep. You see that certain disaster waits below, but you are there, at the top, it is too late to change, to stop, you know that, it is just before you begin the long swoop down it, as you must.