XI

They took a cab to the restaurant. The place could be reached on foot, but tonight the sidewalks were wet, the air humid and chilly, and Mrs. March was in heels.

They rode most of the way in silence.

“The Monkey Bar is getting to be so drab,” said George as the cab trundled along 54th Street.

“Mmm,” she said.

The loud cartoon murals of the Monkey Bar had hosted their romantic dinners for years. Over time George started taking his friends and business associates there too. As he did with almost everything, he reveled in it in excess, only to grow bored of the place once the novelty wore off. And so, they exchanged the red leather booths and mirrored columns of the Monkey Bar for the quiet, wallpapered rooms of Tartt’s.

The cab stopped at the curb with a splash. George paid the driver as a uniformed valet hurried over with an umbrella. They entered the restaurant at precisely six o’clock, where the maître d’, a pasty man with slicked hair and a perky nose, asked them under what name their reservation had been made. Mrs. March scanned the man’s face for a hint of recognition as George stated his full name, but he remained unreadable as he checked them off in his book and escorted them to their table.

“Why aren’t we in a private room?” she asked, once they were seated and the maître d’ was out of earshot. Their usual table was in a small space separated from the main dining area by thick curtains lined with pom-pom trim. It made her feel royal and safe.

“Well, I made the reservation this morning,” said George, “and it was a challenge to get a table at all.”

“But wouldn’t they have given you a better table if you told them who you were?”

“Come on now, dear, this table is perfect. Plus, I wouldn’t want to look like an asshole.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” said Mrs. March, supposing nothing of the sort. She craned her neck to survey the space. It was tasteful, and dimly lit. Quite a few people were seated already as more arrived, all of them impeccably dressed and coiffed. No one seemed to notice them or recognize George, the latter of which would have annoyed Mrs. March in the past, but which today provided her with relief. She lowered her eyes toward her menu. Wood sorrel, Marsala sabayon, kabocha squash . . . George’s tortoiseshell glasses hung on his chest from a cord, slapping occasionally against his shirt buttons. Mrs. March peered over her menu at him and cleared her throat, but George remained oblivious. When he finally slipped on his glasses to read the wine list, Mrs. March sat back and returned her gaze to the unintelligible entrées. “It all sounds so yummy, dear,” she said, “I just can’t decide. Why don’t you order for me?”

“I will,” said George, without once looking up, “and I’m also going to order us some lovely wine.”

The waiter appeared, hunched, hands clasped in front as if he were asking for forgiveness, and with a practiced caution (“Do we know what we want? Any questions?”) took their order. As George rattled off their requests, Mrs. March’s attention wavered and her vision dimmed, the chatter and tinkling of utensils temporarily quieted. From far away, the waiter asked George if they had any desire for baked Alaska, because apparently it took an inordinate amount of time to prepare. As if emerging from water, she surfaced to see George reply in the affirmative. She had not been consulted, but it was for the best, as she always either regretted not ordering dessert or regretted ordering it. Better for George to make the decision for her. Mrs. March had given up on dieting years ago, never able to sustain it. When Martha wasn’t around to keep her in check, she’d invariably give in to the peculiar cravings she’d harbored since she was a little girl (cookies with rice, tomato sauce in yogurt).

She looked down to see a plate of pearly razorfish, tonight’s special. She hadn’t noticed it being served to her. Had they eaten their appetizers already? She couldn’t recall whether George had ordered any. The razorfish looked cartoonish with its colorful stripes and bright yellow irises. She pushed it around her plate, reluctant to eat it, watching George while he slurped at his. The fish’s eye stared at her, the pupil circled by one colorful ring after another. Suddenly it blinked. Mrs. March thrust her chair back and excused herself to go to the bathroom.

The ladies’ room at Tartt’s was surprisingly masculine—oak-paneled and dimly lit, smelling of cinnamon and citrus. In a corner stood a wooden bookcase with wire mesh doors, and along the furthest wall there was a very long porcelain sink—with faucets curved like swans’ necks—where a woman stood retouching her makeup in the mirror. Mrs. March attempted a greeting, but the woman didn’t register her presence. Mrs. March rapped politely on the door to the toilet and, hearing no response, pushed it open. The stall she selected was almost fancier than the entire bathroom, with its own sink, golden fixtures, and walls papered in Chinese silk. From a sound system emerged a man’s voice, reading an audiobook in a soothing British accent. She caught snippets as she undressed, hoisting up her tight skirt and rolling down her pantyhose, careful not to rip them.

The scent of the woman who had used the toilet before her lingered. The smell of her insides, like raw meat. Mrs. March swallowed to suppress a gag and crouched over the toilet, careful to avoid touching the seat with her bare flesh, as her mother had taught her. She hovered, waiting for her bladder to empty as she swayed over the toilet. To maintain her equilibrium she focused on the audiobook narrator’s words.

“She removed the scrimshawed busk, which was pressed against her bosom, yellowed with sweat between pimpled breasts. The initials ‘B.M.’ were carved into the whalebone. It did not belong to her, for her name was Johanna.”

Mrs. March gasped, and the stream of her urine diverted to the floor. It couldn’t be; had the audiobook even been released? She managed a clumsy dab of toilet paper before pulling up her pantyhose, ripping them in the process—“She had stolen it, a pathetic figure in the dark of night, from another prostitute a few years back”—a drop of urine streaked down her leg as she operated the golden faucet—“a sailor had carved it for B.M., expressing a tenderness Johanna had never experienced from anyone, not even one of her tricks”—she splashed her hands clumsily, reaching for a paper towel, the voice erupting from the speakers louder, threatening—“We know you’re in there, Johanna”—she yelped, throwing herself at the door, fumbling with the gilded handle.

When she burst from the stall, she found the bathroom deserted, one of the taps open. She tossed her crumpled paper towel into the trash and fled the restroom.

The restaurant seemed to have gone quiet. No sounds of knives and forks on porcelain, of clinking glasses, no buzzing of conversation or rustle of the sommelier’s stiff trousers. Silence. She walked through the dim dining room as diners on either side watched her, their heads turning to follow her, expressions serious and judgmental. Even the waiters were staring, one of them leering at her over the roast beef on the carving trolley. Only one couple in a far corner wasn’t looking at her, but laughing, instead, between themselves. Then the woman turned her head to look at her, a smile still playing on her face, her lips purple from the wine. Mrs. March rushed to her table, where George continued to eat without a care.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere, brandishing tongs. He thrust the tongs straight at her, locking eyes, and she quailed, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them she saw that he had used the tongs to place a fresh napkin over her lap. Afraid to turn to face the diners again, she looked instead into the reflection on the inside of her silver spoon. The dining room sprawled, upside down and concave, around her own deformed reflection, and she was unable to make out the faces of her jury.

The baked Alaska was wheeled in ceremoniously from across the dining room. The waiter placed it atop a cake stand between the Marches, and with a flourish set the dessert on fire. Mrs. March watched it burn under a psychedelic blue flame, its creamy meringue spirals like white roses withering in a drought.

She drank deeply from her wineglass. She hated George for lying to her, hated herself for always being so quick to believe that he had good intentions. From now on, she vowed, she would give herself the benefit of the doubt. She drank again, tipping the glass as she looked up at the ornate crown molding on the ceiling. She deserved to take herself more seriously, to value herself. After all, when had she ever betrayed herself? As she refilled her glass, not waiting for her server, a warm gush of tenderness for herself erupted within her. Her poor beautiful self, always fighting to make everything work. From now on, she pledged with an air of triumph, her attitude was going to change.