This Is My Daughter Read online

  Emma’s building, on the corner of Fifth, was handsome, old and slightly raffish. When she first left Warren she had thought of a clean empty space: a bare white room, a low white bed, bare walls, polished floors, light. It was appealing, but not practical. It left certain crucial gaps: books, clothes, Tess. Emma still needed three bedrooms—for herself, for Tess and for Rachel, the Jamaican girl who looked after Tess. But the new apartment was simpler and smaller than the old and the building a bit run down. The ceilings were high, and the windows big. The rooms faced south, down Fifth Avenue, and in the afternoons light filled the spaces. She painted the walls the color of heavy cream. She had brought some old rugs with her, in deep, faded tones. The apartment now felt right to her, handsome and comforting.

  Emma bought groceries on her way home, and when she arrived she went into the kitchen to unpack. Rachel’s radio was playing in the back bedroom.

  “Hi, Rache, I’m back,” she called.

  Rachel appeared in the doorway. She leaned easily against the door-jamb, her arms folded, her head cocked. Rachel was tall, with a wide face and a wide nose. Her skin was very dark yellowy brown, taut and gleaming over her sharp bones. Brown skin actually shone, thought Emma, in a way white skin did not: black skin looked polished, pale skin was a pallid matte. Rachel was barefoot, in tight jeans and a wide-striped turquoise sweater. Her hair was braided all over, tiny weightless black twists that arched and twined in the air.

  “Hello!” Rachel said, her teeth brilliant.

  Rachel never called Emma by name to her face. On the telephone, Emma had overheard her say “Emma,” but to her face Rachel said “you.” Emma was uncomfortable about this: she was the employer, shouldn’t she be called Mrs. Goodwin? On the other hand, she was only four years older than Rachel, so perhaps she hadn’t earned “Mrs.” But didn’t names indicate status? Shouldn’t she have some authority? Shouldn’t she be able to insist on Rachel calling her Mrs. Goodwin? If she couldn’t take a stand on something basic like that, what could she take a stand on?

  Race, of course, complicated the issue. Would it be humiliating to Rachel if she asked her to call her Mrs. Goodwin? Demeaning? What would Emma expect Rachel to call her if Emma were black? What would Emma expect a white girl to call her? A nice white girl from Smith? An insolent white high school dropout? The whole thing was fraught with complications, and Emma had never found the nerve to address it. Rachel was a powerful young woman, full of conviction. She might easily refuse flatly to call her Mrs. Goodwin. Then what? Besides, Emma liked Rachel, for herself: Rachel was smart and reliable and funny. And Emma loved Rachel for loving Tess.

  Still, it was difficult having anyone live with you. Rachel had been with Emma as housekeeper and baby-sitter since Tess was born, the involuntary audience to the decline and fall of the marriage. Rachel had heard the fights between Emma and Warren. She knew who had slept where afterward. She had heard Emma’s terrible late-night weeping, she had picked up the living room in the morning, put away blankets and bed pillows. And there were other things that Rachel saw, smaller but telling: she knew when Emma forgot to call the plumber or to buy the detergent. Rachel saw that Emma didn’t dare complain to the painter about the job he’d done on the closet. Rachel was watching when Emma was weak willed and permissive with Tess, when she lost her temper. Rachel was a witness to every aspect of Emma’s life. This had always been true, but when Emma and Warren were married Emma had had an ally, someone to take her side. When Warren had been there, the two of them had outnumbered Rachel. Now it seemed that Rachel outnumbered Emma.

  Alone with Rachel, Emma stood continually in the cold glare of her judgment. Rachel belonged to the Abyssinian Baptist Church, which took a strong stand against separation, divorce and adultery. Emma too disapproved of these things, in general, but as things had turned out, she was guilty of all three. She felt that in her case there were extenuating circumstances; she also thought all this was temporary. She saw herself in the future as married and faithful. But none of this was Rachel’s concern. Emma did not want to discuss it with her, and she resented the silent weight of Rachel’s continual disapproval.

  “So,” Rachel said now, smiling at her. “D’jou have a good time?”

  “I did,” Emma said, wondering guiltily if Rachel could tell she had been with a divorced man.

  “You had two telephone calls,” Rachel said. She sounded smug.

  “From who?” Emma put a bottle of grapefruit juice and a pack of English muffins into the fridge.

  “Your sister,” said Rachel.

  Emma frowned. “What did she say?” Her sister Francie lived in California, and seldom called.

  “She wants you to call her,” said Rachel.

  “Okay,” said Emma. “Who else?”

  “An admirer,” added Rachel.

  “An admirer?” Emma turned to face her.

  Rachel nodded knowingly. “Two admirers, as a matter of fact,” she said. She smiled again and waited.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Emma, but as she spoke she realized who it had been. Her face changed, and she turned away from Rachel. The empty bag stood on the counter; briskly and noisily she began to fold it up. “Mr. Goodwin called,” Emma said, answering her own question, her voice neutral.

  Rachel nodded with satisfaction. “Mr. Goodwin and Tess called. Last night. Tess wanted to say good night to you.” Rachel paused, watching her. “She was sad you weren’t here. I think Mr. Goodwin was, too.”

  Emma stuffed the bag loudly into the trash. “Well, I don’t know why they called. I told Mr. Goodwin I’d be out all weekend.”

  Rachel’s eyes did not leave her face. “I guess he forgot,” she said gently.

  Emma shrugged her shoulders and said nothing, angry. She left the kitchen and went to her bedroom. She knew exactly what had happened.

  She could picture the two of them, in Warren’s awful apartment on East Fifty-seventh Street, its low ceilings and plate-glass windows. Tess, on a chair with a pillow on it, sitting at the dining-room table. Talking to herself while Warren read the paper. Warren absent, not listening, until something caught his ear. Warren closing the paper, looking at Tess.

  “You want to call your mother and say good night, sweetheart?” His voice tender. “Of course you can. Let’s call your mother.”

  Warren helping Tess with the phone, knowing perfectly well what would happen, saying the numbers slowly so she could push each button in turn. Tess holding the phone to her ear as it rang, waiting for Emma’s voice. Blinking with excitement, her face alight.

  Rachel, of course, would answer.

  “Rachel!” Tess would say, important. “We’re calling Mommy. I want to talk to my mommy.”

  Tess’s face, falling, as Rachel explained.

  “Not there? My mommy’s not there?” Tess, incredulous. The face starting to crumple.

  Warren would be there, waiting. “Don’t cry, little sweetheart,” he would say, solicitous. “It’s all right. Your daddy’s here. I haven’t left you.” Putting his arms around her while she cried, comforting her.

  Swine, thought Emma. She closed the bedroom door behind her. Her bedroom was small and square. In the mornings it was filled with sun, but now, with the light gone, the creamy yellow walls seemed claustrophobic. Emma began pulling off her clothes. She threw her sweater and skirt on the bed and yanked on her sweatpants, tying the cord angrily at her waist. There were no referees, she thought. She pulled a T-shirt over her head, then a heavy gray sweatshirt. There was no one to call a foul, no one to tell Warren he was being a selfish pig. She tied her shoelaces hard and strode out of the apartment, scowling. Outside, energized by her anger, she started jogging downtown, toward Washington Square.

  It was beginning to turn chilly, and the light was fading. On the corner of Fifth Avenue stood a pair of gray-haired tourists. The man was thin, his face gaunt and shattered looking, the woman plump hipped, with short hair and glasses. They wore windbreakers and heavy sneakers, fanny packs at
their waists. They stood huddled together, looking at a map. As Emma passed them the woman looked up, squinting in confusion at the street sign.

  “We can’t be here,” the woman said flatly.

  It was late in the year for tourists. Emma wondered what they hoped to see in February: here in quaint Greenwich Village the sidewalks were narrow and crowded, the streets full of trash, the traffic homicidal. Homeless people trudged past, pushing shopping carts, muttering. Maybe the tourists came here just to feel relieved that they lived somewhere more sensible.

  The notion of being a tourist in New York was interesting, Emma thought. Tourism implied a kind of cultural superiority. A patronizing attitude toward the natives, who were viewed as exotica. Maybe people came to New York as though they were on a photographic safari, looking at the wildlife. She imagined them showing slides, in darkened living rooms. “We found this one toward dusk, down near Avenue A. I was using a Nikon.”

  Emma dodged around a slow-moving man, just grazing his arm.

  “Sorry,” she called back.

  “Fuck you,” he said heatedly.

  On the other hand, it was hard to patronize New Yorkers. New Yorkers didn’t care what tourists thought; New Yorkers felt superior to everyone, the natives of all other places. They had earned this cultural supremacy, it was their reward for living in the worst—and best—city in the world.

  Before Emma, the spacious arena of Washington Square opened up. At the center of it rose the splendid arch, serene and monumental, with its grand classical rhythms, the steadily rising verticals, the sweeping resolution of the curve. Around and below it the sycamore trees spread their spidery network of bare branches above their dreamy, dappled trunks. Emma loved sycamores, the elegant shifting patterns of light and dark on the bark, the jaunty plush balls dropped on the sidewalk in the spring. She crossed the street and turned west, running now along the sidewalk beneath the poplars. She wondered if Warren would behave this way every weekend, manipulative, shameless, using Tess to make her feel guilty. She wondered what Francie wanted. Was she leaving her boyfriend? Emma tried to remember which boyfriend it was. Roger? She was pretty sure it was Roger. He was the actor, wasn’t he?

  Emma dodged past a tall man with long floppy hair. His black leather jacket was opened halfway down on his narrow chest. His blond hair was silky and clean. Pretty, Emma thought, admiring. But his eyes slid coolly and deliberately past her: she did not exist in his field of vision. Maybe the tourists were here to look at the gay scene, she thought. Was that patronizing? Definitely, but the flamboyant gays, the ones who dressed up, loved being stared at. Being stared at was the point. Being watched wasn’t an invasion of their privacy, it was a measure of their success. Tourists and drag queens would be mutually exploitative, symbiotic.

  Running along the sidewalk was like skiing a slalom course. Emma turned sideways to slip between two couples, then dropped off the curb for a quick single step, leapt back onto the sidewalk, braked suddenly and swerved, barely avoiding a woman who stopped dead to fix her shoe.

  Emma thought again of Warren, but she was no longer so angry. The rhythm of her footsteps, the steady pounding of her legs, the well-being of the body began to raise her spirits. The blood thrummed through her, her arms pumped back and forth. Warren was still a jerk, but it was not now so infuriating. She did five laps around the Arch, only a mile, but all she had time for before Tess came back.

  She got home just before five, when Tess was due. Emma waited in the front hall with the door open. She was still in her sweaty T-shirt and sweatpants, giving off heat. She folded her arms and walked up and down in her small hall, thinking of Tess, imagining her already home.

  No one had told Emma how it would feel to be a mother, nothing had prepared her. Before she’d had her own she’d felt no interest in other people’s children, she never wanted to hold their babies. When she had Tess, the rush, the torrent of emotion had amazed her. It was like falling in love: it was falling in love. Acquiring a beloved, always present in your consciousness. The profound longing, when apart. This could sweep over Emma like a sickness, at any time, when she and Tess were separated only by a wall, a few feet. Nearly every night Emma took Tess into bed with her. She did this secretively; she felt it would be frowned on by experts—surely it would spoil Tess irrevocably—but she could not resist it. The presence of the warm beloved.

  Warren was late. It was now ten past five. Emma paced back and forth in the hall, in her sweaty clothes. She didn’t want to go and change her clothes, she wanted to take a bath with Tess. And if she decided to change, she knew the second she was naked Warren would arrive. Twelve past. It was so inconsiderate. She wondered when she should call. Whatever time she did call, he wouldn’t be there. So rude. So rude. Why couldn’t he be civilized about this? Why couldn’t he be on time? Five-fifteen. Five-seventeen.

  The elevator door slid quietly open to reveal Julio, the elevator man, and Warren, holding Tess’s hand. Emma’s eyes sought only Tess, as though the three-year-old were alone, and Warren and Julio were invisible.

  “Tessie!” Emma said, and stooped, holding her arms out.

  “Mommy!” Tess said, her voice rising in a high excited squeak. She ran to Emma, holding out her arms. Emma caught and held her.

  “Hello, Emma,” Warren said. He stepped, barely, into the hall. Behind him, Julio waited, uncertain if Warren were staying or not.

  “Hi,” Emma said to Warren. She straightened, Tess in her arms. “Thanks for bringing her back,” Emma said coolly. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, yes, we had a great time,” Warren answered politely. “We had a great time, didn’t we, Tessie?” He looked at Tess, who nodded energetically. There was an awkward pause.

  There are no conventions for this, Emma thought. Should they kiss each other’s cheeks, like friends? Shake hands, like recent acquaintances? Should they not touch at all, and never turn their backs, like armed negotiators?

  “Daddy!” Tess said, waving vigorously, flapping her hand, coquettish. She was more than coquettish, Emma saw with distaste: she was aping babyhood. “Bye, Daddy!”

  Warren turned a melting gaze on her, self-consciously tender. “Bye, sweetheart,” he said. “Daddy has to go now. Daddy has to leave you.”

  Tess copied his tone. “Don’t leave me,” she said piteously.

  “Daddy has to leave you,” Warren said. “It’s sad, but he does. He doesn’t want to leave you, Tessie. Your mommy wants me to leave.”

  Tess looked at Emma. “Mommy?” she said. “Do you not want Daddy to leave?”

  Furious, Emma stroked Tess’s hair. “Daddy doesn’t live with us anymore, Tess. That’s why he has to leave now. He has his house, and we have our house. But you can still see him, Tessie, and you can talk to him on the telephone. Ask Daddy if you can call him tonight, later.” This was malicious; Emma was certain he would be out.

  Tess looked up at him. “Daddy? Can I call you tonight?”

  Warren did not look at Emma, and would not answer Tess. He backed rapidly toward the open elevator door. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart, and I’ll call you soon,” he said.

  “Why did you call me last night?” Emma asked him, as he reached the door. “I told you I’d be out.”

  Warren frowned, as though trying to remember. “Oh, did you?” He shook his head. “I must have forgotten.” He waved at Tess. “Bye-bye, darling.”

  “Okay, Tess,” Emma said abruptly. “Daddy has to go now.”

  “I love you, Tessie,” Warren said to Tess. “Daddy loves you.” He pursed his lips and sent a saccharine kiss through the air. Behind him, Julio looked politely into the middle distance.

  “Daddy!” Tess’s voice was now close to a wail.

  “Tell Daddy good-bye.” Emma’s voice was firm. “And then guess what? You and I are going to have a bath together.”

  “A bath!” said Tess, now dutifully responding to her mother.

  Disgusting, Emma thought, the two of us tugging at her
.

  “I love you, darling,” Warren said huskily.

  “I love you too, Daddy,” said Tess, mournful again. Warren backed onto the elevator and waved. Julio now allowed himself eye contact and gave Emma a nod.

  “Thanks, Julio,” said Emma, and gave him a real smile. The heavy metal door slid shut.

  Emma closed her front door and took a deep breath. She remembered what Francie had said about Warren, years ago. “At first I thought he was a real ass,” she confided. “But actually he’s not as much of an ass as he seems. Actually he’s kind of fun.” At the time Emma had been infuriated by her sister’s condescension. Now she felt that same bewildering tug: which was it that defined Warren, his asinine qualities, or the endearing ones? Of course now she wanted him to be an ass, she wanted to be right to have left him. Otherwise she was a villain for having done this.

  Emma looked down: Tess was watching her soberly. She had stopped her frenetic acting and now looked tired and forlorn. Her thumb was in her mouth, and with her other hand she rubbed a lock of hair. She stared at her mother, waiting.

  Emma smiled at Tess, and took her hand.

  “Bath,” she said firmly. In Tess’s bedroom, Emma knelt on the rug to undress her. “Want bubbles? You can pour them,” Emma offered, her voice soothing.

  But something had altered, and now Tess ignored Emma. Restive, she stood with one knee pulsing jerkily, as though to a dance rhythm. Emma undid the straps and slid her overalls off. Tess stepped out of them, her hands resting for balance on her mother’s shoulders. The two were nose to nose, and Tess met her mother’s eye. Her gaze was unfriendly. Her hands drifted upward and her fingers brushed through Emma’s damp hair, roughly bumping her ears, carelessly scraping against Emma’s scalp. She stared at her mother.