Charles and Emma are walking across Central Park on their way to the movie theater. After a week of nonstop work, he’s insisted they take the afternoon off, feels it’s important for her to see Rashomon. He leads her along his favorite path, the one that winds through the Shakespeare Garden, planted with flowers mentioned in the plays, and then up a hill to Belvedere Castle. There’s a courtyard beside the castle and they lean against its low stone wall and admire the view of northern Manhattan and the little lake that sits below, beside an outdoor amphitheater where Shakespeare is performed on summer nights.
“Next year we’ll go to one together,” he says.
“Won’t that be a midsummer night’s dream,” Emma says and then wishes she hadn’t.
Charles smiles. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the beginning of the movie.”
Emma loves sitting beside Charles in the dark theater-the forced intimacy, their shoulders touching, the large bag of popcorn they’re sharing. She’s enthralled by Kurosawa’s artistry, by the story, the stories, he’s telling. Charles is like a little boy showing off a treasured possession.
“He uses the camera like a paintbrush-it’s masterful.”
Emma notices that nearby moviegoers are shooting him glances. Normally, she would have been mortified, but with Charles she doesn’t care. She’s never seen him so adorable. When she looks over, his eyes are dancing in the screen’s reflected light.
“Every single frame has a purpose, just as every sentence should. You have to direct the reader’s eye!”
“Shhh!” someone hisses.
Emma laughs nervously. Charles is momentarily chastened. They watch the film unfold in silence for a few minutes and then Charles can no longer contain himself.
“This is the kind of control I want you to work for. By the way, your rewrite of the first chapter is brilliant. I’m going to show it to my agent.”
“Hey, c’mon,” someone admonishes.
“All right, all right,” Charles grumbles.
Emma sinks down in her seat, charmed by Charles’s enthusiasm, embarrassed by his outburst, and stunned by his statement. Nina Bradley is going to read her work! In the darkness, Emma smiles to herself.
After the movie, they ride uptown in a cab. It’s Emma’s first taxi ride, and it feels luxurious, almost decadent. Outside the window the city passes by as if it too is a movie, unfolding for her personal pleasure. Charles has turned to face her and has an arm on the seat back. He keeps touching her lightly, on her knee, her shoulder.
And then, in a quiet, serious voice, he says, “Emma, the story you’re telling-that young boy, his abusive mother-where did it come from?”
Emma doesn’t turn to him, but keeps looking out the window as she speaks. She’s been expecting this question. “There was this woman who lived with her son above the stationery store downtown. She was clearly disturbed. They were always dressed in dirty clothes, he was skinny and sad. Everyone in town talked about them, made fun of them behind their backs. One day I saw the two of them sitting at the lunch counter in Woolworth’s. She was talking to herself while he sat there eating his grilled cheese sandwich, trying to pretend everything was normal. But there were tears in his eyes.”
“Most writers put a lot of themselves into their first books,” Charles says gently.
“I’m probably no exception. After my father left, my mother started drinking and taking pills. I’m sure I saw myself in that little boy.”
They ride in silence for a few blocks. Emma can feel Charles studying her as she looks out the window.
“Is your mother better now?”
“Yes, she is.”
“You’ve gotten inside the boy’s head. But don’t back away from the horror of the situation. The mother may be sad, but ultimately she’s a monster.”
“But I want her to be a human being first.”
“She is a human being, a human being who is destroying her own progeny. You can’t pull back on that.”
Emma turns to him abruptly. “I have no intention of pulling back.”
They’re both surprised by the power in her voice.
Emma laughs uneasily. “I just mean-”
“You don’t have to tell me what you mean… Emma, I’ve enjoyed our day together.”
Emma looks down at her hands and for a moment she’s afraid she’ll cry. Or throw up. She takes several deep breaths. “Thank you for everything, Charles.”
“Look at me.”
Emma slowly looks up.
“You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not. I am not crying. I’m not.”
And then they’re both laughing and the taxi feels like a boat on a starry-night sea and Emma, as she discovers a part of herself she didn’t know existed, an elation as pure as light, almost stops watching herself, but can’t quite, and so stores the moment for future remembrance.