Anne is in the foyer about to leave for work. She stops and listens. The apartment is quiet. Charles is in his office. It’s a warm morning, too warm for October, with that awful New York humidity that makes your skin feel clammy. She ducks into the study, closes the door, and picks up the phone.
When the women’s health center answers, Anne lowers her voice. “Yes, this is Kathleen Brody. I’m calling to see if my test results are in.”
“Please hold.”
Anne stands absolutely still. A heavy bead of sweat rolls down from her left armpit.
“Mrs. Brody?” It’s Dr. Halpern.
“Yes.”
“I tried to call you last evening. The number you gave us is incorrect.”
“Were you calling with my results?”
“I was. The blood sample you gave us doesn’t match the DNA from your embryo’s chorion.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Anne hangs up. She feels cold, as if her spine has turned to ice. And enraged. She dials again.
“Yeah?” The voice is groggy with sleep.
“Kayla, I’m sorry to wake you up, but…”
“Anne, what is it?”
“Charles isn’t the father.”
“Tell me this is a nightmare.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You know your choices.”
“It’s my child, Kayla.”
“Not yet, it isn’t.”
“Has Hollywood turned you into some kind of heartless monster? It’s my child!”
Anne hangs up on her best friend. She opens the study door just in time to see Emma hurrying away toward the kitchen. The little toad had been standing outside the door listening. Maybe she’s being paranoid-Emma might just have arrived for work. But she doesn’t have her bag.
Anne rushes into the kitchen. Emma is halfway down the hall that leads to Charles’s offices.
“Emma?” Anne calls.
Emma turns. She has an apple in her hand. “Yes?”
Anne waits as Emma walks back into the kitchen.
“Are you just arriving for work?”
“No. I was just getting a piece of fruit. I hope that’s all right.”
She can’t even look Anne in the eye.
“Help yourself.”
Emma holds the apple with both hands and looks down. “Thank you,” she says in that phony meek-little-girl voice of hers.
“You’re among friends,” Anne says.
“You’ve both been very nice to me.”
“Well, you do a very good job. You’re wonderfully efficient. And cooperative. That’s very important for people like Charles and me. I’m sure you understand that.”
Emma looks up and meets Anne’s gaze. “Of course,” she says.
“Good.”
Anne picks up a sponge and wipes away dirt that isn’t there. She rinses the sponge and replaces it by the sink. She dries her hands on a dish towel.
“You know, I’m about to go through my closets-a little fall sweep-out. There might be some things that would fit you.”
“You wear such beautiful clothes.”
“I’m sure there’ll be some things you’ll like.”
“Thank you.”
Anne takes an apple from the bowl, looks at it, and then puts it back. “Well, I hope you and Charles have a productive day.”
“Likewise.”
Emma walks down to her office and pours herself a cup of coffee. The fact is, she had just arrived for work. She was stopped by Anne’s voice coming from the study. She crept close to the door and listened. Except for “heartless monster,” she couldn’t make out the words-just the tone. Sounded like a fight with a lover. When she heard Anne hang up, she rushed into the kitchen, tossed her bag in the broom closet, and quickly grabbed the apple.
Emma sips her coffee with satisfaction. So rich bitch is having a little fling of her own. That changes everything. What’s right for the goose is right for Emma.
Emma turns to the stack of papers on her desk, her previous day’s output, gone over and carefully edited by Charles. He seems to understand Zack, the boy, and Sally, his mother, almost better than Emma herself does. He knows just how to change a word here, a description there, to make a scene come alive.
“Good morning.”
Emma looks up. Charles is leaning against the old oak filing cabinet, wearing his faded work shirt open at the collar. He looks forlorn, and especially handsome.
“Good morning, Charles. You don’t look like you got much sleep.”
“I was working on your pages.”
“Thank you. You know, Charles, I’m worried…” she says, and then lets her voice trail off.
“Worried?”
She nods. “I’m worried you’ve been neglecting your writing, paying too much attention to mine.”
“I’m a big boy, Emma. You let me worry about my work.”
“So you have been working on a new book?”
“No, it’s an epic poem.”
“Please don’t be sarcastic, Charles. I’m just-”
He slams his fist on the filing cabinet and a stack of books on its edge crashes to the floor. He doesn’t look sad anymore, but angry, a strange miserable anger that contorts his features. “Goddammit, Emma! Don’t you think I know how to pace myself? Don’t you think I’ve been doing this long enough to know when to sprint and when to hang back for a lap? Do I look like a rank amateur to you?”
“I only meant-”
“You only meant what? What? Spit it out, girl, you’ll be a bigger man for it!”
“Please…” she gets out.
“Please what?” he hisses in a voice dripping with condescension and contempt.
“Please don’t treat me like this.” She stands and takes a step backward.
“Why not, Emma?”
“I can’t-I can’t take it. I’m sorry. I was just worried about you. Your work.”
“You’re not worried, Emma.” He starts to come toward her, those bitter eyes staring her down.
“I’m afraid of you, Charles.” She turns away from him, away from his rage. “I’m afraid of you.”
“That’s not really it, Emma, is it? Is it?”
And he takes her by the arms and spins her around. His hands are squeezing her hard, and she can smell his breath, clean and bitter, and his pine soap, and then she doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care if he knows.
“No,” she says. “No, no.”
“Tell me!” he whispers.
And then the words pour out, acrid and defiant. “I love you,” she says. “I love you.”
Charles pulls her hair back and looks into her eyes. All the rage drains from his face and his eyes fill with longing. He leans down and kisses her, presses his body against hers.
Emma holds on to Charles, holds on as tight as she can, pulling him down with her, or lifting herself up, she isn’t sure which. Does it matter anymore?
Later, at the end of the day, Charles goes out for a walk and Emma is alone in the office. She lies down on the floor and smokes a cigarette, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. It’s been a good day. She gets up, puts her coat on, and gathers up her day’s work. She walks into Charles’s office and puts the pages on his desk. Where is his work? She looks through the haphazard collection of papers on his desk: pages and pages of notes about her book, a phone bill, a take-out menu from a nearby Thai restaurant. That’s it. She starts to open his desk drawers, searching for the spiral notebooks he uses for his early drafts. In the bottom left drawer she finds a pile of them and she lifts the top one out. She flips through it. The pages are blank. She takes out another and then another and then the last one. They’re all blank.