Leaving Lucy Pear(27)

But the rain washed out the sound of the buoy and Bea hoped it would continue all day and through the night. She had loaned Emma a dry dress and now Emma stood in front of her, wearing it, a drapey, pinkish brown silk thing, very modern, Lillian had said, presenting it to Bea, what all the young women are wearing, “young” hit hard as a challenge to Bea, and Bea was thinking how much better it looked on Emma, even though Emma had to be at least ten years older than Bea, because Emma was taller and her skin pale enough to set off the pinkish brown whereas on Bea the color seemed to merge with her skin and the fabric caught on her hips and it looked, generally, like a dress wearing a woman rather than the other way around.

“I’ll have to give you that dress,” she said.

“No,” said Emma. “You shouldn’t even let me wear it. It’s not a dress for working in.”

“Don’t work today.”

“Of course I’ll work. Ira . . .”

“He’s taking a tub. When he’s out, yes. For now, sit?”

Emma frowned. Bea wasn’t sure what had caused such a need in her this morning for company—it had flown in with Emma, a damp hollow in her throat.

“Please. Sit with me.”

Emma continued to stand, arms crossed at her breasts, the small, perky kind Lillian had wanted for Bea. “I’m a good deal older than you, Mrs. Cohn.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’m not certain. I apologize for saying it.”

“Meaning you should be the one telling me what to do? Or that you don’t want to sit with me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No.” Bea was sorry. Emma was clearly uncomfortable in the dress, and with the idea of making small talk with her boss. All the energy she’d arrived with was gone. Bea would have excused her, in another circumstance. But in this one, she didn’t want to be alone.

“How about a compromise,” she said. “You make tea—that counts as work. Then you drink it with me.”

Emma didn’t move.

“Are you worried I’ll tell on you?” Bea laughed. “I don’t owe Josiah Stanton that much.”

“Story.”

“What?”

“His name is Josiah Story.”

“Right.” Bea was now certain they were having an affair. “Doesn’t he bring you here to woo me? Wouldn’t he want you to do what I want, even if it’s sitting with me, pretending to be my friend?”

? ? ?

They sat at the card table in the parlor, by the window. They were quiet for a while, listening to the rain hammer the earth, watching it jump back up and fall again. Bea reached into the piano bench nearby, withdrew a small bottle of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, poured more than the recommended dose into her tea, then positioned it over Emma’s cup. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” Emma bit her lip. “I’ve heard this stuff is twenty proof.”

“If that’s the case, I’m sure I never heard it. I didn’t hear you say it, either.”

Emma took a sip and smiled politely.

“Well?” Bea asked.

“It’s bitter, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“It’s also perfectly legal.” Bea held up the bottle. “See? ‘Health of Woman Is the Hope of the Race.’ My aunt Vera introduced me to Mrs. Pinkham’s when I was sixteen.” She slurped loudly, then exhaled in an exaggerated fashion. “And you? Is it true what they say about the Irish?”

“What’s that they say?”

There wasn’t even a hint of mischief in Emma’s face. “I’m sorry, that was a joke,” Bea said, but Emma went on looking as unmoved as a plate and Bea, feeling desperate, said, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Where are you from?” in a bright, stupid voice. It was the same voice—it was the same two questions—she and the other Ladies used to start a conversation with the women who came to them for advice, about husbands or contraception or children or other feminine quandaries of which Bea had little actual experience. She advised them nonetheless. But Emma hadn’t come to her for advice. She muttered, “Ireland.”

“Oh!” Bea flushed. “Yes, I meant . . .” She poured more Pinkham’s into Emma’s cup, then into her own. “Why don’t you ask me the questions.”

Emma sipped her tea slowly. “I think it’s best if I don’t. Why don’t we talk about Mr. Hirsch? I think we might bring his bed downstairs soon. It’s getting harder for him to make the trip, even once a day. He shouldn’t be . . . so removed.”

“My uncle can walk perfectly fine when he wants to,” Bea said. “Am I that boring?”

“I don’t find you at all boring, Mrs. Cohn.”

“Well, then. Ask away.”

Emma sipped again, set down her cup, and looked up toward the ceiling. “There’s a leak,” she said.

Bea followed Emma’s gaze. She waited, doubtful. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a drop of water began to form. It grew to the size of a pea, then a marble, seeming at once to cling to the ceiling and to hold it up, an exquisitely controlled little thing, until it dropped and spatted apart on Aunt Vera’s oriental carpet.

“It’s an old roof,” she said. “I’ll tell the man who fixes these things.”