The Queen of Hearts(91)
A torrent of epicurean babble interrupted me. “Who is the lucky recipient of the Capon Pistou with Ghee, Aubergine Confit, Wheat Berries, Dusting of Dulse, and Chervil, and who will be partaking of the Atlantic Croaker with Gambon, White Maripoix, Patato Saphron Rouille and Persillade?” Our server was a slender, energetic man with a robust mustache, who deflated slightly at our unenthusiastic response.
“I have the fish?” Emma ventured.
“Tremendous!” The waiter recovered, beaming, and handed her a cutting board with some unidentifiable food heaped on top. “And you, ma’am, must be having the capon.”
“Yes,” I agreed, adding, “What exactly is a capon?”
“Well, ma’am,” the waiter said pleasantly, “I believe it is a castrated rooster.”
“Oh, excellent,” I said, nodding knowledgeably.
I stared at the plate as the server pranced away. The capon was excellent, actually, and also provided a nice respite from the grim tale of yore; we were both quiet for a moment as we ate.
“How’s the castrated rooster?” Emma finally asked.
“Delicious,” I answered, “although I’ll confess to a moment of doubt.”
The silence returned.
“I know what you’re trying to tell me,” I eventually mumbled through a mouthful of neutered fowl. “You kept seeing Nick, even after Graham died. You didn’t stop, even when you knew it had killed him.”
Emma’s eyes were far away. “That’s true,” she said.
“How could you?”
She hung her head, pushing her still-full plate away too. “I tried to quit,” she said softly. “I did, for a while. But something rotten inside me kept pulling me back. It would build and build until I couldn’t stand it anymore. There was nothing pleasurable or happy about seeing him; it was more like the urge to rip off a scab, or that perverse impulse you get to jump when you’re standing near a cliff. I would lock myself in the bathroom when you weren’t home and scream until I lost my voice trying to stop myself from doing it. And then I’d do it anyway.”
She stopped, one hand drifting toward her mouth as if to stifle her words.
“There’s no explanation, other than some horridness at the core of me. I tried to rationalize it by telling myself he’d tire of you eventually, and you deserved a better man than him anyway. You could have had anyone you wanted; and in his heart, he’s rotten. I thought he and I were meant for each other because we both seemed to be missing some elemental human piece. Our souls are broken.”
I stared at her. “What about Graham?”
Her face twisted.
“Did you give Nick the picture?” I asked, remembering guiltily I’d seen the back of it when I’d snooped through Emma’s room.
She shook her head. “Graham sent him a copy too. Nick got it the same day he tried to resuscitate him.”
Now I pushed my plate away. “That’s sickening,” I said. “You both continued . . .”
Emma met my eyes. “It’s worse than you think, actually,” she said. “First, I don’t believe Graham actually intended to kill himself. I think there was even a small bit of cruelty—or insanity—in what he planned: maybe he wanted to hurt himself so his girlfriend’s lover would have to try to save him, knowing all the while he was the one who drove him to it. Graham brooded about things. He obsessed about them—in that way, he was something like me. I think he didn’t plan to shoot himself in the heart until the very last moment.
“Nick was devastated when he couldn’t save Graham. He could never bear to talk about it, and he was telling the truth when he said he carried that picture everywhere.”
She paused.
“He hated me. He didn’t want anything to do with me after that.”
Confused, I said, “But you just said it was you in the apartment with Nick when I came over that day.”
She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “I was there, yes. I’d show up from time to time.” She looked at me. “I tried to stop, but I didn’t succeed.”
“But he let you in.”
“I told him I’d tell you everything if he didn’t. By then he was sick of me. He only wanted you.”
I jumped up, scraping my leg on the stupid log bench and nearly colliding with the effervescent waiter before I managed to stumble away. I glanced back in time to see Emma thrust a handful of bills at him. She followed me, her stride unhurried but determined.
The bathroom—where was the bathroom? I concentrated on not howling. The woman at the hostess booth took one look at my intense expression and pointed wordlessly toward the hall outside the restaurant, probably figuring she had a couple of homicidal lesbians on her hands as Emma pounded by her too.
She caught up to me at the door.
“You have to hear the rest,” she said.
I blanched. “You mean there’s more?”
“Yes,” she said, resolute. “I’m afraid there is.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
THE LUNACY WARRANT
Zadie, Present Day
I leaned against the tiled wall of the bathroom, inert, listening to Emma without looking at her. I decided to disengage; I would hear and comprehend the words, but divorce them from their emotional content. Maybe if this worked well, I could create an alternate personality to handle all distressing future events. The idea had possibility.