8. Zelda
ZELDA
At first I think the cream card is a place card.
There is a little gold tree in the corner. Candace knows I like the ones that look as though a child might have drawn them. I pick it up from beside the menu and turn it toward the window.
I’m sorry I slapped Candace. She has been a good friend to us, and I want us to begin Christmas with this behind us.
I read it again. The first time I stopped at slapped Candace. This time I make myself read to the end.
There is a blank space beneath the words.
For a signature.
I put the card down. Pick it up again. It’s thick, expensive paper. Somebody had to choose the font, send the words, look at a proof. All the things I did for our invitations.
“Those are for the centerpieces.”
Candace comes in carrying candles. I hold up the card instead.
“You wrote this?”
She sets the box down. “I drafted something. We want the dinner to be comfortable.”
“You had it printed.”
“I thought it would be easier.”
My own voice comes back from Suri’s party. The way I said the last part quickly so it would be finished. Candace wants me to stand at my table and hear it again.
“It’s our anniversary.”
“Your friends are coming for Christmas too. People are still wondering if it’s safe to have us together.”
Safe.
I look down at my hands on the card. Yesterday a little girl at the library held my sleeve while her mother found a book. I hadn’t thought about my hand then. Now I want to hide it under the table, as if being looked at might turn me into what Candace keeps saying I am.
“Tell them you lied.”
She starts peeling a sticker from a candle. “You’ve made it impossible to talk about this without upsetting you.”
“Because it didn’t happen.”
“You said vicious things in that study.”
“Then say that.” I hear myself getting louder. I lower the card so she can’t see it trembling. “Tell them I asked if you wanted my husband. I did ask. Don’t make me say I hit you.”
“Jeremiah thinks a proper apology would help us move forward.”
I stop.
She glances at me before looking back at the sticker. I want to know whether she has really asked him. I don’t want her to see how much the answer matters.
The caterer comes to the doorway with the final count. Candace takes the sheet.
“Eight, plus Zelda and Jeremiah.”
“Nine,” I say. “Hedy confirmed.”
“Of course. I forgot she could get off work.”
She writes over the number. I hold out my hand.
She keeps the sheet. My hand stays there, horribly conspicuous, between us and a woman who only needs to know how much bread to bring.
Then Candace passes it over.
I tell the caterer eleven. My voice sounds pleasant. I am proud of it until she leaves and I realize how hard I’ve been working to sound pleasant in my own dining room.
“I’ll finish the seating,” I say.
“I was helping.”
“I know. I want to do it.”
She smiles. “You’re the hostess.”
I take the apology card upstairs before she can put it beside another piece of my dinner.
Jeremiah is working in the sitting room. I wait in the doorway until he notices me. Then I hate myself for waiting and put the card beside his hand.
“Did you agree to this?”
He reads it.
I watch his mouth. Please look angry. Please look up and tell me she’s gone too far.
“I haven’t agreed to a speech.”
My knees loosen. I sit on the arm of the chair because it’s there.
“Good. Tell her.”
“I’ll sort it out.”
He slides the card under a folder.
I reach for it, then stop with my fingers on the folder’s edge. I want him to tear it. I want him to be the one who makes those words impossible to read.
“That isn’t sorting it out.”
“Zelda.”
“It’s still there.”
“I can see that.”
I lift my hand. He looks at the place I touched, and I feel as though I have interrupted a meeting with something childish.
“I need to know before everybody gets here. I can’t sit through dinner waiting for her to hand it to me.”
“I said I’d handle it.”
“You said we’d talk after Suri’s.”
He closes the laptop. I flinch at the little click and see him notice.
“We did talk.”
“Did you speak to Candace about this?”
“She’s arranging the dinner.”
“I’m arranging it. She’s helping.” I swallow. “She’s meant to just be helping.”
He looks tired. I want to stop before he gives me that look from the bedroom, the one that says I’ve found another way to spoil a good thing. There hasn’t been a good thing today. I’m still trying to save the one we planned for next week.
“I didn’t hit her,” I say. “I won’t say it again.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
“I hear you.”
I wait.
He opens the laptop.
“Then tell her now.”
“I have a call in five minutes.”
I stand. If I stay I will beg, and I’ve begun to recognize the moment just before it happens.
I leave the card under his folder. Taking it would let him go on working with a clean table.
Downstairs Candace has gone into the kitchen. I look at the eleven places we’ll set. It would be easy to cancel: one call to the caterer, messages to people who already know too much. The thought brings a rush of relief.
Then I see the little blue house beside my notes.
Jeremiah saved that ornament when I broke the chimney. I wanted to hang it with him after dinner. I wanted Hedy to see us together, to stop listening so carefully when I told her things were fine. Next year there will be a baby at this table.
I pick up Hedy’s place card and move it where I’ll be able to look at her without turning around.
Candace returns. “Do you need me to?—”
“No. Thank you.”
The thank-you costs less this time. I keep Hedy’s card beneath my fingers until Candace goes.
I count the blue plates. Eleven. Enough for the evening I still want. Upstairs, the other card is waiting where my husband put it.