24. Dulcie
DULCIE
Iput on the blue glass earrings and don’t try anything else.
They catch the light when I turn my head. I bought them before I met Magnus because I liked them and didn’t need another reason.
My parents have come over to stay with Kit at the rental. Downstairs, Dad is telling Kit that his mother will be back at the time she said, which is a more reliable prospect than the train in the book he’s reading.
Mom looks up when I come into the room. “You look lovely.”
“I feel overdressed.”
“For your father, perhaps.”
Dad looks down at his sweater.
I laugh and kiss Kit’s cheek. I have left everything my parents need in the places they already know, and I have checked my phone twice. Now I make myself put it in my bag.
I chose the gallery. I chose a small restaurant nearby, and I told Magnus when I wanted to finish. My car is outside. He is meeting me there.
At the door, Dad hands me my keys.
“Text your mother when you get there. Otherwise she’ll text you.”
He doesn’t say to enjoy myself. He opens the door, and I go.
Magnus is waiting outside the gallery, looking at the window instead of his phone.
When he sees me, the change in his face is immediate enough to stop me for half a step. It isn’t the careful expression he wears when he comes to see Kit. He looks pleased to see a woman who has chosen to meet him.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
His eyes move to my earrings. “I haven’t seen those before.”
“You haven’t. I bought them before you.”
He smiles, and I feel it low in my stomach.
Inside, the rooms are small and quiet. We begin with a painting of a chair that appears to be sinking into a field. One leg is much longer than the others. A red shape floats above it, possibly a hat, possibly a threat.
Magnus studies it for several seconds.
“That chair would never get through a purchasing meeting.”
“Perhaps that’s why it’s escaped.”
“The rear leg is structurally indefensible.”
“It’s carrying most of the emotional weight.”
He looks at me. I manage to keep my face serious until his mouth moves.
“And the hat?”
“Management.”
He laughs, a real surprised laugh that makes the woman at the next painting glance over. I look down at the label to hide my own smile.
The title explains nothing. We argue about whether that is the point. Magnus says a person ought to know when they’ve finished making a chair. I say it is a painting, and he says that is fortunate because otherwise someone will fall off it.
I had forgotten how much I enjoy making him defend a ridiculous position.
In the next room, I like a painting he doesn’t. There are three people at a kitchen table, one almost outside the frame. He thinks the composition is crowded. I think the person at the edge is the reason to look longer.
“You can’t see what she’s doing,” he says.
“You can see everyone making room for it.”
He looks again. This time he moves closer instead of arguing.
“The plate,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Someone’s pushed it over.”
I feel a small, unreasonable pleasure that he has seen the thing I wanted him to see.
He asks about the family book while we walk into the last room. Not whether I enjoyed visiting school. What happened with the child who wouldn’t draw his family.
“He drew a house with a door big enough for everybody.”
“Did he put the people in?”
“Not yet. He wants help writing their names when I go back.”
“Why the names first?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask. Sometimes the order matters to them even when it doesn’t look sensible to us.”
“And you let him leave the page unfinished?”
“It’s his page.”
He nods. I wait for him to make it about himself. Instead he asks how the book will be bound, and we spend the next few minutes discussing why a method that looks sturdy to an adult might not survive a roomful of children.
He suggests metal rings. I tell him why not. He abandons them without losing interest.
At the small rack near the exit, I buy a postcard of the kitchen painting. He doesn’t reach for his wallet before I can reach for mine.
The restaurant has paper menus and tables close enough that I hear a man behind me insist he ordered something he plainly doesn’t want anymore.
Magnus moves my water glass out of the path of the server’s elbow. He asks whether the seat is comfortable. When I say yes, he leaves it alone.
We order. I check my phone while he looks at the drink list. Mom has sent a picture of Kit asleep against Dad, whose head is tipped back at almost the same angle.
I show Magnus.
“The book exhausted them both,” I say.
He smiles.
We talk about a story from his office, a disagreement over something small that became elaborate because nobody wanted to admit the first mistake. I recognize the look he gets when he is trying not to enjoy another person’s absurdity too much.
Then, without deciding to, I say, “You used to look like this when you took me out before we were married.”
He stops with his hand beside his glass.
“Yes.”
“You seemed to be having a good time.”
“I was.”
I fold the corner of my napkin under my thumb.
“That’s part of what frightens me. I can’t use enjoying myself as proof I understand what’s happening.”
He looks at me without turning toward the surrounding tables.
“You shouldn’t have to. I let you believe the reason for those evenings was the same for both of us.”
“And tonight?”
“I asked because I love you and want you to choose another evening with me. You can enjoy this one and still decide against the next.”
“You wouldn’t like that.”
“No. It would still be your decision.”
Our food arrives. He moves his hands out of the way, thanks the server, and waits until she has gone.
“Do you want to keep talking about it?”
I consider the question.
“Not just now.”
“All right.”
There is a pause. Then I look at his plate.
“Try mine.”
I hold out my fork. He takes the bite, and I watch him decide not to admit it is better than his.
“Well?”
“Mine’s fine.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He eats half of my dinner anyway.
Outside, I can see my car from the corner. There is still time to get home when I said I would.
Magnus walks beside me. He hasn’t taken my hand. I have noticed the space between our fingers several times.
“I had a good evening,” I say.
“So did I.”
We stop beside my car. I turn toward him before I can talk myself into treating wanting as a mistake.
“Stay there.”
He does.
I put a hand on his coat and rise enough to kiss him. It is brief, warm, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. He answers gently, his hand touching my upper arm, and lets me draw back when I choose.
For a second we look at each other without speaking.
“Goodnight, Magnus.”
“Goodnight.”
He waits while I get into the car, then steps back. I drive home with the postcard in my bag and the memory of his mouth still making me smile at red lights.
Inside, Mom is awake on the sofa with Kit. Dad has gone upstairs to bring down the bag I forgot I left there.
“How was it?” she asks.
“Good.”
She gives me my son. I settle him against me, kiss his warm head, and let the answer remain that simple for a moment.
I haven’t decided where we will live or whether I will wear my ring again.
I want another evening.
Tonight, that is enough to know.