“What if I turn out to be terrible at it?”
He lifted himself onto his elbows. “You have nine children, don’t you?”
“It’s not the same,” she said. But she was tiring of her protest. She was thinking of Joshua, who at three hadn’t tasted currants or worn shoes that fit.
“So where is it?” she asked. “Will I have to take the bus?”
“Out on Eastern Point. The Hirsch estate. Hirsch is the uncle. I’ll drive you,” Mr. Story added, but Emma barely heard. She pushed off him, grabbing the afghan to cover her breasts. “Hirsch” was like a curse word among the Murphys: spoken only inside the home and when strictly necessary. Hirsch was their secret. Or Emma had thought it a secret. Now, eyes shut, willing herself to shrink, she waited to hear Story describe her sins to her. The pears were nothing compared with what she was doing now, with him. Taking what the rich would not use anyway—she had barely flushed when she first confessed it and, because her penance had been a single Hail Mary, she never felt the need to confess it again. Even so, they did not talk of it: the dories they “borrowed” from Flanders’ Boat Yard once a year, the armfuls of fruit that didn’t belong to them, the canvas tarps mended so many times the children affectionately referred to them as “rags.” And most tender, most treacherous: Lucy Pear, before she was Lucy Pear, alone in the Hirsch orchard in a preposterously sumptuous blanket. For nearly a decade Emma had kept that blanket in her box, under the bed, rarely thinking of it, but now it occurred to her that this had been a terrible mistake. The blanket had followed her here: it swam dreamily across her skin, a fluffy, luxurious trap.
But when Emma opened her eyes, the afghan was only the afghan. Story’s eyes were innocent and bemused. He laughed. He touched her jaw, closed her mouth for her. “Are you squeamish of Jews, Mrs. Murphy?”
Emma worked her tongue drily, moved her head back and forth.
“If it doesn’t work—if the endorsement doesn’t come through—I won’t blame you. All right? I promise. Forget the politics. Just consider it me, wanting to do something for you.”
Emma managed a weak nod. As terrified as she was, a flame had been lit, the possibility of seeing Lucy’s mother—if this woman was her—brought within her reach.
“Can’t a man do something for the sake of doing it?” he asked.
Josiah sat up. He considered this a fair question, if not an entirely honest one within the context of this particular conversation. He would have liked it to be honest. He would have liked to be touched again by Emma’s rough hands that the cream had not salved. He had allowed her to undress him tonight. He didn’t think anyone but his mother had ever done that. He reached for her. But as he did so his nakedness became fully apparent to her—it plucked Emma out of her shock. With Roland it was usually dark, the children asleep, or they were hasty about it, clothed. They hadn’t seen each other naked in years. She wrapped the afghan around her and moved toward her dress, which lay rumpled on the floor. The hem, she saw, had begun to fray. One sleeve was torn at the elbow. She steadied herself with these defects, with thoughts of a needle and thread, all the while toeing into her dress, wriggling it up over her hips and shoulders, avoiding Story’s eyes. She buttoned her last button, noting that it needed tightening. She was not a skilled seamstress, but she could sew a button, tuck a hem. She took comfort in an image of herself at the kitchen table with a needle and thread, the clear, honest effort, her daily life intact. “Of course,” she said. “You can do anything you want. Will you take me home?”
Five