“Why are you scrubbing these by hand? I told you, just throw them in the dishwasher.”
“You don’t want to risk the crusted bits making it through,” Lily said, her voice still wavering. Her whole body vibrated still from that moment, seeing Isabel standing just over her shoulder, staring.
“My mother taught me to do this, and it’s a hard habit to break,” she continued. Isabel nodded.
“Well, as is the case with all mother-enforced habits, I suppose.” She sighed and looked down once more at the sink. “But did your mother pay for an extravagant, inconceivably expensive dishwasher? Because we did, and we’ve still got you in here every night scrubbing your fingers red. Anyone looking in our window might think you have one of those thoughtless, oblivious housewives for a boss, Lily.”
They both quivered at the image, at the idea of anyone peering into the house, then pretended that they hadn’t.
“That’s something from my mother,” Isabel said. “To spend the money but then fret over it every time I look at the evidence. That’s her voice, lingering in the house.”
Lily nodded and otherwise stayed very still. Isabel was existing in some unaltered space, and she did not want to remind her of reality, that they hadn’t spoken for more than a few seconds here and there since the initial news. She didn’t want Isabel to read on Lily’s face everything Jackson had said today, about the things that mattered to this woman.
After lunch, after the ramen, she’d pushed aside her remaining, tugging annoyance with him and convinced him that they should go back to his apartment in Brooklyn before they went to meet his friends. She’d grabbed his keys from him as soon as they were inside the building and raced ahead of him on the stairs, removing items of clothing and letting them drop down behind her to hit him in the face as he scrabbled up behind her. She hadn’t showered when she got back to Greenwich; she’d cut it too close to dinner. So she had that thing, this evening, where if she turned her head suddenly to one side, or darted her tongue to a corner of her mouth to catch a rivulet of sweat, she’d get a dizzying whiff of the smell of Jackson’s skin. She had a soreness on her left breast that she knew was developing into small, purple bruises the sizes of fingerprints. She kept these sensations to herself, on nights like this, smiling at the zaps of pain whenever she made a sudden move to catch a tipped juice glass, or wipe a sauced chin.
“Everyone’s eaten?”
“Yes, absolutely. They’re in bed.”
Isabel smiled, her face almost coy. She crossed to bring down a wineglass from an upper cabinet, then went into the pantry just off the kitchen where they kept the lesser bottles, the everyday overflow from the cellar. She returned with a bottle of red and opened it with two smooth tugs that drew the cork from its berth without resistance, as though it were being drawn up through water. These were the small things, Lily knew, the things you couldn’t learn, no matter who you worked for, no matter how much you watched them. The way Isabel could open a bottle of wine and not be aware of her own movements, the way she could be graceful without observing herself—Lily knew she wouldn’t have that, not ever. She’d made her peace with this. Cribbing from someone who did wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Isabel poured a glass of wine and then looked back over her shoulder, reaching up again to the cabinet. She raised her eyebrows.
“Sure,” Lily said. “If it’s all right with you.”
“Well, I’m inviting, so I guess there are new rules,” Isabel said, laughing softly. She reached up for a second glass. She was wearing tight black jeans and a black tank top that scooped low over her modest cleavage, the patterned scarf knotted at her neck the only bit of color on her body. She looked like a teenage cat burglar. The narrow hips, the muscles on each arm taut like stretched shoelaces. As Isabel aged it was all looking ever so slightly tenser, as though the muscles themselves were rising closer to the surface of the skin, but still this was a body any woman—a twenty-four-year-old, even—would want, would consider committing murder to have. Another reason, Lily knew, the other, older wives hated Isabel, even as they smiled and angled for invites to her fund-raisers. She was younger than they were and she exercised, sure, there was a full gym in the basement, Mina dragged her to a class every so often. But it wasn’t her life. She wore the taut thighs, the flat stomach, the tennis player’s angled hips, just as she wore everything else. As something she’d inherited, without giving it another thought. The only thing that kept Lily from wanting to pinch the whippet stem of her wineglass, pinch it until it shattered and cut her skin, was that there were so many other women in their town who wore their good fortune with no humility at all, and didn’t it make more sense to focus your resentments where they really belonged?
Sometimes she fought the suspicion that it was worse to act as if you didn’t notice all that you had, but that was only sometimes.
“Thank you,” she said to Isabel.
“Oh, we should’ve done this first,” Isabel said, clucking her tongue and gesturing at their wine. She tapped her glass against Lily’s, producing a noise like a bell. Lily double-checked that the glass hadn’t cracked.
“If we’re cheers-ing to anything,” Isabel began, “it’s to you, Lily. I want you to know how much I appreciate your help these past few weeks. I haven’t been—feeling well. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
When will this woman learn, Lily thought, that I see her?
“You know I’d do anything for those kids,” she said.
“They’re barely kids anymore,” Isabel mused, and Lily wasn’t sure whether she was meant to reply. “The boys are already so big. And Madison, well. Madison’s practically her own sovereign nation at this point.”
“You know that,” Lily began, fingering the stem of her wineglass. They both drifted over to the table, without agreeing, as if to acknowledge the fact that Madison as topic necessitated an actual conversation, not just hovering over the sink.
“You know that I’m keeping an eye on her. I just wanted to say.”
“I appreciate that,” Isabel said, gulping her wine.
“I know how smart she is, but sometimes, at that age, you know, that isn’t necessarily a good thing.”
“I’m wondering these days if it’s a good thing at any age,” Isabel said. She set down her glass and pressed the palms of her hands flat against the wood of the table, shifting her weight forward, then looked up at Lily.
“So,” she said. “Look. I’m going into the city.”