Her grandmother looked at her, a face that would have been a smirk except that it didn’t seem to be enjoying its own smugness.
“I know that’s what they’ve taught you, darling, but you can’t always take care of it that way,” she said. “It can’t all happen offstage, you know?”
“I didn’t mean—” Madison tried, but her mother’s voice layered itself over hers, so that as soon as Madison was silent her mother had already been speaking for a few seconds, as if they were tagging each other in and out of the conversation.
“Concetta,” Isabel said, “this isn’t appropriate. If you want to discuss this with Bob, you can call him at home. But it’s not for this lunch.”
“Call him at home! He never answers. Your phone rings on and on and on,” Concetta said. “But then, Ms. Berkeley, you already know that.”
Madison choked in surprise at the use of her mother’s maiden name. But Isabel simply folded her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on her mother-in-law, her entire body coiled like a question mark.
“You think I don’t understand what’s been happening?” Concetta said, her voice lowered in an alarming and uncharacteristic gesture toward Isabel’s sense of propriety, the room they were sitting in. “I read, Isabel. I probably know more about his job than you do. I was there when he talked his way into that job, long before you even met him. And I’m not going to watch my son suffer, be made to suffer for other people’s mistakes, just because you’re not willing to get dirt on those little hands. You know where I’m from. I don’t come from here.”
“You were born in Brooklyn,” Isabel said, almost muttering it, keeping her eyes on Concetta.
“You cannot wait this out,” Concetta said, ignoring her. “You got no idea how many times I been visited, at my home, by some pissant reporter who says he used to write for the New York Times, like I’m supposed to find that impressive. He wears these big thick glasses, I guarantee you, just so he looks older than twelve. And he’s always dressed like some kid headed to church on Christmas Eve. Hair like a bottle brush, badly in need of a haircut. Not impressive at all.”
Madison stared, in shifts, into her lap, then at her grandmother, then at her mother, then into her lap again. She hadn’t replied to Chip’s texts. Her mother, for some reason, hadn’t spoken yet.
“I don’t know what he wants,” Concetta barreled on. “He seems to think I’m going to put my heels up and fill him in on some embarrassing stories from my son’s childhood. I close the door on him, goes without saying.”
“No one is waiting anything out,” Isabel said, finally. “You give me absolutely no credit, but by now, I guess I should know that. It’s no surprise.”
“Now,” Concetta began, but Isabel had gained all the steam she needed.
“If you’re so concerned,” she said, “I’d encourage you to come out to the house with us. Come sit with your son. Try to get him to talk to you. Try to get him to describe his plans for the future. But you’d rather not, Concetta. You’d always rather call us from Brooklyn to remind us that we live a life you find repugnant. This doesn’t, as we know, keep you from cashing his checks.”
Luke had begun to make a soft, keening noise under his breath.
“Your favorite,” Concetta said. “Your favorite little story, Isabel. That I sponge off you people. I never saw you striking out on your own. I never saw you turning down your own daddy’s checks. You wouldn’t know how that feels, would you? My son worked for every single thing he has, and he doesn’t deserve to suffer because other people decide we need a villain.”
Madison continued stroking her brother’s little fist, holding it in her own. He’d brought his other hand up above the table, so that he could hold Matteo’s, too. They both stared at their place settings. She knew she should stand up, get them away from the table. She knew she was failing to meet even the most basic requirements of being an older sister. But she could explain this, to them, when they were older. That she’d been afraid to leave; that she hadn’t known whether or not they’d be able to trust their mother’s account of what happened while they were gone.
“Your son’s a very hard worker,” Isabel said. “He’ll work himself into the ground when things are going well. Not so good at picking up the pieces afterward, though. Not so good at meeting with the lawyers, or consulting the financial planners, or dealing with the press, or managing a need for additional security. Not the best.”
“So do something,” Concetta said. “He’s mourning? Of course he’s mourning. He needs his wife to do something.”
There was something else, pulling ragged at the edges of Madison’s mind, something that didn’t have to do with her family, but she couldn’t remember what it was. The description of that guy, the reporter trying to contact her grandmother. Something had knocked at a memory, like a book pulled slightly out of line on its shelf.
But Madison’s phone was buzzing, had gone off twice since she’d last checked. She could just leave right now, walk out of this building and take the elevator straight down to the train and head home early, to get ready for the date tomorrow. He’d used that word. It was a date.
“You don’t know how he operates,” Concetta said.
“I don’t know how he operates,” Isabel echoed. Each word was given an equal weight, neither inquiry nor assertion in her voice.
“Now is not the time to worry about what your other little lady friends think of you,” Concetta said. “You gotta live in the real world, now. You two have been living somewhere else for too long. If you wait, it’ll be too late. This’ll all blow over, but the question is where will you be when it does?”
“How refreshing,” Isabel said, her voice so low it was barely audible. “Another expert opinion.”
“What’s that, dear?” Concetta barked.
“Everyone’s an expert this year,” Isabel said. “Everyone knows how to solve the problem. Apparently it’s quite simple. How funny, then, that I can’t see it.”
“Well, sometimes we can’t see our own dilemmas so clearly.”
“What the fuck would you know about any of these dilemmas?”
At that, Concetta put down her wineglass. The ice cubes clinked.
“Excuse me?”
Madison could not remember a time when Isabel had cursed at her grandmother. Had permitted anyone to see that Concetta made her this angry.
“You’ve never dealt with a world any bigger than your little block, Concetta. You’ve never taken care of anyone but yourself. Your son was responsible for thousands of employees. He has a big life, we have a big life, because that’s what he wanted. And now you think—what would you know, about any of this?”
They all sat in silence. An obsequious waiter delivered their appetizers, flinching as he set the plates down as if Concetta might nip at his wrists.
“You know what, girls?” Concetta said. “This is really not to my taste, the cuisine here. I’m going to head home.”