She does not notice her own food arrive. When she glances back at her daughter, who is methodically dipping French fries into apple juice, it is like viewing her through a glass wall. Her eyes return helplessly to the doctor and remain there, watching his movements. Finally, he looks up and sees her. There is a hollow instant before the glimmer of recognition, but that is all. There is no surprise on his face. Instead, his exquisite mouth forms a sly smile, as if they are sharing a joke. She goes cold.
His eyes slide away, and he laughs at something one of the boys is saying. Camille’s ears fill with loud static, so that she can no longer hear the noise of the restaurant. The mother of the family glances toward her and gazes blankly for a moment. She is tragic in her sequined sari and painted eye makeup, her face round and overfed like a pink, all-American sow.
Camille forces herself to remain at the table until Avis has finished her ice cream. She leaves her own salad untouched, with its tight cranberries, baby oranges, and frilly wreath of greens, like a careful little Eden.
The static remains in her ears through the drive home and crackles as she climbs the chipped concrete steps of her house. Avis vanishes inside. Camille follows, closes the door, and sits. There on the battle-torn sofa that has served her through two decades, she sits very still and tries to unpuzzle the riddle.
“To what end?” is the phrase that comes to her. To what end? She is not upset, she tells herself, not really. Just mystified. The picture of Paris—the bed and windows, the little gilt breakfast tray with bread and cheese and honey, the silver dress—glides smoothly away. She looks down at her legs on the couch. She is still here, as she was before. She is still safe, intact, shod in calfskin Steve Madden boots. To what end?
She finds a rumpled blanket at the end of the couch and pulls it over herself. The chill she’d felt in the restaurant is still with her. Even now, in her own house, she feels exposed, unsheltered, as if the walls were translucent and she were on display like a lab rat.
Avis comes running out of her bedroom and rushes to the front door holding a pumpkin pail. Her little pink gown is blotched with ketchup, and her hair has already snagged in her tiara. She clutches the doorknob with such naked hope that Camille feels a roll of nausea. The idea of taking her daughter outside, of holding her hand along the night-shaded, sinister streets of this town, of any town, is too much. It would be better for both of them to stay inside, it seems, to find a spot in the center of the house, far from the windows, and huddle together for a little while.
“Are you sure you want to go back out?” Camille asks lightly. “Maybe we could have some candy here and watch TV instead.”
“Mommy!” Avis shrieks.
“Come on, let’s cuddle up on the couch together.”
Her daughter’s dress puddles as she collapses to the floor.
“All right, all right,” Camille says, “let’s go.”
She wears a scarf and hat, although the night is not cold enough to steam her breath. The house next door is darkened. The couple who lives there is older, she believes, probably pretending not to be home. Camille is envious tonight of their immunity. She and Avis keep walking through the unlit span to the next house. There are far-off sounds of children’s voices, beams of flashlights sweeping through the trees. Camille walks quickly, battling an icy dread. She nearly jogs from house to house, trailing her child princess behind. It is rude, she knows, how curtly she responds to the fawning of the neighbors who answer their doors. She just wants this night to be over, this night of all nights, this never-ending night. Her heart keeps a crazed beat. When she wakes in the morning, she tells herself, the sky will be white, scraped clean. It will be the first day of November. The winter will loom close.
As they walk, Avis helps herself to candy from her pail, and by the time they return home, her face is bloodied with chocolate. She stands patiently as Camille unfastens the costume and lets the pink cloud deflate at her feet. Her little girl’s body is thin and swaybacked, painfully fragile. Camille draws a wet washcloth over the smeared face and puts her to bed. Avis lies with wide-open eyes as Camille pulls the covers to her chin and kisses her good night, then shuts off the porch light and drops the deadbolt on the door.
THE VIRGINALS
THERE ARE no boxwood wreaths on the Ezekiel Slater house, no pine garlands around the batten heart pine door. There is no amber candlelight behind the twelve-by-twelve, divided-light windows.
“They’re not living there,” Cheryl Foster tells her husband. “They’re not even trying to pretend.”