El Meté alit on her shoulder. “I don’t want you to come with me today,” Embeth said.
“El Meté come. El Meté come.”
“Seriously, I have to go to the doctor, the salon, the dry cleaner, the florist, the seamstress, the jeweler, and I have to speak at that stupid lunch, and there’s the party—”
“Party! Party!”
“I don’t even like parties—”
“Party! Party!”
“You cannot come to the party,” Embeth said.
“Party! Party!”
“You can be incredibly thick, El Meté. And repetitive. And also, you think you’re light but you’re enormously heavy on my shoulder. I think you’re gaining weight. Your claws dig into me now. You’re worse than a bra strap. You’re worse than a Birkin bag. I’m going to need to get a chiropractor.”
Margarita the part-time housekeeper came into the kitchen, carrying a large box. “Ms. Levin, good morning! Happy anniversary! This was on the steps.” Margarita set the box on the counter.
Embeth looked at the return address. It was from her most faithful friend, Shipment Fulfillment Center. Embeth got a chef’s knife and opened it. Inside the box, entombed in an infinity of bubble wrap, was a tacky-looking statue. The statue was about the size of a large penis and made from resin and garishly hued like a black-and-white movie that had been colorized. A winged, rosy man wore a pink toga and carried a bronze Star of David, like a shield. He must have been some kind of Jewish angel. Were there Jewish angels? Yes, of course there were. There were angels in the Old Testament, so there must be Jewish angels. Wasn’t everyone in the Old Testament Jewish? She turned the base over. An accompanying certificate of authenticity indicated that this was Mattatron, which sounded like the name of a robot. Who would have sent her such an object? Embeth was not the type of woman to whom anyone would send an angel.
“Oh, very nice,” Margarita said. Margarita appreciated kitsch. Her look was a bit kitsch, too. She wore her glossy black hair like a burlesque queen. She paraded around the kitchen in shoes with cherries on them, her young breasts pushed up to her chin. Jorge, who was Aaron’s right hand, had taken one look at Margarita and said, “Are you sure you want this in your house?”
“What do you mean?” Embeth had asked.
“I mean, she looks like T-R-O-U-B-L-E.”
“Aaron’s old. I’m old,” Embeth had said. “I’m home more than he is, and it’s sexist not to hire someone because she’s cute. She’s very smart, too. She’s getting an MFA in sculpture.”
“Trouble,” Jorge had repeated.
“Would you like it?” Embeth said now to Margarita as she dug through the bubble wrap for a note. She supposed people sent her this kind of crap because they thought the cancer had made her soft.
“I couldn’t,” Margarita said. “The angel is meant for you.”
“Or perhaps it was meant for me to give to you,” Embeth suggested.
“It is bad luck to take another woman’s angel,” Margarita said.
“If you don’t give him a home, he’s going in the trash,” Embeth said.
“It is bad luck to throw your angel in the trash.”
“What isn’t bad luck?” Embeth said. She picked the angel up by the head. “I don’t believe in bad luck.” She opened the trash can and then paused. “Is he recyclable, do you think?”
“Don’t do that,” Margarita said. “Maybe he’ll grow on you?”
“He won’t.”
“Maybe the congressman?”
“Aaron would loathe this.”
“Fine,” Margarita said. “Give him to me.” She took the angel and set him by her purse.
“Are you going to be able to come to the party tonight?” Embeth asked.
“Yes,” Margarita said. “Of course I am, Ms. Levin. I would not miss it! I sewed my dress myself. It is a red corset on top and a black hoop skirt on the bottom, and I will wear small black lace gloves without fingertips, and my hair up, pulled back tight, and a small veil over my face. It will be so dramatic.”
“Sounds it,” Embeth said. “You can wear it again to my funeral.”
“Do not be morbid, Ms. Levin. The dress is very festive.”
“Margarita, what does meté mean in Spanish?”
“A child having a tantrum might yell it to get someone to put something down. Meté! Meté!” Margarita said.
“But what if there’s an el in front of it? El Meté. Does that make a difference?”
“Ah,” Margarita said. “Then, it means nothing at all.”
???
THE RECEPTIONIST APOLOGIZED. The doctor was running behind schedule. Behind schedule was the schedule, Embeth thought.
Embeth took out her phone and searched for mentions of Aaron’s congressional race online. She decided she wouldn’t care if he lost. Despite what people said about her—that she was the ambitious one, that without her, he would most certainly be a high school English teacher, not that there’s anything wrong with that—she would almost welcome his defeat.
“Embeth Levin, is that you?”
She turned, and it was Allegra. Allegra was so old. She looked like she was in her late forties. Oh God, Embeth thought, she doesn’t look old. She is old. She is in her late forties, because I’m in my late fifties. Allegra had worked with Embeth, back when Embeth had worked for the hospital. They had been so close. People had jokingly referred to them as “work wives.”
“Allegra, it’s been too long,” Embeth said.
Allegra kissed her on the cheek. “I hope you’re well.”
“I was sick last year, but I’m better now,” Embeth said. “I’m only here for a checkup.”
“Well . . . ,” Allegra said. “Well, you look good.”
“Don’t lie. I look like shit,” Embeth said.
“You do look good . . . A little tired maybe. I hate when people say I look tired.”
“We’re having an anniversary party tonight,” Embeth said. “And after this, I’m going to the salon. I’ve got to figure out something with these useless feathers.”
“I like your hair. It’s very chic,” Allegra said. “By the way, I know about the party. I mean, I’m coming to it,” Allegra said.
“Why?” Embeth said without thinking.
“Well, I was invited,” Allegra said. “I assumed by you?”
I should goddamn remember a thing like that, Embeth thought. “Of course,” Embeth said. “Of course.” What state of mind must she have been in to invite Allegra?
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not. I’m . . .” The truth was, she couldn’t remember anything lately. Probably chemo brain.
“Mrs. Levin,” the receptionist called.
“I was happy to get the invitation,” Allegra said. “Surprised, but happy. But if you don’t want me to come . . . If it was some sort of accident, I mean.”
“I do want you to come.” Embeth squeezed Allegra’s hand. The hand was cool and soft, and Allegra smelled of frangipani and something spicier and earthier, like sandalwood or pure cocoa powder. “Sometimes, my brain works better when I’m barely thinking.”
Allegra smiled. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I want us to have an impossibly long lunch next week,” Embeth said. “Can we promise to do that?”
“I wish I’d known you were ill,” Allegra said.
“I wasn’t any fun to be with,” Embeth said.