want to take some time off.” Greer’s voice rose at the end of the sentence. He was trying to sound nonchalant, off the cuff.
“To heal?” she asked. She was attempting sarcasm, but she suspected he hadn’t heard.
“If you like.” Greer looked at his desk, desperate, Elm thought, for something to distract him. Finding nothing, he examined his fingernails. “You’ve barely taken any time since …” He let the sentence trail off.
“And prints and drawings?”
“We’ll get someone else to pitch in for a while.”
Elm stood. “If you want me to leave, then fire me. But stop this passive-aggressive looking-out-for-my-best-interests crap.”
“Keep your voice down,” Greer said sternly. “Get ahold of yourself.”
“Right,” Elm said. “The family creed. Do not show emotion. Do not embarrass the family. Grieve your dead son in silence.”
Now Greer was standing too, shocked by the mention of Ronan, her son. “What do you want from me?” he hiss-whispered; he didn’t want his secretary to overhear them.
“Nothing,” Elm said. Suddenly, the anger was gone, as though she’d been seized by a cramp and released. These bursts came and went, leaving her apologetic and defensive. “Sorry. I’ll focus. We’ll be back in the saddle by the fall season.”
“I hope so,” Greer said. “I certainly hope so.”
At home, Elm’s doorman informed her that Moira and Wania had beaten her home. As soon as she opened the door, Moira yelled, “Mommymommy Mommymommymommy,” and threw herself into Elm’s legs.
“Hi, bunny,” she said, shuffling forward.
Wania sat on the couch in front of the television rebraiding a long strand of hair. “Afternoon, Ms. Howells.” She was from Jamaica, and Elm understood approximately 30 percent of what she said. Once she told Elm that the “peenters” had come, and Elm asked, “What?” three times until she pretended to understand. It wasn’t until that evening, lying in bed, replaying the day, that she realized Wania had meant “painters.”
“How was school?”
“Fine,” they both answered automatically.
“Andrew was really funny today, mon.” Moira had picked up Wania’s Jamaican slang. It drove Colin crazy, but Elm found it amusing. “He made this noise in art class like this”—Moira blew a raspberry into her forearm—“and everybody really laughed. Even Mrs. Buchner.” Elm was half listening, flipping through the mail. Bill, bill, package of coupons, labels from the Children’s Aid Society, cable television offer, cable television offer, cable television offer. “And, Mom? It sounded like he farted,” Moira explained, in case Elm didn’t get the joke.
“Funny,” Elm said, placing her hand on Moira’s snarled hair, a continual struggle. She had practically come out of the womb with a mess of tangles, and no amount of conditioner would keep them from forming. Elm had given up on attempts to brush or braid it, and let Moira attend her tony private kindergarten wild-headed.
Seeing that her mother wasn’t interested, Moira danced around in circles for a moment, and then settled in front of the television.
“You know, Wania,” Elm said. “You can go, if you want.”
“Are you sure, Ms. H?” Wania perked up.
“Yeah. I’m not going to the gym or anything today. Is there dinner?” Elm lived the ultimate New York stereotype. She couldn’t cook, Colin couldn’t cook, and their housekeeper/nanny couldn’t cook. Instead, Wania bought prepared food at Citarella or Eli’s Vinegar Factory every day.
“Chicken fingers,” Wania said, pointing to Moira, “and spinach-stuffed chicken breast.”
“Perfect,” Elm said. “Thank you.”
Wania stood and went over to the closet. She put on her coat and took out her woven bag. “Is it rah-nig?” she asked.
Elm couldn’t understand her. “Rah-nig,” Wania repeated. Elm shook her head.
“Mo,” Wania called.
“Raining,” Moira said, head glued to the television set, where Dora the Explorer was skipping down the adventure path.
“Oh,” Elm said. “No, not yet.”
“See you Mahnday.” Wania stepped around the couch to plant a kiss on Moira’s head. Moira reached around and patted her shoulder without turning. “Bye,” Wania said softly, calling Moira an endearment that Elm heard as “beetle nut.” “Have a nice weekend, now.”
The door closed. It was quiet except for the overexcited television, but the volume was low enough for Elm to tune it out. She went into her room, and sat on the bed to take off her shoes. She put them away, then undressed completely, leaving her suit on her bed. Moira came in while she was in her underwear. “Mom? Will you play restaurant with me?”
“Sure. I’ll have the chicken cordon bleu and a Caesar salad.” Moira pretended to write this down on an imaginary pad of paper.
“And what do you want to drink?”
“You mean, What would you