The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [7]
But Barry seemed not to hear. He loomed over their mother, handing her presents as fast as she could open them. Phoebe gazed overhead at the fresh new leaves, furious. How rude, she thought, how totally insulting. Had Barry lost his mind?
Another gift certificate, this time for the Centurion, a clothing shop on Union Street. “This is too much,” their mother said. “You’ve gone completely overboard here!”
“And now,” Barry said, foisting upon her a final box, “to bring it all home, present number five.”
Their mother opened it and frowned. “Fashion coordinator,” she said. “It sounds like a machine.”
“No, no, it’s a guy,” Barry explained. “You bring him with you to the store and he helps you choose what to buy. He knows what styles are ‘in.’”
There was a beat of silence. Their mother looked up from the flurry of gold wrapping, and Phoebe glimpsed in Barry’s face a flash of distress, as if the weight of so many gifts had suddenly borne down upon him. “I don’t mean it badly …” he said.
“Of course not,” their mother said, turning to Phoebe. “He’s right, isn’t he? I have become sort of a frump.”
“You’re not a frump,” Phoebe said.
“I hope you’ll really use this stuff,” Barry said. “I mean, not just throw it in a closet or something.” His eyes lingered on Phoebe, as though divining her urge to sabotage him.
“It’s funny, actually,” their mother said. “I’ve been thinking for months about trying to … revitalize my appearance.”
“Really?” Phoebe said, taken aback.
“Honestly. But I had no idea where to start. Your timing is sort of uncanny, Barry.”
Phoebe mulled this over uneasily. It was several moments before she remembered her own gift and pried it from her pocket.
“More presents,” her mother said. “Such extravagant children.”
Barry looked on in silence. Already Phoebe sensed his resentment, his fear of being upstaged. Their mother unwrapped the tissue slowly, opening the box to find the small blue Tiffany bag. “What a beautiful little bag,” she said. “I’m sure I can use this for something.” She was going slowly, balancing Phoebe’s one gift against all of Barry’s, making it last more than an instant.
Her mother loosened the bag’s drawstring throat and found the necklace: a solid drop of silver on a slender chain. “Oh,” she said. “Oh Phoebe, this is beautiful. Help me put it on.” She lifted her hair and Phoebe fastened the clasp around her mother’s neck, so the drop of silver rested in the shallow cup between her collarbones.
“Nice,” Barry said, shifting on the grass. “That’s pretty, Pheeb.”
“It’s spectacular,” their mother said, kissing Phoebe’s cheek. Phoebe caught the smell from inside her blouse, tart from her lemony perfume. Their mother always smelled the same.
Phoebe kept her eyes on her mother, waiting for her to acknowledge the true meaning of the necklace. Probably she would manage this without Barry’s ever knowing—just a glance to remind each other of the vanished years stretched taut beneath them.
Their mother shut her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. Phoebe peered at her until she opened them. “What is it?” her mother said, straightening.
Phoebe just stared. She heard a distant pulse of bongo drums.
“Sweetheart, is something wrong?” Phoebe kept her eyes wide open. “Phoebe?”
“Don’t you get it?” Phoebe cried, exasperated.
“Get …”
“Silver.” It astounded her, having to say it.
Her mother touched the necklace. “Yes, I—I love silver.”
“Think. Sil-ver,” Phoebe said, drawing out the word. “I can’t believe you don’t understand!”
“What’s to understand?” Barry cried. “Jesus, Phoebe, she said she liked it.”
Her mother’s hands fluttered at her neck.
“Silver! For your twenty-fifth.”
But even now, her mother’s face remained empty. Phoebe felt a pulse of fear deep in her stomach.
“Oh, I see,” her mother finally cried, with relief. “Our twenty-fifth, of course. But that was last year.”
Phoebe sat upright. “Last year? How?”
“What was last year?” Barry said.
“We were married in ’52.”
“Fifty-two! I thought it was ’53.”
“It doesn