What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [55]
“Do you like it?” Sharla asked.
“Yes, I do. Very much. Look at this pretty lace trim.”
“I mostly picked it, because Ginny was sick.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but could think of nothing to say. It was true.
“But I couldn’t have done it without her.” This seemed extreme, but as I was the beneficiary of Sharla’s remark, I let it stand.
“I’ll wear this tonight,” my mother said.
Next she opened my father’s gift to her. It was a set of copper-bottomed pans. “They’re beautiful,” my mother said. She picked up a smaller, wrapped box that had been put in with the pans. “But what’s this?” She shook the box, looked at my father out of the corner of her eye. Then, playfully, she asked, “What did you do, Steven?”
“Open it,” he said.
It was a can of copper cleaner.
“Oh.” My mother smiled, nodded.
“Do you like those pans?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ve always told me how much you love copper-bottomed pans. This is the whole set.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Steven.”
“That’s not all, though. That’s not all. How about some cake?”
“There’s cake?” my mother asked.
“From Schickman’s,” my father said proudly. He hiked up his pants, smoothed the back of his hair.
“Oh, Steven, you didn’t have to go there.” Schick-man’s was the bakery across town; their cakes were delicious, but very expensive.
“It’s your birthday,” he said. “I love you.” Sharla and I looked at each other, smiled.
Our father went into his den, returned with a pink box. He opened it with a flourish. HAPPY 35TH! was written in purple frosting across a large white cake, beautifully decorated with latticework, pink frosting roses, and candied violets.
“What a lovely cake,” my mother said. “Of course, it’s … Well, I’m thirty-six, you know.”
My father leaned over the box. “What the—” He stepped back, thought for a minute. Then, “Oh, Marion,” he said. He picked up her hand, kissed it. “What must you think of me. Of course it’s thirty-six, I know that. I was in such a hurry to get home, I didn’t even check at the bakery to see if the thing was right. The girl must have misunderstood me when I phoned in the order.”
My mother went to the silverware drawer, returned with a knife. “It’s all right. It will taste just fine. It will taste wonderful. I’d rather be thirty-five anyway.”
“I’m so sorry,” my father said. “I know I told her right.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I looked at the curve of my mother’s eyelashes against her cheek as she started to cut into the cake; she was still made up from her Tupperware party, and she looked very pretty.
“Why don’t you go out dancing?” I asked.
Both my parents looked at me.
“I’m fine now,” I said.
“You want to, Marion?”
My mother laughed.
“Go!” I said. “Or go … I don’t know, somewhere.”
“You want to go out?” my father asked again.
“Well … I don’t know, maybe we should.” She sat down, the knife still in her hand. “Where should we go?” She was happy now, expectant. Beneath the table, I saw her foot reach for the heels she had slid off. I felt proud of myself.
“I don’t know. Maybe … I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”
Her smile froze, then faded.
“You just think of a place,” he said, “and I’ll take you there.”
She looked away, shrugged. “Never mind.” Her voice was soft.
“What’s wrong?” He crossed over to her, took the knife out of her hand. “Just think of a place, Marion, and I’ll take you!”
She looked up at him. “Why don’t you think of a place, Steven?”
He stood there. Blinked. “Okay,” he said, finally. “Well, let’s see. Let’s see.” He sat down at the table with us, folded his hands before him. We waited. The cuckoo clock sounded, absurdly: it was seven o’clock. I found this sad, somehow; it seemed too early and too late both.
My mother took the knife back from my father, cut into the cake. She smiled, lips tight. “Let’s just eat this, okay? I don’t need to go out. I feel better staying home when Ginny’s sick.” She cut one piece, then another, then another, one more; handed them out. The silence felt draped around us.
Finally, “I’m better!” I said, to no one, apparently. Sharla sat