THE EVENING BEFORE, SHE had gone with Philip to a fortieth birthday party in a restaurant in Douglas village. Angela, the birthday girl, was an old college friend. More precisely, she was an old college friend of Philip’s, because although they had all been part of the same set once, Janice had never liked her. Angela’s three teenage daughters were there, afflicted already with their mother’s mannerisms: the coy, flirtatious giggle, a tendency to stand too close and engage in unnecessary touching. They had rushed, shrieking, at Philip, and one of them, the middle one, had called him “uncle” and kissed him.
In the car on the way home, Janice said, “I think Angela’s got too thin. It’s showing in her face.”
“I thought she looked well,” he said. “She didn’t look forty, that’s for sure.”
Janice was driving. She glanced at him in the passenger seat, but he was staring out the window. “Know what her sister told me?” she said. “Angela has them all on diets. Those poor girls. That little one can’t be any more than twelve.”
“Fourteen,” he said. “Same age as Becky.”
“That’s still way too young, Philip.”
“She’s banned crisps and chocolate,” he said, turning to her. “It’s hardly a human rights issue.”
They were approaching a junction and she braked sharply. “And that’s what you and Angela were discussing?” she said. “Holed up together at the bar all night?”
He sighed. “Angela likes you,” he said. “She’s only ever tried to be a friend. I wish you’d give her a chance. We were talking about Becky, actually, about how she’s put on weight.”
“I don’t believe this,” she said.
“Come on,” he said. “You must have noticed, too.”
“I’ll tell you what I noticed,” she said. “You sweet-talking plastic Angela all night. If it wasn’t Angela it was one of the daughters. Don’t think I didn’t see. That blond one had her hand practically on your ass at one stage. She’s worse than her mother.”
“Let me out,” he said. “Let me out here. I’ll walk home.” They were stopped at traffic lights, and he rattled the car door but it was locked.
“Big fucking gesture, Philip — we must be a whole five minutes away.” But she was crying, wiping her eyes furtively with the back of her hand. He could have reached across and released the lock, but he remained in his seat, and when the lights changed she drove on. He didn’t speak again until they pulled up outside the house. She was sobbing now, tears running down her cheeks. He unfastened his seatbelt.
“Did you ever think our lives would turn out like this?” he said.
Prepare bandages of white silk or cotton, ten
chi
long and two
cun
wide. Break the arch of the foot and wind the cloths in figures of eight, knotting at instep and ankle. Do not be unsettled by the cries: The breeze that sighs at night about the lotus bulb, by morning gives way to petaled sun.
SHE HURRIES ACROSS THE landing to their bedroom and picks up the phone. “Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
These postfight conversations have the quality of a folk dance, a complicated system of advance and retreat, executed with varying degrees of grace. Perform the correct movements, in the correct order, and eventually they will be returned to the point they departed from. “Listen,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said those things last night. I’m sorry.”
“We were both tired,” she says. “Angela always puts me on edge. I don’t know why I let her get to me.”
“Angela has a way of getting to people,” he says. “It’s her special talent.” And she knows he doesn’t mean it, knows he likes Angela, has possibly even fucked her at some point, but she understands, too, that he is offering Angela up by way of apology. She lies back on the bed and closes her eyes.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “What you said last night, about Becky’s weight? I’m going to have a word with her.”
“Don’t, please,” he says. “I was out of order.”
“No,” she says. “You weren’t.” Mostly because it was expected, but now that she has said it aloud, she wonders if perhaps he mightn’t be right.
“I’d hate her to be upset,” he says. “She’s a great kid. But whatever you think is best.”
“It wouldn’t do her any harm to lose a few pounds.” She waits for him to say something else, but he falls silent. She senses he is preparing to wind down the call. “Will you be home for supper?” she asks, while she tries to think of something else to say, something to hold him.
“I’m afraid not. I have to take clients to dinner.”
“Where will you take them?” she says, but already he is saying “bye, bye, bye,” and then he is gone.
She returns the phone to its cradle and sits a moment on the edge of the bed. These calls usually act as a sort of poultice, the fact of them more than anything that might be said. This one was different. It was the way he hurried to say goodbye, she thinks, the way he managed to take leave of her so very easily. She goes to the mirror to fix her hair. Her hand flies to her throat when she sees Becky in the doorway. “Goodness, Becky!” she says. “You gave me a fright.”
“Was that Dad on the phone?”
Janice nods. How long has the child been there? she wonders.
Becky begins rhythmically kicking the doorframe, five kicks with the right foot, five with the left, her feet encased in wads of white pillowcase. “Is he coming home for supper?”
“No, he’s meeting clients.” She points to the bandages on her daughter’s feet. “Take those off and go do the rest of your homework.”
Becky shakes her head. “No can do. I’ve only just put them on.”
Janice goes over and tugs at a loose end of cloth on her daughter’s right foot. The girl yells and kicks out, catching her mother on the wrist. She turns and heads in an odd, stumbling gait toward her own bedroom, arms held out from her sides as if negotiating a tightrope. One of the bandages comes loose, unfurling behind her as she walks.
Janice rubs her wrist. “That’s it, Becky,” she says, following her across the landing. “I’m going to the school tomorrow. I’m going to see Ms. Matthews.”
Becky has reached the door of her own bedroom. “That’s a coincidence,” she says, “because Ms. Matthews wants to see you.” She pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt and, crumpling it in a ball, flings it at her mother, striking her in the chest. Then she goes into her room, slams the door, and turns the lock.
Janice picks up the piece of paper, smooths it out. It is an appointment slip headed with the school’s blue crest, the spaces for day and time left blank. A handwritten note in large, looped writing, little circles over the i’s, asks her to telephone to arrange an appointment. There is nothing else, no clue as to the nature of the meeting sought, only a signature in the same looped script: Madeleine Matthews. The slip is dated two days previously. Janice bangs on her daughter’s door. “Becky,” she says. “Why does Ms. Matthews want to see me?” But there is no answer. When she tries again—“You’re being childish, Becky. We need to talk about this”—Becky still doesn’t reply. But when Janice is halfway down the stairs, she thinks she hears her daughter say something, something that sounds very like “bitch.”
If a foot is large, or the toes fleshy, place among the bandages shards of glass or porcelain. This will bring a rotting of flesh which, in time, will drop away, leaving the foot smaller and more pleasing. Bind at least twice a week, or, if the family is rich, every day. Soon, a valley will form between cleft and heel, dark and secret as a jade gate.