Free Emma's Table by Philip Galanes

that she wouldn’t eat sugar either.
    He shook his head and hoped for the best.
    His stomach felt a little nervous to him, as if a shot of brown booze—bourbon maybe, or scotch—were swirling around inside him, burning away as the subway barreled over ancient tracks and took its turns too fast.
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    At the end of every weekend, before Benjamin was finished with his duties, Emma required a status report on all hisvarious projects: tracking down that rare silver orchid in the swamps of Florida, and booking her Christmas holiday with frequent-flier miles alone; supervising the wallpaper hanger in the guest bedrooms, and checking the references of the new housekeeper. He’d be embarrassed to admit it, but it was his favorite part of the job—hands down. He prepared himself for it extravagantly, with beautifully organized lists that he wrote out longhand, each page flowing neatly to the next, all indexed and cross-referenced and updated to the very latest state-of-play.
    Benjamin liked his moment in the sun.
    Emma might ask a million thoughtful questions, or barely grunt at him in reply. He’d nearly learned to take her moods in stride, and for the most part, he knew that she was pleased with his work. Never more so, he suspected, than when she could cross an item off her list, nearly stabbing the paper through with the sharp nib of her pen, a wild flourish to signify completion. Emma liked to get things done. It was a welcome change for him too—working on jobs that could be finished, just by pressing forward and following up. Such a relief, he thought, compared with the intractable problems he wrestled all week in his work at school: the fractured families and financial struggles, the knots of unemployment and abuse, so many people at the breaking point. No amount of list-making ever seemed to improve things down there, and Benjamin rarely got to cross a single child off his list.
    He reached for Melora’s hand. He found himself wanting to.
    Melora was always supportive of his work at school—interested in his cases, and the career he’d chosen for himself. He could tell that she was proud of him, and he didn’t takethat lightly. In a city of investment bankers, he knew that finding a beautiful woman who approved of social work was something of a coup. He rested the soft knot of their fingers against his churning stomach.
    He felt the soothing relief of light pressure right away.
    In the past few months, since Emma had come home from prison, Benjamin’s Sunday presentations had grown to include dinner. He was slightly mystified by the development. He even had his own place at the table, as if he were a member of the family. He hated those dinners.
    Whatever flush of pride he felt, first sitting down to dine, was long gone by now. Emma’s strange indifference to him, followed by sudden bursts of interest, had progressed beyond confusing straight to tiresome. Worse, Benjamin was forced to suffer her daughter’s fury at his inclusion, and Emma’s strange ex-husband too, so jovial and irrelevant all at once. They were as bad as dinners with his own family—except that with Emma, attendance was mandatory.
    He felt a flash of worry that Melora might become a regular guest. He didn’t see how he could possibly handle Emma and Melora both, not simultaneously anyway.
    Benjamin turned to her in his seat. He caught her studying him beneath the glare of the car’s fluorescent lights.
    â€œI have an idea,” she said, her eyes lighting up as she wrinkled her nose.
    Benjamin’s heart sank. Melora thought she looked cute this way, with the nose-wrinkling and all. It usually signaled her wanting something.
    â€œLet’s go to the Whitney,” she said—the art museum in Emma’s neighborhood. “It’s practically next door,” she added. “And I’d love to show you those Sally Mann photographs.”
    Benjamin checked his watch.
    He