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Finally, Donald comes back. Nextto him is a slender woman with an immaculate burgundy bob, wearinga flowing floral dress. She has dark brown eyes and a serious lookon her face.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I hadto change. Hello, Christopher.”
She calls him Christopher, forfuck’s sake.
“Hello, Mom. Happy birthday,” hesays. He doesn’t try to give her a hug or a kiss, and she doesn’teither. They just greet each other across the table.
“This is Roxie,” Donald says andpoints to me. “Roxie, this is my wife, Charlotte.”
“Nice to meet you,” I smile. Idon’t hold out my hand, because fuck her.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“I have something for you, Mom,”Chris says, to which Charlotte’s eyebrows flicker. He hands her agift bag, roughly a foot deep.
“Thank you,” she says. “What isit?”
“Just open it.”
“You know I don’t care forsurprises.”
He exhales slowly through hisnose, clearly losing his patience. “It’s a birthday present. Ithink you might like it.”
She seems unconvinced, butproceeds to unwrap the item without further protest, perhapsbecause I’m here. The gift is an abstract bronze statue, about halfa foot tall. Charlotte regards it with a cool, analytical eye.
“It’s by a well-known localartist,” Chris says.
“Thank you,” she responds and setsthe statue near the edge of the table, then sits next to herhusband and across from me.
“All right. Let’s eat,” Donaldsays, and starts bringing dishes from the oven. “Ximena made a lotof food. Some of Chris’s favorite enchiladas and stuffed poblanopeppers.”
“I’m sorry I missed Ximena today,”says Chris.
“She was busy setting up for theparty. She went home early today so she can stay longer tomorrow,”Donald says.
The food is delicious, but theconversation strained, despite Donald’s attempts to keep it going.He’s the one asking Chris and me questions about Madison, about howwe met, about Chris’s new job, about me working at Qpik. Charlotteshows no interest in the discussion and answers curtly when asked.She certainly doesn’t ask Chris anything about his life, and sheisn’t the least bit interested in me. She does show some warmthtoward her husband, even touches him on the arm and smiles, so Iguess she’s not a complete cyborg.
What I don’t understand is how aperson can create such breathtaking art, yet appear so cold anddisinterested in her own child. I feel sad and angry on Chris’sbehalf, and I want to smash something.
She also completely ignores thegift she’s received.
“So what do you think of thestatue, Charlotte?” I ask about half an hour into theconversation.
The men freeze, and she lookstaken aback.
“It is…interesting,” she says.
“What do you plan on doing withit?” I push. The statue is within my reach, so I grab it and rotateit in my hand, inspecting it.
“I’m not sure,” Charlottesays.
“It doesn’t seem that you like itvery much. You’ve been ignoring it.”
Chris jumps in, an expression ofpanic on his face. “Roxie, don’t…”
“I mean, it’s true, isn’t it?” Ilook around the table. Chris and his dad appear petrified.“Charlotte doesn’t really like the present.”
“Buying art for an artist isalways a risky proposition,” she says in a lowered voice, thestiffness in her shoulders indicating that I’ve hit a nerve.
