“You got that?” I was stunned, then caught myself and looked at Debbie, hoping she could understand. Taking a deep breath, I dived in. “I quote when I’m nervous.”
“It’s brilliant. You should get your master’s in English literature like me. You’d have a blast. I’m Ashley, by the way.”
Yes, I should. Don’t you agree, Mr. Knightley?
I stayed and enjoyed myself. Ashley is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She’s one of those girls. The kind you see in movies, but you don’t believe exist in real life. An Emma. She wears a diamond watch and has blond hair that lies precisely and tosses effortlessly. She has blue eyes and perfect skin. And she’s so manicured and polished and perfectly casual that you want to either pinch her to make sure she’s real or punch her because you wish she wasn’t.
And she says outrageous things. Don’t you agree that spending $900 on a pair of shoes is crazy? I looked up the designer, Jimmy Choo, and found that she was serious. One can actually spend $900 or more on a pair of shoes! I had no idea that shoes could cost nearly as much as a car. After that comment I wanted to dislike her—but she’s nice.
Nevertheless I tried to dismiss her. I decided she was superficially amusing and refreshingly knowledgeable about literature, but she had no substance. After all, how much did Emma and Harriet Smith really have in common? Did Ashley regard me as her Harriet? Her poor pet project pursued out of a warped noblesse oblige? Or, worse, boredom?
Then I conceded that Ashley didn’t have plans to “improve” me. No reading lists, drawing exercises, or music practice . . . She reached out to make me feel comfortable, declared my literary knowledge “impressive,” and included me with all her friends—and there are a ton of them. This girl is rarely alone.
Then last night I learned something new. Ashley called, frantic for Debbie and me to join her for dinner. Her parents are in town and she said her mom was “sucking the life out of her.” When Debbie couldn’t make it, I almost backed out, but I was too intrigued. I met Ashley and her parents at Davis Street Fish Market after my evening seminar.
Initially I found Mrs. Walker highly entertaining. She’s a cross between Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Caroline Bingley. The first brings very strong opinions to the table, while the second adds a bit of insecurity, afraid those opinions aren’t well received.
Within the first five minutes Mrs. Walker criticized Ashley’s hair (roots showing), her skin (sallow), her boots (scuffed), and her lack of communication (doesn’t call home enough—wonder why?). Ashley gave polite, distant replies, but her eyes revealed that each dart hit its mark. The pain and loneliness they conveyed surprised me. While Ashley appears to have everything, something she desperately wants is missing. I know that look.
Then Mrs. Walker turned on me. I quickly yanked out a slightly dusty but diplomatic Jane Bennet and fielded her questions: “Yes, I’m from Chicago. There are lovely homes by the lake. Journalism is very challenging. Yes, feature writing does seem a bit more prestigious than daily news—”
On and on and on. Ashley finally saved me. “No, Mother, Sam doesn’t need the name of your personal shopper. Yes, I’m sure one can make a good living as a writer. Mother, don’t ask about her love life. Daddy, have you been to an auction lately?”
The last one wasn’t an innocent question, but it was effective. The interrogation stopped. Mrs. Walker’s face instantly dropped and her eyes flashed vulnerability and hurt.
A lot of things happen below the surface, don’t you think? A jab, a deflection, a hit, then pain—all hidden beneath exquisite manners and an aura of sophistication. There’s a little of Edmond Dantes in all of us, I guess.
Mrs. Walker’s face closed as she watched her husband and daughter delve into the fall wine auctions. No one else existed for Ashley and her dad. Mrs. Walker slouched in her chair and said it all with a small sigh and a dip of her chin that I alone noticed.
Soon our dinner arrived and I could no longer focus on Ashley’s family drama. A large sea creature was deposited in front of me, and I had no clue what to do with it. I’ve seen ads for Red Lobster, so when Mr. Walker demanded I try one, I agreed. Lobsters look good on TV: all white, red, and buttery. Not this thing. It had a shell, two claws, and a spiky tail, and was delivered with a pair of pliers.
I’ve struggled with table etiquette lately, and this was way out of my league. No one ever taught me the purpose and propriety behind all the forks, knives, and spoons. And now I was supposed to know how to wield pliers? The waiter tied a plastic bib around my neck, and I almost jumped from my seat.
Ashley and her dad grabbed the lobster with one hand, the pliers with the other, and started cracking the shell. It broke off and they dug out the meat inside with a tiny fork. Holding my pliers likewise, I watched as they’d stab a piece, dip it in butter, and eat it. How hard could this be? So I started in.
The pliers immediately slipped from my hand and the shell cut me. I sat for five minutes with my finger clutched in my napkin to stop the bleeding. That’s when I realized that Mrs. Walker hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Stanley, call over a boy to help me.”
“You can do this yourself, dear. This isn’t the club.” Mr. Walker sounded exasperated.
“Mother, you can’t be serious?” Ashley sounded horrified.
“I am. Call over a boy.” Lady Catherine was going to make her presence felt again.
“You could try to crack it, dear.” Mr. Walker gave it one more try.
“Do not discuss it further, Stanley. I will not play with my food. Call someone over this instant.”
Mr. Walker raised his hand to the waiter and asked him to crack Mrs. Walker’s lobster or take it to the kitchen for someone to handle it. The poor guy looked really confused at first, then shrugged his shoulders and carted it away. I sat there clutching my finger in my lap, wishing I had the courage to send mine away too. Her lobster returned a few minutes later beautifully splayed out on her plate. Mine still stared at me. I was so jealous, but determined, once the bleeding stopped. Two bites and I tackled it in earnest. Lobster is yummy.
During the Great Lobster Fight, I simply listened to the conversation. And after a few bites, I identified with Jane Bennet’s generous side; she never says a cross word about anyone. I even started a conversation with Mrs. Walker.
“Do you enjoy visiting Chicago? Are the museums to your liking? Have you seen the new exhibit at the Institute?”
Ashley tossed me a wry smile. She knew where I’d gone. Part of me felt exposed, but mostly I felt understood.
That’s when I realized how unfair I’ve been about her. Ashley’s not an Emma. Emma would have grabbed her pliers, picked up the dainty fork in her other hand, and widened her eyes at Harriet in a significant manner. Such a look would not only instruct Harriet on what to do, but make Emma’s superiority as clear as Harriet’s cluelessness. The look, furthermore, would not be skilled enough to hide Emma’s delight in the situation and in her role as tutor.
