by Sally John
Why would she tell him she’d just landed a spot with the symphony? There really wasn’t anyone to share her good news with.
Claire lost interest in the coffee and set it on the bench. Her stomach ached in a familiar way—the way of loneliness.
Most days she could manage it. Most years she had. Life was full. Life was good—
Good grief. Did she live in denial or what? Maybe it was time to face painful truths.
What was good about life? Her parents had rejected her. Her husband had checked out ages ago. Erik lived life in the fast lane. Lexi seemed always on the verge of crumbling. Like Max, Danny worked too much. Like Claire, Jenna kowtowed to her husband but refused to admit it. Indio and Ben probably—and rightfully—hoped their daughter-in-law would get lost. Her friendships were based on societal mores. She had emotionally quit attending church sometime along the way.
And last, she had left her husband. Moved out. Broken her marriage vows. Brought shame on her family. Did not have a clue how to fix things with him. Wasn’t quite sure she even wanted to.
Her life was in shambles. It had been for some time. So what that she’d landed a job? Big deal. Nothing mattered, because everything that mattered was gone.
A sense of paralysis crept over Claire. She sat very still, hands clutched on her lap, eyes open, seeing nothing, while panic hovered, eager to pounce if she so much as blinked.
Because no matter how she tried to fix her life, it just got worse.
Thirty-three
Jenna stepped nearer to Kevin and took hold of the arm hanging stiffly at his side. She glanced up at him.
From narrowed eyes to set jaw, he personified every clichéd depiction of an intense football coach watching his players get in position at the start of the most important game of the season. He even wore the school colors, his royal blue sport coat and silver tie.
But his boys weren’t on the field. They were at a cemetery, surrounding the casket of a team member’s older brother.
Jenna heard a barked command.
Boom!
The three-volley salute erupted. She started at each blast of the rifles.
Boom!
Kevin didn’t move a muscle.
Boom!
Jenna remembered how he’d cried last week when they heard the news that Brock Albans had been killed in Iraq. He was a graduate of their school, a member of their community.
Then Kevin quit crying, and life took on a pall. He reported that football practice alternated between grieving sessions and tackling that resembled attempts to slaughter.
She stole another glance at him. His stoic expression hadn’t changed. If anything, his features were more set. They could have been carved out of rock.
Intense football coach? Not exactly. Kevin was a Marine. He would not forfeit.
How’s my football widow?”
ow’s Jenna spun around from the bulletin board. “Kevin!”
Grinning, he crossed her classroom in a few quick strides.
“You scared me!”
“Sorry.” He scooped her up in a warm embrace.
“Mmm.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned back to look up at him. He wore a jersey with the sleeves cut off and sweat shorts—his workout clothes for warm summer afternoons.
“It’s only four o’clock. Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?”
“I cut it short.” He tapped her forehead. “And not because of what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?” She played innocent.
“That double practices are insane. That the guys need a break before school starts next week.”
“Oh?”
“Okay.” He rolled his eyes. “All that might be a little bit true, I admit. But mostly I sent them home because I missed you.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Smooth Talker?”
“I try. And I’m hungry for a big steak.” He winked. “Thought I’d pick up a couple on the way home. We can have a quiet dinner and catch up. Okay?”
“And here I was, counting on us falling asleep over pizza and the eleven o’clock news.”
“Ha-ha.”
He interrupted her laugh with a kiss.
“Mmm. Thanks, Kevin,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you.”
“Thanks for understanding, pretty lady.”
There was a loud rap on the open door. “Hey!”
She and Kevin turned to see Cade Edmunds, the high school principal.
“No smooching in the classroom!” he shouted.
They laughed at him.
The nearing-forty, balding man didn’t crack a smile. He simply waved and continued on his way.
Kevin chuckled. “He’s jealous. Bachelorhood stinks.”
“I heard—” Jenna caught sight of something as Kevin turned. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?”
“This.” She pulled on his elbow, trying to force him to turn his upper arm toward her again.
He resisted. “Nothing.”
She frowned.
“It’s a surprise. For later.”
“You’re bleeding. On your tattoo.”
“I’m not . . .” He twisted his head and raised his shoulder. “Oh. Maybe a little.”
“Kevin!” She stepped around him. “What is it?”
“A new tat.”
“A new—” She winced at the sight of black letters, some with teensy red droplets. They covered a small area, slightly above the eagle and toward his back.
“Oops.” He wiped a finger across it. “Missed a spot. I just had it done. At noon, between practices.”
“Kevin!”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice it yet.”
“Kevin!”
He touched her arm, and she met his eyes. Under his steady gaze, she willed herself not to squeal his name again.
“I did it for the team. You know how military guys are having the names of their fallen buddies tattooed?”
No, she didn’t know that.
“The kids are all gung ho about having it done with Brock’s name. Most of them aren’t old enough yet. I want to show my support. I mean, some of these kids could be over there fighting in a year. The war just came home to them in an ugly way.” He turned his arm toward her. “See? It says ‘Brock.’”
“Oh! My! Gosh! I cannot believe it!” She stared at the block let-ters that looked more like tiny bruises.
“They couldn’t believe it either. But, man. What an impact. We connected.”
“They’ve always respected you. They look up to you.”
“This is different. I don’t know. It’s a guy thing, I guess. You can’t understand.”
“But your arm!”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
Pain wasn’t her concern. Kevin didn’t do pain. Her problem was with his marred body. One tattoo, okay. That was the way he came. But now, some stranger’s name? As a tribute? As a rallying point for his football players? Teenagers he probably wouldn’t ever see again after they graduated?
“Jen.” He was doing his sheepish imitation. “They were having twofers.”
“What?” Her voice hit the stratosphere.
He hooked his thumbs under the bottom of his jersey and scrunched it up and over his head, keeping it stretched between his arms. “I was kidding about the twofers. But how could I get one name and not the one most important to me?” He turned his back to her and hunched his shoulders.
There, up high between the blades, in flowing, three-inch script, was her name. Jen. The J was made of double lines, its hook snaking down and under the bone—
“So what do you think?” He turned again to face her, pulling the jersey back down.
“I—I—,” she stuttered. What did she think? That he couldn’t have. Really!
“Did you notice the color?”
Besides yuck?
“It’s blue. Sapphire.”
Sapphire. Her favorite.
His waggled his brows. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
She had told him the very first night they met. “Tattoos turn me off. They’re revolting.” Of course, the two of them had been flirting when she said it, and of course, she fell in love with him anyway. But she had made subsequent comments. Hadn’t she? Things like his tattoo was okay, because it was his and was only one, and it didn’t spoil the entire surface of his skin. Hadn’t he heard her?
“You’re shocked and amazed.” Kevin chuckled. “He did a good job, don’t you think? I thought the—what’s it called?—calligraphy looked appropriate for an English teacher.” He cupped her face in his hands and planted a solid kiss on her mouth. “And just think: it’s permanent! See you at home.”
She watched him walk across the room. At the door he smiled, and then he was gone.
A tickle curled up her spine. His kisses could do that; they could produce a radiating exhilaration. But she didn’t think that noun exactly captured the essence of what she felt at the moment.
Thirty-four
A‘ Jen’ tattoo? That’s . . .” Claire cleared her throat, searching for noninflammatory phrases. Her daughter didn’t need any encouragement along those lines. “That’s creative.”
“Oh, Mom. Go ahead and say it. It’s disgusting!” Jenna stretched out on the carpet, propping her elbow on the floor, head resting against her hand. “My friend Emmi will think it’s the most macho thing in the world. She is so antediluvian! She’ll sigh and get all gaga over the fact that Kevin would go through such pain for me. And just imagine! For the rest of his life, the world will know. Or at least every-body who happens to see his bare back—say, people at the beach, walking behind him—that someone named Jen is important to him. Or was. ‘Brock’ is the name of a deceased person. I just don’t get it.”
“I don’t, either, but it probably makes sense to him.”
Claire pushed aside a cardboard box and leaned against the wall. They were in Tandy’s condo, sprawled on the floor between the entry-way and adjoining living room and the old boxes that had belonged to Claire’s mother. That afternoon she had finally dismantled the stack. After sifting through a few, she was grateful for a break from the smelly contents when Jenna stopped by unannounced on the way home from her school.
“Hon, why didn’t you tell him straight-out that it’s disgusting to you?”
Jenna reached for the plate of homemade peanut butter cookies she’d found in the kitchen. “Comfort food really does work.” She chewed for a moment, lost in thought. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I didn’t lie; I didn’t say it was great. I could have said, ‘Kevin! That is so gross! If it’s supposed to speak to me, you missed the mark by a long shot. Emmi will like it, but you’re not married to her. And another thing. It makes me feel like I’m some kind of item you own, like your baseball card collection. Well, I’ve got a news flash for you, bud. I’m not, and I think tattoos are ugly.’”
“That’s, uh, straightforward.”
“Then it’s good, right? It’s what you’ve been saying you weren’t with Dad, and you should have been.”
Aha! Her daughter had paid attention. Claire spoke with caution. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying. The trick is how to mix in some tact.”
“I could use synonyms for ‘gross’ and ‘ugly.’ I’ll get out my thesaurus.”
Claire smiled. “Mind if I do a little comparison? Oh, come on, Jen, don’t roll your eyes. Give me a chance.”
“Okay.”
“All right. I see myself opening yet another extravagant gift from your dad.”
“Like diamonds? I heard you got new ones for your birthday.”
“Mm-hmm. And they would still be wrapped up if Tandy hadn’t threatened to haul the bag out to the trash bin along with my mom’s boxes. Which is why I’m opening them too. Anyway, my reaction would be . . .” She closed her eyes and lilted her voice. “Max! These are perfect.” She opened her eyes. “Then I would wear them to the next three social events. And then I would put them in my own safe-deposit box at the bank. I would wonder why he doesn’t know, after all this time, that I like plants and earthy clothes and that I only wear this gold chain, a watch, and simple earrings, if any jewelry at all.” She bit her lip. “I’m not saying he never gave me anything I liked.”
“I know. You’ve taken some awesome trips. And included us kids on some.”
“Yeah. But all that aside, there’s a really sad consequence to not communicating openly.” She’d adopted Lexi’s admonition that, yes, hers was indeed a sad story. Why deny that fact any longer?
Jenna stared at her, speechless, a half-eaten cookie in her hand, apprehension written all over her face. She really didn’t want any more marital advice.
But Claire’s feet were firmly planted on her soapbox. Her daughter needed to hear this. “The really sad consequence is that I thought by not telling him how I truly felt, I was helping him. It was how I boosted his ego. And my job was to boost his ego, to keep him feel-ing good.”
Jenna shook her head, eyes still wide. “Who says?”
“Books and sermons.”
“That’s what you were taught? For real? And you fell for it?”
The truth smacked Claire like a sucker punch and sent her flying off the soapbox. Hearing Jenna bring her thoughts to light revealed their absurdity. What a ridiculous excuse, to blame some old teachers and a handful of skewed how-to books for her behavior over the past thirty years.
“Mom, why on earth would you believe such bunk? It’s so lame!”
“In all honesty, it was probably more the way I interpreted the teaching.”
“But why?”
Why indeed? Her mind whirled. If she had been straightforward with Max about her feelings and opinions, then what?
Then he would have reacted as he did in her car on their anniversary. He would have lashed out. He would have reminded her again and again of what she had done wrong, piling on the guilt.
She looked over at her daughter. “I liked my interpretation. It gave me handles on how to be a good wife, rules to follow. It worked because it kept the peace. Above all, I wanted the peace. The safety. So I guess I truly wasn’t doing it to protect his ego. I did it to protect my own well-being.” She gestured toward the boxes. “I didn’t want to live my mother’s life.”
Jenna blinked a few times as if filing that tidbit away, maybe in the trash can. “Okay. Moving right along, what would you do dif-ferently today?”
Claire sighed. “I don’t know, hon. Right now I’m still in over-reactive mode. I want to bite his head off.”
Jenna only stared.
“I’m sorry, hon. I’m dumping on you. A healthy person would see that gifts are only symptoms of the big picture. If I was communicating openly about everything with your dad, then gifts wouldn’t be such a major deal.”
“Well, this is major. Kevin’s using up his skin. If he gets as many tattoos as Dad gave you diamonds, we’re in big trouble.”
“You sound like me, going off the deep end. See? That’s the sort of thing—”
“Okay, okay, Mom. I forgive you for not being a perfect role model. But I have to figure out what to do with this situation now.”
“Oh, Jenna, I can’t tell you what you should do. I didn’t do it right. If I ever figure out what right is, it might not be right for you.”
“Great. That helps a lot.”
“Have another cookie.” She picked one up for herself. “Tandy and her sweet tooth. I’ve gained ten pounds in five weeks.”
Jenna put her half-eaten cookie back on the plate. “So I should be truthful in a respectful way.”
“It’s a tall order.”
“He’ll . . .” She bit her nail. “He’ll take it personally if I say I don’t really care for this . . . this gift of his, no matter how nicely I phrase it. He might even say other women would love it and that I can be such a princess.”
The cookie in Claire’s mouth tasted like dirt. Jenna was figuring things out.
She didn’t need Claire to blast both barrels in Kevin’s direction.
“Okay.” Jenna took a deep breath and sat up. “I’d better go home and eat steak.”
140 SALLY JOHN & GARY SMALLEY
Claire stopped herself from asking Jenna if she even liked steak. She’d challenged her enough for one day.
“Whoa!” Tandy’s hands clapped like crashing cymbals. “Claire Beaumont! Are you pushing the envelope here or what?”
She probably shouldn’t have told her friend about the conversation with Jenna. “You’re way too exuberant over this.” Still seated on the floor, surrounded by boxes, she ripped the yellowed, crusty tape from another one.
Tandy leaned forward from her cross-legged position until she was in Claire’s face. “But doesn’t it feel great knowing you admitted mistakes to your daughter? That is so freeing.”
“She left in a worse funk than the one she arrived in. I don’t think I helped matters.”
“Of course you did. The point isn’t to smooth the bumps in her marriage. You can’t do that. Being real with her is what she needs.”
“I just hope we don’t both end up raving feminists with ulcers.”
Tandy laughed.
“I’m sorry about these boxes.” Claire pulled a stack of books from one. “They reek. Cigarette smoke, must, and mildew.”
“This, too, shall pass, as soon as you finish this absurd exercise. Seriously, why don’t you just pitch the things?”
“Paying penance for being the firstborn and only daughter?” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe you’re looking for answers. Like why she was looped all the time.”
“She wasn’t all the time.” Claire heard irritation in her clipped words.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“When did it start?”
“I don’t know.”
“When is the first time you remember?”
Claire dug through the box, pulling out knickknacks, papers, books, and clothing, all shoved in willy-nilly by somebody. Most likely her sister-in-law. There were loose photos that made her stom-ach lurch. George and Louise, young, skinny, and smiling. She’d never met those people.