by Q. T. Ruby
“Yes.” Breathe, Claire. “I violated the morality clause in my contract. I never even thought of it before because—”
“Because of me. You lost your job because of me.”
“No, I decided to get up on a pole and dance. It was my stupid, idiotic, ridiculous decision to do that.”
Through several moments of silence, I can hear him breathing hard.
“We both know that there wouldn’t be photos of you in the papers if it weren’t for my job. I fucking hate this part of my world, Claire. I fucking hate it! What can I do? Who can I phone? I’ll come into your school to sign photos—”
“I wish you could help, but I’ve already cleared out my stuff and I’m—” I take another deep breath, not wanting to say it out loud.
“You’re what?”
“Moving back to my parents’ house.”
“What? Why? Just get another job!”
“It’s not like that. I wish it were, but it’s not. After all of the negative attention, the ‘Teacher on a Pole!’ stuff, no one wants to hire a teacher with that kind of baggage. Plus, my principal won’t give me a recommendation until things calm down, and even then, not to anyone in New York. The heads of all the private schools talk, even if they are competitors.”
“What about a state school? They’d be lucky to have you.”
“I taught at one of the most prestigious schools in New York, and they paid better than anyone else, too. I can’t afford to teach at a public school, even if they looked past the media attention.”
“I can afford to help you, I’ve got money.”
“I wish it was that easy, but it’s not.” I swallow hard in an effort to stop the flow of tears. It’s not helping.
“Yes it is, Claire. It is that easy. I write a check to you and you’re all set.”
I try to remain calm but the pain in my heart breaks through my voice. “The thing is, Dan . . .” Exhale. “This isn’t just about finances. Even if I accepted your money and miraculously found another teaching job, our careers just don’t mesh. In your business you need publicity; it’s a big part of your career. But for me, for my career, it’s lethal. No one is going to hire a teacher whose life is reported on in the papers. No one. I’d get fired again the moment new photos came out. It’s an awful reality . . . and I’ve tried to figure a way around it for the last couple of days. That’s why I didn’t call you. I was hoping to find another way.”
After several long moments of silence, he asks in the softest voice, “Another way? Are you splitting up with me?”
Tears stream down my face like a burst dam. My stomach churns. Breathe. Breathe. “I don’t want to, I don’t—”
“Then don’t, Claire.”
“What other choice is there? I need a career. I have to try to salvage it.”
“We can sort this out together. Look, we’ll keep our distance in public, I’ll not say anything about you to the press, I’ll—”
I wipe my eyes and interrupt. “None of that will matter when the principal of whatever school I’m teaching at is fielding phone calls from parents and administrators about the most minor things I’m reported to be doing with you. Even dinner with you is a liability for me.” Inhale. “You know as well as I do that there’s just no way around it—our careers will just keep colliding.” I can’t hold back any longer; I sob into the phone.
Silence dominates as I try to steady myself. When I do, I continue. “I just want to teach here and live here and date you, and I can’t do any of those things! Damn it! I finally trust someone, something, and wham! I lose everything I know. I can’t even trust myself to make a good decision, Dan! Up on a fucking pole—what was I thinking? I don’t do that kind of stuff!” Breathe. “I don’t know . . . I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing and where my life is headed. I’m such a mess right now. I just keep floundering.”
The silence stretches on.
“Dan? You still there?” I whisper, wiping my nose.
“Yeah . . . it’s just . . . Fuck! I’m at a total loss here. I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry, and it’s all my fucking fault. I’ll do whatever you ask, Claire—I will—but I’m scared we’ll never see one another again, and I want to see you. I need to see you . . . I want us to sort this out together.”
I sob into the phone again.
“Don’t cry. Please. I’m here. Let me see you,” he says so softly, so gingerly.
I catch my shuddering breath. “I want to see you, but knowing I can’t have you—it just might put me over the edge, Dan.” I continue to weep, but silently now.
In a quiet, pained voice he asks, “Do you think I’ll ever talk to you again?”
I’m more nauseated by the minute. I don’t want this to be real. Oh God! “I don’t know.”
We’re silent for a long while. My mind is sick. My body is sick. I’m barely holding it together.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Claire. It’s the least I can do after fucking up your life . . . but I want you to know that you can phone me any time.”
I’m on the verge of losing it. “Thank you . . . I’ll miss you . . . with all my heart.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” he says, his voice cracking.
We hang up, and I run to the bathroom to puke.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Even after the week from hell—from losing my job to losing Dan—when my parents’ large, white colonial home comes into view, everything somehow becomes painfully real.
My mother greets me with pursed lips and a hug. I know it’s a mere prelude to the tough love that’s sure to come.
By lunchtime, my dad, one of my brothers, Camille, Bridget, and I have moved my things back into my old bedroom. Afterward, the girls and I seclude ourselves outside on the front steps with china plates on our laps, eating the lunch my mother prepared.
“I know my bed wouldn’t fit in the van, but I’ll come pick it up soon,” I say, pushing the salad around on my plate.
“Leave your bed, Claire. You know we’re saving your bedroom for you, right?” Bridget asks.
“You probably shouldn’t. I won’t be—”
“Shut up, Claire,” Bridget says without a hint of a smile. “You’ll be back.”
I muster a grin. “That’s very optimistic of you.”
Bridget shrugs. “There’s nothing to make me think otherwise.”
“Nothing except my lack of a job, money, and a life. Right. I’m sure I’ll be back in a jiffy.” I try to make light of the situation because otherwise I’ll just burst into tears again.
Camille says, “You’re coming to visit us, too—don’t give me any crap about it—and I’ll be calling you a lot. I have to make sure Rita doesn’t sell you off as a mail-order bride without at least a dorky shower beforehand.”
We all laugh lightly, awkwardly.
That night, once everyone is gone and my parents are asleep, I lie on my old bed, in my old bedroom. Nothing much has changed since I lived here before. The walls are still the same lavender shade from back when lavender was the “in” color. The lacy curtains my mother loves adorn the three eight-paned windows. My large closet, which held stylish clothes during high school, now contains the professional wardrobe I no longer have a use for as well as the remnants of my attempt at a social life. The room smells the same, too. Come to think of it, the whole house smells the same; that indefinable scent one would only notice if they’d been away long enough.
It’s too dark, too quiet. I’ve grown so accustomed to the noises of the city that being away from the life I love is a million kinds of wrong. Then again, maybe it’s the fact that I have nothing left that makes me so uneasy.
I hear my parents snoring down the hall, probably dreaming of how they plan to finally set me straight.
I turn ove
r on my side, flop on my back, and then flip back onto my belly. I kick out my restless legs. I’m so exhausted, yet I can’t sleep; my mind is stuck on replay, turning over all the awful from the past week.
Tears prick at my eyes when I think of the humiliation of losing my job and how my best friends now live so far away. My throat protests against the rising emotions by forming a lump and closing off. I almost win the fight until my mind and heart float to Dan. I shove my face into my purple pillow to muffle my sobs.
After a few minutes, I get up and dig through my half unpacked luggage until I feel it—the soft flannel of Dan’s shirt. I pull it out and immediately clutch it to my face, breathing in his scent. For the briefest moment I’m back in L.A., wrapped safely in his arms. I crawl back into bed and hug the shirt tightly. Even though this situation is keeping us apart, it doesn’t change the fact that I still want him. The shirt will have to be enough, at least until the scent is gone . . .
“Dan?” My heart swells at seeing him. “Hi!” I squeak, running to him and throwing my arms around his neck.
He hugs me, swinging me around. “I missed you, Claire,” he whispers in my ear.
“I missed you so much, Dan.” We hold onto one another for the longest time. His soap and shaving cream scent instantly soothes me and lights me up at the same time.
I shoot up in bed to nothing but darkness, eerie silence, and a pounding heart.
Holy crap. I breathe hard and squint into the shadows around the room. I stand up and throw open the closet door, searching. Is he here? I’m so confused. And then I realize it was just a dream.
I flop back into bed with my heart hammering and try to find a sleepy place. I stare at the ceiling, and the tears begin to fall all over again.
* * *
Knock. Knock.
I stir and pry open an eye. Where the hell am I? I see the purple walls and sunlight, and I remember. Ugh.
Knock. Knock.
“Yeah?” I croak.
The door opens and my mother peers in.
“Claire?” Mom says softly.
I blink several times as I try to see the clock. Eight a.m. on a Sunday? What is she doing?
She glances around my room, sighs at its disastrous state, and says, “Don’t forget; church is in an hour.”
Church? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m in no mood to go to church but even less in the mood to argue. I throw on the first outfit I find—a pair of black pants and a white top—and brush my hair into a quick ponytail.
I sit, stand, and kneel, totally unfocused on the mass itself, but instead on how I ended up back at square one. Square one was awful enough the first time around. Why do I need a do-over?
After church, my parents stop to talk to various friends while I stand off to the side, waiting for them to finish. I don’t want to speak to anyone. I just want to go home. I overhear my parents speaking with an elderly woman I’ve never met.
“Is that your daughter, Rita?” the elderly woman says with a sweet smile.
My mother turns around and smiles at me. “Yes, that’s our girl. Claire, come here, please.”
I shuffle forward and graciously shake the woman’s clammy, bony hand.
“Claire, this is Mrs. Vito,” my mother says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, forcing a smile.
“Aren’t you a pretty thing. Why haven’t I met you before?” Mrs. Vito asks.
I open my mouth to answer when my mother interrupts. “She’s just come back to live with us again.”
“Oh? What happened, dear? Did you get divorced? It’s such a shame, so many people getting divorced nowadays,” she says sweetly to me.
Again, I begin to answer, but my mom chimes in. “No, Claire has never been married.”
“Thank God,” I mumble loudly enough for my mother to hear, and she shoots me a quick glare.
Mom continues in the same calm voice, “She lost her job.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mrs. Vito says.
I tighten my jaw to hold in my anger as well as my tears. Only a few more minutes.
“If you hear of any teaching openings, let me know. Claire’s an excellent teacher,” she says proudly.
“Oh! I’m sure she is. That’s a lovely profession. I’ll keep an ear out.”
* * *
Later in the afternoon, my brothers arrive with their wives and kids for their weekly Sunday visit. I’ve been able to avoid these gatherings. I can’t anymore.
My three brothers, each two, four, and six years older than I am, respectively, are free from the pressures my parents place on only the vagina-sporting offspring in my family—me. As males, they have their own, less strict set of requirements, and each has successfully fulfilled them. I ended up holding the black sheep card.
Growing up, my brothers tortured me like typical brothers do. They’d take my dolls and hurl them across the room, scare my friends and me, and freeze my underwear, but underneath it all was love. I knew it, they knew it, and my parents knew it. My parents instilled in them the knowledge that as the youngest and only girl, I needed protection—even if I didn’t. So in between the torturing, they were ready to fight my fights. It was sweet, but needless to say, dating was not an enjoyable experience.
I’ll admit, having everyone in the house all afternoon is a good distraction; my parents are too busy doting on the grandkids to critique my nonexistent life. During the visit, I hold myself together, grinning and speaking on occasion. However, I’m well aware that once night hits and I’m alone, desperation will find me, and the waterworks will begin again.
* * *
I awake the next morning with puffy, sore eyes. I throw on my roomy gray sweatshirt over my tank top and sweats and make my way downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast.
My mother, still in her robe and pajamas, sits at the heavy, rectangular table in the large country kitchen. Swirling steam rises from her coffee cup. It’s a bright space with light yellow walls and elegant white cabinets. The place is like the “after” shot in a home improvement magazine; it’s Mom’s pride and joy.
“Good morning, Claire,” she says pleasantly enough, pulling the newspaper down and peering over her glasses at me as I shuffle into the room.
“Good morning,” I answer, opening the tall pantry cabinet and pulling out the only box of cereal available—Wheaties, my mother’s favorite. There’s not even any good cereal here in hell.
“What do you have planned for today?” my mother asks.
Here we go.
I find a bowl and a spoon and pour some of the tasteless cereal. Why does she buy this crap? “I don’t know. I figure I’ll focus on breakfast for the moment,” I say, sitting at the island and pouring the milk. I feel her staring.
“Perhaps you should call the schools today to see if you could put your name in to substitute teach. It’d be a great way to get your foot in the door and start to repair your reputation.”
“We’ll see,” I respond into my cereal, not wanting to talk at all, much less about this.
“Well, don’t think you can just sit around, you know,” she warns.
I begin gobbling up the mushy flakes because the faster I’m done, the faster I can leave the room. Plus, soggy Wheaties are gross.
“Tacked on the refrigerator is a copy of our schedule,” she says, nodding at the fridge.
“Okay,” I mutter before taking another bite and chewing fast.
She continues. “I just wanted you to know where we’ll be. We’ve gotten ourselves a nice routine, and I don’t want you to think I’m going to be cooking and cleaning up after you.”
“I don’t expect you to cook or clean up after me,” I say, annoyed, not nearing the bottom of the bowl fast enough.
“I just want to be clear.”
&
nbsp; I nod, finishing my cereal, and then place the bowl into the dishwasher.
“Honey, do you think you could rinse that out first?”
I sigh to myself. I take it back out, rinse it, stick it back in the dishwasher, and flee to my bedroom. I close my door and look at the clock. It’s only eight-thirty!
I decide to go for a run—that always helps. With my workout clothes on and my iPod in hand, I step out into the crisp, early spring air and feel better instantly, especially with my familiar music blasting in my ears.
As my feet tap against the pavement of a quiet side street, I formulate a plan. Step one: find a teaching job. Once I start working again, I can shove this overload of feelings back into the well of emotion I keep on lockdown. It’s much more manageable that way. Plus, then I can move out. Move out! I’ll contact my former principal—the one I worked for in Connecticut prior to escaping to New York. She knows I’m not a useless slut.
When I return home from my run, Mom is dressed and vacuuming the museum-like living room. As I pass, I spot my old friend, the piano, sitting there, looking as lonely as I feel. I bolt upstairs before she can shut off the vacuum and “talk” to me.
I take a shower, hoping the warm water will relax me, but it doesn’t. Nothing seems to help the hole in my stomach, or is that my heart? In either case, I towel off and throw on my gray sweats. Thank God Bridget never actually bedazzled them.
I sit at the computer in my parents’ bookshelf-lined office and revise my resume. I turn around when I hear a quick knock at the door.
“Hi, honey. I’m heading out for a bit, do you need anything?” my mother asks, poking her head in.
“No, I’m fine. Dad’s at work?”
“Yes. What are you doing?” My mother comes in and spies over my shoulder.
Go away. “Fixing my resume,” I mutter, focusing my attention back on the screen.