Sasha should have been on the Vineyard, it was well into June, but there she stood in Claire’s doorway, unannounced, with a box of green garbage sacks and a thermos of Stoli for martinis.
“Don’t get up, sweetie.”
“Oh God,” Claire groaned.
“Relax,” Sasha said. “The sacks are for you, the vodka’s is for me.”
She took in Claire’s mismatched pajamas at two fifteen in the afternoon. “Honey, look at you. You’ll be crumpled up here for months if we don’t keep you moving. You can’t let this place turn into a museum.” Sasha walked past Claire into the kitchen; she was making a point about being in action. She pulled a jar of olives from her handbag, dropped one into the bottom of a glass, and grabbed a jar of vermouth from the cabinet above her.
“Fine, but a little notice is nice,” Claire said. “I mean … this?” Claire motioned to the bags.
“Forget it, honey, I’ll do it. You get back to your malaise,” Sasha said. She started pulling books off a shelf. “You don’t need any of this cooking crap, that’s for sure.”
Claire surveyed the room. Sasha was right. Since Charlie had died she’d been treating the apartment like a crime scene, as if everything he’d ever touched was now evidence. She’d steered clear of the kitchen, clear of his Mauviel cookware and his Wusthof knives, and of the large wine rack of bottles she knew nothing about. Avoiding Charlie’s things meant avoiding what he had done with them—and what she had done, all of their habits. She was avoiding the memory of his Sunday tennis game, of his homemade consommé, of the chop chop chop of his knife whittling onions and carrots into a studied mirepoix. She was avoiding any reference to his noises, his movements, his smells. Had you asked Claire, the week before Charlie died, she might have admitted she found some of their life dull—the problem is, though, she put a lot of stock in routine. Without it, she floundered.
Sasha, standing behind Claire suddenly, startled her. “Oh my God, don’t do that. Make noise!” Sasha smiled and held out a bag. “Start with clothes, sweetie. They’re easiest.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Margorie Dermott. She threw Alfred’s clothes out before the death certificate was even signed and she slept like a baby.”
Walking from room to room, images skipped through Claire’s head like a slide show. She and Charlie dancing at a wedding. Charlie making omelets. A close-up of both of them smiling, then Charlie kissing Claire’s cheek. A candid glimpse at Sasha’s for Christmas, everyone drinking pink champagne. In this one Charlie’s feet are perched solidly on the ottoman and his free hand is circling the air. Then, unexpectedly, Walter White popped into her head—the photo from the papers. He was balding.
Charlie’s toiletries cluttered the bathroom, a towel he’d used still hung wrinkled on a hook. Claire was no Margorie Dermott. She left the bathroom as it was, walked into their bedroom, and began filling a garbage bag with her husband’s shoes and shirts. When the bag was full, she carried it out to a chute at the other end of her floor. Her singular small sounds overwhelmed the quiet hall. Claire’s heavy apartment door creaked open, then closed, the latch clicked; her rubber soles narrated her march to the chute. When she heard the thump as each bag landed three floors down, she felt a surprising sense of relief.
Claire didn’t dispose of everything. She saved Charlie’s robe. She kept a carton of letters from strangers who liked his work and a box of notes he’d written to her the year she moved in. She kept his belts. She buckled them at the well-worn notches, conjuring up the exact circumference of Charlie’s waist. A physical memory shivered through her; was there anything as intimate as unbuckling a man’s belt? She left one coat to hang in the hall and one pair of tennis shoes beneath his side of the bed. There was unopened mail; mail had continued to arrive, and she left it stacked on his unused desk. Ethan could deal with that. She left Charlie’s office untouched.
“That’s better,” Sasha said, scanning the apartment with approval. “But we’re not done. We need food. I’m starved. And then, I hate to do this to you, honey, but photos. Let’s walk through.”
The high, narrow dresser in the bedroom housed a number of awkward decisions, which Sasha insisted they address. There was their wedding photo, for one, the picture Richard took just after they were pronounced Byrne and wife. Charlie looked uncomfortable; the city hall ceremony had been rushed. It had been late August, unbearably hot, and the air-conditioning was out.
“Yes? No?” Sasha asked.
It was not a good picture. It didn’t flatter Claire at all; the lighting was poor. Claire shook her head. Sasha put it in a drawer.
There was a double frame with a photo from a trip to Peru and an ill-lit pose in Paris. Sasha held them up one at a time.
Claire nodded yes to Peru, no to Paris. “I feel like I’m two different people,” Claire said.
Sasha put three more frames in the drawer.
“I’m this new person I didn’t ask to be, a widow with all the trappings, whether I want them or not. But then I’m this other thing, too—a hermit crab groping around, blind, for a new shell.”
“That’s lofty, honey. And melodramatic, don’t you think?” Sasha grabbed her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You’re rich and gorgeous and you get to start over again, do whatever the hell you want. It’s not like divorce, where you’re fighting over sconces and he’s screwing cocktail waitresses to be an ass.”
“What are you doing?” Claire asked. “Since when do you smoke?”
Sasha shrugged. She was holding a burnished gold lighter and a long herringbone cigarette holder with the cigarette attached at the end. She struggled with the light.
“They’re menthols,” Sasha said by way of explanation, teeth clenched around the long stick. “I’m just saying. Embrace your life or you’ll miss it.”
“I didn’t expect this life.”
“Warren Beatty didn’t expect to be a wealthy tycoon in Heaven Can Wait. He wanted to play football.”
“And?”
“And … well, I guess he died, but you’re missing the point. Don’t you get it? Widows are the new virgins, Claire. Men are licking their chops for you right now. They’re all going to want to pop your widow cherry. You have power, and no guilt. Enjoy it! And believe me, you’ll want to keep that shell—or body, whatever—the one you’ve got.”
Claire’s phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. They both studied it and then Sasha picked it up. “Hello, this is Claire.”
“Hello. Mrs. Byrne? This is Carter. Carter Hinckley, from Wanamaker and Sons. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Oh my God, Sasha whispered. It’s the funeral guy.
“No, of course not, Carter. How are you?”
“This is just a courtesy call, Mrs. Byrne. I wanted to remind you we are still holding Mr. Byrne’s remains, divided as you requested. If you’re unable to collect them here, we can deliver them to you and to Grace Byrne, as it says in the instructions.”
Sasha covered the phone and whispered to Claire, again. You haven’t picked up the ashes?
“Yes, actually, Carter, that would be great. Please deliver them. To myself and to Mrs. Byrne as well. I’d appreciate it very much.”
Sasha hung up the phone. “Honey, are you serious? Who would take care of these things if I didn’t come around? You can’t just abandon the remains. Jesus. Does Grace know they’re sitting there in the morgue for all the world to see?”
“The whole world isn’t seeing anything. And no, she doesn’t. I was going to pick them up.”
“And lug them downtown on the subway? No wonder you’ve been odd. That’s karmic suicide, honey. Anyway, they’re coming tomorrow.”
Sasha poured the last of the vodka into two shot glasses. “Here,” she said, handing one to Claire. “It’s infused with bacon. It tastes like breakfast.” Sasha poured herself a second as Claire struggled to choke down her first.
“Honey, don’t get bogged down in this. You have a chanc
e to do whatever you want now. Don’t screw it up. You could have been in a sexless marriage for the next twenty years and wound up hating him. Charlie was a story in your life, but he’s not the story. You’ve got a lot more to do.”
RULE #3: Life is long. Pace yourself.
Sasha put her sunglasses on and gave Claire one last look. “You don’t look so well, sweetie. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”
* * *
AFTER SASHA LEFT, Claire went for a walk. She zigzagged a familiar route and kept her earphones in for distraction. There were piles of newspapers on every corner—the Post, the Daily News, the Times. The circumstances of Charlie’s death, even three weeks out, percolated through all of them. His death was still a mild sensation. Sande the yogi was very photogenic. Charlie’s morning-of-death conquest had chosen to speak out, too. “I Was with Him Before He Died” was the headline that, unfortunately, caught Claire’s eye. She stopped and picked up one of the papers. Below the headline, next to a photo of a twenty-ish blonde (well-endowed enough not to care about hips or waist), was the subhead “Paramour Reveals Details of Charles Byrne’s New Book.”
As far as Claire knew, Charlie hadn’t written a word of a new book. For the first time, it crossed her mind that there was an advance she might have to pay back. The execution of Charlie’s will had been delayed.
She returned the paper to the stack without buying it, dialed Richard and left a message at his office, then turned the corner and threw up her bacon-flavored vodka onto the curb.
7
“This is some fucking situation!” Claire and Ethan were in her apartment. Richard was on the phone; they had him on speaker. It was rare to hear him curse. “I have to read about my client’s book in the Post? Jesus, Ethan, you must have known what he was working on.”
Ethan looked wounded.
“He was always working,” he said. “As far as I know, he hadn’t settled on a particular topic. Did you read the article? There was nothing specific. And she’s a bottle blonde, obviously.” He reached over and patted Claire’s hand. Richard cleared his throat. “You have to admire her for sitting on it until the Giacometti died down—she got a Page Six scoop. I’d say it’s a good career move, except that she just got herself fired.” At that, he sounded a little happier.
“Don’t think about this,” Ethan said, after Richard hung up. “It seems like a lot of drama, but he’s a writer, honey. No one will care for long.”
“I think Richard cares.”
“This is slapstick. A two-bit art scandal, slutty yoga instructor, and a perverted, rich fuck. We should be writing a sitcom.” Ethan walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Need a drink?”
“Except it was my husband,” Claire said, sinking into the couch. “It seems a little less funny.”
“Well, it was an inconvenient death. He wouldn’t have wanted all these loose ends.”
“That’s not true. He never liked a neat story. He would have loved this,” Claire said.
Ethan handed Claire a soda. “Yeah, he would.”
Ethan was tasked with sorting through Charlie’s papers and computer files posthaste. He was to send Richard anything that looked like it might be part of a manuscript and organize the rest for the library at Princeton. Claire was relieved she had a reason to keep him employed.
Ethan had been Claire’s first crush in college. They had lived in the same dorm freshman year and shared a loose set of friends, including Sasha. He had the kind of lopsided smile mothers warned their daughters about—except that they should have been warning their sons. Claire didn’t understand it until a ski trip during winter break. They’d gone in a group that included Tyler Hayes, a scruffy jock from Hayden Hall. On their second night, in the great room of the huge cabin they’d rented, Claire saw the longing looks Ethan shot Tyler’s way and it all became clear. While Claire led Ethan out from the closet that year, it was Sasha who nabbed Tyler Hayes. Ethan moved to Los Angeles after graduation and Claire, of course, met Charlie. They kept in touch, though, and when Ethan was ready to come back to New York, Charlie was looking for a new assistant. Fate? Chance? Well, it was something.
Ethan was perfect. Not only was he a fan, but thanks to his time in L.A., he knew his way around ego; he knew how to flatter his new boss—he caught on fast. He was the only person Claire knew who had read every single thing Charlie wrote; Richard always went to him for pull quotes. Ethan had a savant’s grasp of the cumbersome Byrne opus.
When it came to dating, though, he was slightly less adept. He had a penchant for middle-aged men with stout portfolios. Ethan was trim and fashionable—he had no trouble attracting them—but he bored easily, he was erratic. He had difficulty holding on to any one man. His date at Charlie’s funeral, for instance—an environmental lawyer from Virginia—bolted a week later.
Claire watched Ethan work. He was intent. And muscular and tall, and probably great in bed—
“Oh, God. Ethan?”
“What?” He looked up, startled.
“Never mind. I need some air.”
“Okay, love. Good. I need caffeine.”
On the walk to Starbucks Claire felt a familiar wooziness, like she’d had the day after Charlie’s death, at the funeral home. But somehow between Bedford Street and Waverly she muscled through it. Inside, she stared at the chalkboard menu of swirly letters, overwhelmed.
Ethan ordered an Americano with cream and Claire panicked, like she’d stepped up to the dais in a crowded auditorium without her notes. “Cappuccino,” she said, though not with conviction.
“Wet or dry?” asked the barista. Claire looked back at the chalkboard. Sizes and shots and flavors and fats. There were three different measures, four blonde roasts, eleven dark, and five kinds of milk. There were espressos, Americanos, macchiatos, and half-caff frappes, with foam and without.
She felt the impatience behind her—shifting feet and heavy sighs. Ethan shot her a nervous look. Her stomach began to hurt. She picked up a packet of trail mix and set it on the counter. The barista glared. Claire grabbed Ethan’s arm.
“Hey, sweetie. It’s okay.” He took charge with the barista. “Dry, let’s make it dry.” His calm assurance, his lean body and long limbs, his very certain and solid presence tipped Claire over the edge.
“Why is coffee so fucking complicated?” The barista took a step back.
“It’s okay, honey.” Ethan put a five-dollar bill on the counter and led Claire out of the store. People parted on both sides of them, watching carefully, sensing that a woman might come unhinged right here in front of them, over whether to have wet or dry foam.
* * *
OUTSIDE, CLAIRE SHOOK loose and ran to the curb. She sat down. Immune to the dirty sidewalk and gutter litter, she buried her head in her hands and started to sob. It came out in high-pitched squeaks that she couldn’t control. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Shh, sweetie.” Ethan stooped and sat next to her.
“It feels so long.”
“What does, babe?”
“Life.”
Ethan rubbed her back.
“In the moment it feels short, but it’s really long.” Claire raised her head. Her face wet with tears. “I’m only thirty-two. There are still so many days to fill up.”
“It’s not so bad, Clarabelle.”
She wiped her eyes on his sleeve. “How’s it not so bad?”
“Well, think of it this way. You’ve never really been alone. You got married right out of college, you were so young. Before you could be a sun, you signed on to be a moon.” Ethan treaded carefully. “Charlie’s ideas became your ideas. His opinions became yours … but now you’re steering the boat.”
“Ethan, do you believe in soul mates?”
“I believe in everything. But Charlie was your soul mate the way Bennett from Mamaroneck was your soul mate, and the guy from Gallatin, the music studies major, was your soul mate.”
“Gerard,” Claire whispered.
“
Right, Gerry. You were convinced you’d been married to him in a past life,” Ethan said.
“Maybe I’m poly–soul mate.”
“We all are, honey,” Ethan said, and he stroked her hair. “Derek Jeter is my soul mate. One of them.”
“The baseball player? You know him?”
“No. But if we met I bet we’d be soul mates.” This got a smile from Claire. They sat like this for an hour, Claire with her head on his shoulder, letting the Seventh Avenue din lull her calm again. And when she didn’t feel like crying anymore, and her body ached from sitting, they got up and walked home.
* * *
CARTER HINCKLEY WAS waiting for them in the foyer, holding Charlie in the etched bronze urn. “Hi. I’m so sorry, Carter. I forgot.” Claire looked from Carter to Ethan. No one spoke. Ethan looked from Claire to Carter, then back to Claire. Ethan took the urn and broke the silence. “Well, you know what they say, a widow without ashes is like a cowboy without a hat.” Carter didn’t laugh. Claire looked horrified. “Call me if you need anything, Mrs. Byrne. Have a good night.” Carter nodded then left.
Ethan carried Charlie inside and sat him on the coffee table, then poured out two long shots of Maker’s Mark. Claire was not a bourbon drinker; this was a ritual Ethan had shared with Charlie. But she was grateful when he handed her the glass. Here they were, the three of them again. “You didn’t tell me Charlie was coming home today.”
“Funny, Ethan,” Claire said. “I can’t live like this.”
“Honey, your problem’s just structure,” Ethan said.
“Structure?”
“Yep. You need a story arc. You need signs of climax, somewhere, even just the hint of a climb. You need a journey. You need acts.”
“I skipped past journey to catastrophe.” Claire sipped her Maker’s Mark.
The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating Page 5