It was as if she had extrasensory perception and knew just what I needed. My fingers felt the unmistakable outline of the contents of the envelope.
“Take this money as a token of my gratitude and use it well. I know you will,” she said.
“Victoria… you don’t know what this means to me. I can’t thank you enough for this… for everything.” My voice was thick with emotion, and I felt drained from my outburst, but I also felt something else: hope. I leaned forward impulsively and kissed her on the cheek, and she embraced me briefly, then drew back.
“Now, now, that’s enough,” she said. “It’s time for you to go pick up Rose, isn’t it? Be careful, and Merry Christmas!”
We said goodbye at the door and hugged briefly again, and each of us called out, “See you soon!” I wondered if we would.
I got into the car and opened the envelope. Riffling through the bills as quickly as a bank teller, I gasped: Victoria Langley had given me twenty thousand dollars.
The gift was electrifying; my head was spinning. I felt for a moment like a bank robber who cavalierly takes time in the getaway car to count the loot. But no one was after me. Cars cruised by, and pedestrians strolled past. I even saw two policemen chatting idly on a corner. I put the envelope in my purse and drove home.
Over the next two days, I took the time to get thoroughly organized. I planned to leave on Thursday before New Year’s Eve, which was Saturday night. The gift was far more generous than I ever could have imagined, and now I had a much larger cushion than I’d planned on having. I put the envelope in the bookcase behind the last volume of the History of World Art and felt around the books and inside their covers to make sure the rest of the money was still there. The name of the last volume seemed fitting – Modern and Contemporary – for I was getting away from an old-fashioned, artificial life that was no longer mine and heading off into what was new, hopeful – now.
I drove to South Station in Boston and bought two one-way tickets to San Francisco. The ticket agent said it was a four-day trip. I booked a bedroom in a sleeping car so Rose and I would have privacy and our own bathroom. I handed over sixteen hundred dollars in cash and he handed me the tickets and said, “Thursday morning, eleven fifty-five.”
“Thank you!”
The train would take us to Chicago, where we would board the California Zephyr to San Francisco. I perused the brochure that described the trip, scanning its colorful accordion pages: the Zephyr to the West Coast was one of the world’s great train routes, crossing vast Midwestern farmlands, then the Rockies, and on through the Sierra Nevada mountains. I’d heard how beautiful this ride was but had never traveled cross-country before, and this would be Rose’s and my first trip together alone. As I read, a part of my brain had begun to click over from desperate wife to curious tourist.
I stopped in at a travel agency on the next block and inquired about rental car rates. The drive from San Francisco to Carmel was approximately two hours. The agent showed me a cozy-looking bed and breakfast called the Seaside Inn right in town that she said she’d gotten good feedback on. Did I want to reserve? I did – I was eager to sign, to pay, to take. We could stay at the Seaside Inn until I found an apartment. On the way home, I threw all the pamphlets away so I wouldn’t accidentally leave one lying around. I hid the tickets with the money.
Rose asked to spend Wednesday night with my mother. Perfect. I’d pick her up Thursday morning around ten, and then, on the way to the train station, I’d tell her that we were going on a special adventure; that we were going to be like pioneers going across the country to find a new life.
I knew I would have to be careful not to say a word to anyone before I got out to California – not even Gillian. Eventually, when I was settled and able to let a few people quietly know where I had gone, I would telephone Victoria, who had really made my escape possible. Gillian would be upset that I hadn’t told her, of course, but she’d be happy that I’d left Claude. But maybe I should tell Gillian now? Shouldn’t I ask her to take me to the station? Surely a taxi ride would mean a record of some kind.
Claude would be at work – good. The other night he’d said he was booked solid because of the holiday season, so he wouldn’t even realize until he came home – probably not till seven or so – that Rose and I were gone, and by then we’d be halfway to Chicago.
*
The next day, I called Gillian. I was eager to tell her my plans, but as I started to, she cut me off.
“Katie, how much do you know about Claude’s life in France?”
“His life? Well, he’s Parisian… I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“What were his parents’ names?”
Her subdued tone sent a chill through me, cooling my excitement.
“Let me think… He hasn’t mentioned them in ages. Let’s see, they were Alain and – Colette? No, Colombe. Alain and Colombe Giraud. Why?”
“Right. And they died in a plane crash? While Claude was in medical school?”
“That’s right.”
“Katie, that didn’t happen.”
“What… I’m sorry, what?”
“They’re not dead.”
“What?”
“Alain and Colombe Giraud no longer live in France, but they’re alive. They live in Switzerland. She has dual citizenship. He is a retired small-businessman – minerals or some kind of earth products business. He had a little manufactory in Paris, and it was his wife’s money, apparently, that made it possible for—”
“Gillian, stop! Whoa. Claude’s father was a diplomat. They were flying in Africa somewhere when their plane crashed.”
“No, Katie. It’s unlikely they were ever in Africa.”
“What are you saying! How do you know anything about this?”
“Cooper. After the dinner with you guys, he was curious, and kind of worried for you, too. Because while we were in the ladies’ room, and he had to sit there while Claude got drunk, he tried to get Claude to talk about himself and his family, but Claude just clammed up, and that seemed weird. So he did some checking. They’re about the same age, after all. It so happened a classmate of Cooper’s at Sainte-Anne knew Claude a little, went to school with him at the Sorbonne. Cooper got in touch with the man and got the story. The classmate said that Claude went through the final year at the Sorbonne free – well, they arranged a hardship scholarship or something – after his father’s business collapsed and he couldn’t pay. The business failure was the only ‘crash’ that occurred. They live on a pension.”
“But Claude told me they died.” My head was spinning. I remembered our dinner, the spilled wine, the food sampling and Claude’s feeding me like the child he always thought I was, that I let him think I was, and his tears when he told me about his parents’ death. He cried. And now this?
“I don’t believe it.”
“Katie, listen to me. Cooper followed up. No French diplomats died in a plane crash in Africa. Alain Giraud and his wife are alive. Claude lied to you. I don’t know what else he’s lied about, but you need to get out of there, the sooner the better.”
I took a breath and shoved my brain back into gear. “Yes. Yes, okay, I was going to tell you just now. Rose and I are leaving tomorrow…”
When I’d finished laying out the plan, Gillian said, “Okay – great. I’ll do anything to help. Anything to get you away. So, yes, I’ll be there!”
After I hung up, I forced myself to sit quietly and think about what Gillian had told me. I didn’t feel afraid, exactly, but the information about Claude’s parents opened a new space in my head – a dreadful one. Was there more? Or was the final truth about our relationship simply that I’d never known Claude at all? The idea, chilling though it was, felt freeing: now I could leave with no reservations whatsoever.
And now I had to get moving.
I went to the dry-cleaners to pick up Claude’s shirts, and then to the butcher to pay the bill for the last time, and as he wiped his hands on his long apron he smiled and remar
ked that I sounded happy today, which surprised me. Was I? I guess I was. I wasn’t exactly giddy, but in less than twenty-four hours, Rose and I would be free. I needed to keep focused; celebrations would come later.
At the drugstore, I bought travel-size toothpaste, mouthwash and shampoo, and then in the grocery store I picked up a bag of Rose’s favorite snack: cheddar-flavored Goldfish. Back home I stashed my purchases in the back of my clothes closet.
Claude had asked me to make a cheese soufflé with a green salad for dinner that night because he wanted something light after all the heavy holiday meals. I worked carefully on it, knowing it was the last dinner I would ever cook for him. I was on a high, thinking about all the lasts I was putting behind me, and while I prepared dinner, I couldn’t help humming the Cole Porter tune Don’t Fence Me In, which made me think of Victoria Langley and her Hollywood parties – and her generosity.
When we sat down to eat, Claude reminded me that we were bringing in the New Year with the Nantucket group at Bob’s downtown club. “It’s black tie, so wear your red taffeta. I love that on you. It’s so festive.”
“I would, darling, but it got torn, remember?”
“No.” He glanced up and smiled. “Well, then, whatever you want to wear.”
“Of course,” I said, just the way I’d always said it in the past, knowing I wouldn’t be there on New Year’s Eve with Mitzi and William and Anne and Bob and Jane and Richard – all of them. I was simmering with excitement because soon I’d be alone and safe with Rose. I was itchy with impatience as I sat watching Claude consume forkfuls of my steaming soufflé.
“It’s a bit dry,” he said. “I suppose that’s why you’re not eating. Don’t overcook it next time.”
“I’m sorry it’s not exactly the way you like it,” I said. “I’ll take your advice and cook it less. You’re always right about food.”
“You’re very accommodating tonight,” he said, dropping his napkin on the table. “It’s a nice change.”
After putting his coffee in front of him, I cleared the table and asked if there was anything else he wanted.
“No, I have work to do. I’ll be in my study.”
“I’m pretty tired, Claude; if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”
“Fine.”
This was the third night since I’d crawled under the piano, and in spite of my suddenly restored spirit, my body was still on the mend. I was paranoid and afraid I might talk in my sleep, and still spooked by Gillian’s disclosures, I stayed awake with my eyes closed, thinking about what the next day would bring. Claude slipped into bed several hours later.
The next morning, I fixed him his croissant and espresso, handed him his attaché case and watched him walk down the front steps.
I wasn’t sure where to start. By eight thirty I’d had a shower and finished dressing and was pulling two Louis Vuitton carry-ons from the front hall closet. I was leaving the world of expensive bags, brand names, best labels, and top tiers; everything I bought from here on in would be economical and utilitarian. My life with Rose would be simple, clean, small. I ran back upstairs and dumped the bags on top of the unmade bed. I felt like even my movements were economical.
We needed to travel light, so the LV bags, along with a backpack each, would be it. With the new climate we’d be living in – California! – we wouldn’t need heavy winter clothes. As I folded my tee shirts and jeans my mind ran in the sunlight with Rose by my side – free! I used my socks and underwear to cushion my jewelry and toiletries, and started discarding items I didn’t really need. I had more than enough money, and besides, I thought as I tossed aside the designer top I’d been staring at for half a minute, I was separating. My new life wouldn’t be a round of parties or garden club lunches or dinners; it would be quiet and healing, and I wouldn’t care what I wore, and didn’t even want anyone having an opinion about how I looked, or where I had bought a dress, or who had done my hair. I was finished with the superficial world of appearances.
In Rose’s room, I packed her stuffed monkey, Gigi, along with Goodnight Moon and a few of the Peter Rabbit books, a week’s worth of play clothes, and a couple of pairs of sneakers – and a bag of Goldfish. I squeezed the toys and Goldfish in on top of the clothes and zipped the bag.
I took Rose’s bag downstairs and left it by the front door, and then went into the living room to get the money. This was the moment of moments, in which everything I’d saved and had been given could be collected and put to use. I picked out all the envelopes and little bags that I had collected and put them all inside a larger bag and carried it back up to the bedroom.
The bedside clock read nine fifteen, and I was almost finished. I put my stash in between the layers of clothes. I had just put the tickets and one of the envelopes of cash in my backpack when the phone rang. I didn’t want to answer, but I had to. It was a normal day, right? It could have been my mother, or Gillian. I picked up.
“Hi, Katie, it’s Sally.”
“Hey, Sal.”
“That was some party you gave the other night. I really had fun. We all did.”
“Oh, thanks, Sally.”
“Listen, sorry to bother you,” she said, “but is Dr. Giraud there, by any chance?”
“What? No, he left early this morning for the office.”
“Well, that’s the funny thing. He hasn’t shown up yet. The patient is prepped and everyone’s waiting. I thought I’d take a chance and call you to see if he hadn’t left yet or if he’d stopped back home for some reason.”
“No, he hasn’t been here,” I said – and a cold feeling rushed over me.
“Oh, well, he’ll show up soon, I’m sure,” Sally said. “I’ll tell them to keep waiting. Have a good day.”
I put the phone down. Turning around, I saw him in the doorway.
13
All I could do was act surprised.
“What are you doing here, Claude?” I asked. “That was Sally calling; they’re waiting for you at the hospital.”
“They can wait. I have time,” he said. He stood leaning against the doorframe, casual as anything in his shirt and tie and jacket. Then he came into the room, picked up the phone, and yanked the cord out of the wall so violently that the wall plate flew across the room, spitting screws.
“What are you doing?” I cried, slipping past him to the other side of the bed.
“What am I doing? What are you doing? What’s all this?” he said, gesturing toward the carry-on, the backpack, the bag of money and the tickets, all spread out on the bed like a TV-drama cache of evidence. “And there’s another bag down by the front door. Are we all going somewhere? A surprise family vacation? You know my schedule won’t allow for that right now.”
I didn’t answer; I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to.
“No,” he said. “This is no vacation, except perhaps for you. I think you feel you are owed a vacation from your marriage. A permanent one – is that it?”
I said weakly, “It’s not what you think.”
“How do you know what I think?”
“Well, of course I don’t.”
“Be quiet then. I don’t want to hear another word from you.” He held his arms out in a gesture of incomprehension. “I can’t imagine what possessed you to think that you could get away with this. Why would you want to? Haven’t I been good to you, Katie? Haven’t I given you everything you’ve ever wanted, even more than your father did? Oh, he’s the saint, though, isn’t he? The brilliant Dr. Callahan, working on his charity-case faces mangled from birth defects or the random accidents of everyday life or disease. Jack-be-nimble thinks he’s so much more noble than I am, so much better. He thinks that restoring a formerly beautiful woman’s beauty as she ages is just a worthless activity. He has no idea of how important my work is!”
As he spoke, he slowly wound the telephone cord around his hand, and I knew he was going to use it on me. I had been moments from getting away, and he was here again, and this was the end.
So fuck it.
“My father doesn’t think that. He admires you,” I said.
“Oh, really, and what about you? Do you admire me, too?”
His eyes gleamed with a shine that I’d once associated with love.
“I used to,” I said. “Back when I thought I knew you. You were so… good to me. The brilliant doctor. The charming lover. The poor orphan boy. And now, what about that? What about your parents, Claude? Did they admire you? Did they weep when you went off to college? Did you weep when your father went bankrupt? Did they ever think much of you? What do they think of you now? But I guess you haven’t really kept in touch, have you?”
Claude’s color rose and his face slowly became inflamed. He twisted the phone cord in his hands.
“You should be very, very careful, you know, saying these lies. The truth would answer best,” he said. “My parents are dead.”
“They’re alive, Claude.”
He shook his head vigorously. “No.”
“Jesus, you actually believe they’re dead, don’t you?”
“They are dead!” he shouted. “They failed me! Just like you did, with your playacting and your deceptions, giving me a baby I didn’t want! They are dead!”
The veins stood out on his neck, and he sprayed saliva when he shouted.
“And you know what put me onto you? You were so happy over the past day or so. I asked myself, Why is she so happy? Nothing had changed here at home; there was nothing new, like a fur coat or a diamond ring, to put that smile on your face. After Christmas night, I would have thought you’d be penitent, having learned a lesson, and would seriously consider how to improve yourself. But instead, you know what you did? You hummed.” He snapped the cord.
“I am not lying, Claude. I—”
“Quiet,” he warned. “Just be quiet and listen for once. I said to myself, Something’s going on with my little girl. Maybe it’s another man who’s making her smile. So I decided to find out, and I came back in quietly, and you were in the shower. I thought maybe you had your trysts right here in my house when you thought you were all alone. That while I was out earning a living and paying for all your baubles and excesses and babies, you were in here spreading your legs for someone – maybe even that pathetic boy from the tennis club.”
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