B007Q6XN82 EBOK

by Hood, Ann

  “Wins what?” Connie said, frowning.

  “It’s silly but the winner gets a little party with daiquiris and tea sandwiches and her favorite dessert. Like queen for the day.” Dot had even made a tiara out of cardboard, spray painting it gold and covering it in glitter.

  “So what color did you pick?”

  “Pink,” Claire said.

  Connie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “She won’t wear pink,” she said.

  “Well, I think she will. With her dark hair, she’d look beautiful in pink.”

  “I think she’s homely,” Connie said. “Too horsey.”

  Claire couldn’t think what to say. Jackie Kennedy homely? No one thought that. She was beautiful and stylish and sophisticated. Everyone Claire knew wanted to be just like Jackie. Dot and Roberta and Trudy had all gotten their hair cut like Jackie’s. Trudy read in Time magazine that Jackie spoke fluent French, and she went to the library and got French tapes so that she could learn too. She peppered her conversation with French phrases, and ended her sentences by saying, “n’est-ce pas?”

  “Her jaw,” Connie was saying, “is too big.” Connie jutted her own jaw and lower teeth forward to demonstrate. Laughing, she poured herself more scotch, and topped off Claire’s glass too. “She’s from here, you know.”

  “Well,” Claire said, “Newport.”

  Connie rolled her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “That’s still Rhode Island. Her father, what do they call him? Black Jack or something? He’s a drunk and a gambler and a womanizer. It’s true.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Claire said.

  “I don’t like womanizers,” Connie said. “Thou shalt not commit adultery, right?”

  Again Claire got the feeling that Connie knew. She fussed with the buttons that ran down the front of her nightgown, avoiding Connie.

  “I told Jimmy if I ever caught him with another woman, I’d cut his balls off.”

  Claire looked up.

  “I would too,” Connie said evenly.

  “I don’t think we can say what we would do in hypothetical situations,” Claire said. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. “We just don’t know until it happens.”

  Saying this, she thought of the look on Peter’s face that day. She had opened her eyes and caught sight of Peter over her lover’s shoulder. He was on top of her and they were naked and Peter stood in the doorway of Kathy’s room looking surprised, as if he could not make the details add up.

  “Really?” Connie said. “Maybe you don’t know what you’d do, hypothetically, but I would cut his balls off.”

  “Well,” Claire said.

  “Did you ever meet Angie Fiori?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “Lived down the street. Pete knows her. We all went to high school together. Anyway, you’re not going to believe this, but she was doing her brother-in-law.”

  “Really,” Claire said, putting her hand up to stop Connie, “I don’t want to hear this.”

  Connie’s thin eyebrows lifted. “Her husband beat the crap out of his brother, but I think he should have thrown her out. I mean—”

  “I have to try to get some sleep,” Claire said, standing up. The scotch had made her dizzy, and she held on to the table for support.

  Connie narrowed her eyes.

  “How did we ever get on this topic anyway?” Claire said, forcing a chuckle.

  “Jackie,” Connie said.

  “Right.” Claire waited for Connie to stand too, to go back downstairs. But she just sat there, waiting. “Will you watch tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Connie said. She brightened. “Tell you what. If she wears red, I’ll cook you dinner, and if she wears pink, you can cook me dinner.”

  “Great,” Claire said, even though that was a silly idea. Her mother-in-law was probably dying; how could she cook dinner for Connie?

  “What would you cook? If you won,” Connie said, still not making a move to leave.

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “Probably coq au vin.”

  “Cocoa what?”

  “Chicken. In wine sauce. It’s my specialty, kind of.”

  “Huh,” Connie said. “Okay. I’ll make you spaghetti and meatballs. I make the best meatballs. Ask Jimmy.”

  “I really need to go to bed,” Claire said. “I’m sorry.”

  Connie looked surprised. “Sorry? Sorry for what?”

  She shrugged and said, “For going to bed, I guess.”

  The first time she saw Miles was at Trudy’s on a Saturday night in May. It was the Saturday right after Dougie Daniels disappeared. Claire and Peter arrived late.

  “Babysitter,” Peter had explained.

  “Regina Knightly,” Claire said, which was enough for all the women to nod.

  “Enough said,” Trudy said, offering a tray of hors d’ouevres.

  Regina Knightly was always late, and slow-moving, the last-resort babysitter in the neighborhood. When Cheryl Merckel babysat, she taught the kids her high school cheers, right down to the cartwheels. Beth Piper did elaborate art projects. Diane Carrington wrote plays for them to perform. But Regina Knightly just ate the leftovers and left the dirty dishes in the sink. The women suspected that she rifled through their dresser drawers, spritzed on their perfume, even stole their husbands’ condoms. But no one could ever prove any of this.

  Peter immediately gravitated toward the men, who stood in a smoky corner arguing about whether Nixon would make a good president.

  When the doorbell rang, Claire was relieved. Someone was actually arriving even later.

  “Can you get that?” Trudy asked Claire. She was filling another tray with celery stuffed with cream cheese. The way Trudy made those, she always put half an olive on some, some tomato on the others, alternating them neatly. “It’s my spare,” she added.

  “Spare?”

  “I needed a fourth guy, to even things out.” Trudy tilted her chin in the direction of her husband’s sister Polly, who had been widowed recently. Polly had to be invited to every event at Trudy’s, leaving Trudy to always be on the lookout for single men. “He’s married,” Trudy said, “but I was desperate. His wife is in the hospital.”

  Claire laughed as she headed to the front door. “I hope she didn’t just have a baby.”

  “No. Something silly, like getting her tonsils out. He works with Dick.”

  Claire walked through the dining room, already set with Trudy’s china. The pattern was ornate, a busy cluster of pink flowers in various shapes and shades and the plates themselves scalloped along the edges. The water and wine glasses were pink too. Peter would never have let her choose pink china and crystal. But they did catch the candlelight beautifully.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  “Claire!” Trudy called. “Did you get lost?”

  In the front foyer, a large orange tree bloomed from a golden urn. How did Trudy keep that thing producing oranges, Claire wondered.

  She pulled open the heavy front door.

  A man peeked at her from behind an enormous bouquet of flowers.

  “Trudy?” he asked.

  “No, I’m just a neighbor. Trudy is serving the hors d’oeuvres.”

  They stood awkwardly for a moment, until Claire realized she should take the flowers from him and let him inside.

  Weeks later, after she’d walked into Kennedy headquarters and took the seat next to him at a bank of telephones, he would tell her that in that awkward moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. I knew I was in trouble, he whispered to her. He’d said, The neighbor, as she sat down. Claire remembered how he’d listened that night at Trudy’s, the way he cocked his head when she told the story about being stuck in Madrid during a rainstorm when she worked for TWA. The story was a funny one, good for a dinner party what with its matador and flooded hotel lobby and tapas. But it wasn’t that interesting. Yet he’d listened to her as if every detail mattered, and met her gaze and held it just a moment too long. She remembered that dinner had been roast beef, an
d about his wife’s appendicitis—it wasn’t tonsils, after all—and Polly’s gruesome description of her husband’s slow death. Dessert was chocolate soufflé.

  At some point during that first night at Kennedy headquarters, Miles leaned close to her and said, It’s happening again. I can’t catch my breath. Claire had ignored him, but her heart was doing funny things. She could practically hear it pumping her blood and sending it through her veins. In fact, she was getting light-headed. Air, she thought. Fresh air.

  It was July, and hot. Claire lit a cigarette and took a deep inhale. She smoked Newports, and they tasted almost minty. The air seemed not to move at all. Rather, it hung heavy and wet, sending sweat trickling down Claire’s ribs. She held her light cotton sleeveless blouse out, away from her body, and fanned it, though that did not bring relief.

  “Claire.”

  She turned toward him. He wore a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The lamplight cast a pale blue glow over everything.

  “The old era is ending,” he said. “The old ways will not do.”

  “I’m not going to do this,” she said, maybe knowing even then what this was.

  “We can have faith in the future only if we have faith in ourselves,” he said, moving closer to her.

  “Have you memorized the whole speech?” she said. She could smell her own sweat, and his too, a male musk beneath a layer of lime.

  “I have,” he said. “But I didn’t realize it would relate to me so personally. My old ways. My faith in the future.”

  Now he stood only inches away from her. A thin line of sweat moved down his cheek.

  ‘You don’t even know me,” she said.

  “Tell me who you are then,” he said in a low voice.

  “I don’t do things like this,” she said, laughing softly.

  “Neither do I,” he said.

  “I’m married,” she said.

  “I know. I met him. Tall handsome guy who doesn’t appreciate you.”

  Claire shivered despite the heat.

  “He does,” she said, because a wife always defends her husband. But did Peter appreciate her? Did he even really notice her?

  “I’m guessing he married a beautiful woman who would give him beautiful children and keep a beautiful house,” he said, cocking his head. “He just plugged you into his plan.”

  “You’re fresh,” Claire said, starting to walk away.

  But he grabbed her arm to stop her.

  “I see you,” he said softly. “I see something in you.”

  “I can’t parallel-park,” Claire told him, unsettled by what he’d said.

  “I’ll teach you,” he said. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll learn fast.”

  He thought she was smart? A fast learner? She shook away the image of Peter smiling at her as if she were a child. Don’t even think about that, he always said, it’s too complicated. Or: Don’t worry your pretty little head. About bills or hurricanes or politics or anything at all.

  “I’m not a very good cook,” Claire continued. “But I try Craig Claiborne’s recipe every week. Sometimes it comes out right.”

  “I make a mean chili,” he said. “That and a Craig Claiborne from time to time. The other nights we’ll eat out.”

  “You’re out of line,” she said unconvincingly.

  “What else?” he asked her.

  “I don’t like The Red Skelton Show. I don’t think he’s funny.”

  “He’s not funny,” he said. “Lenny Bruce is funny.”

  Claire smiled. “Lenny Bruce is funny,” she said, thinking of how Peter couldn’t stand Lenny Bruce. Too crass, he said.

  He stood so close to her that she could smell the coffee on his breath.

  “I’m a Hoosier,” she said. “I was an air hostess for TWA.”

  “Tell me something that matters.”

  “My birthday is in June,” Claire said. The lights of an Esso station across the street blinked off. “That makes me a Gemini. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I think I’m a Libra,” he said. “September 28?”

  “I think that is a Libra,” she said.

  “Are we compatible?” he asked. “Libra and Gemini?”

  Claire laughed nervously. “I’m married,” she said again, wondering which of them she was reminding.

  “Do you know what’s strange?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her to answer. “I love my wife. I do. But there’s something here.” He waved his hand between them. “I want to stand out here and talk to you all night. I want to, I don’t know. I want to get to know you.”

  Claire wondered about his wife. Was she pretty? What did she do if they didn’t have children? What did women without children do all day? Did she work?

  “I’ve always been faithful to my wife,” he said quietly. He took her hand then. He pulled her close.

  “Tell me more,” he said.

  “There was this boy in our neighborhood,” Claire began. “Dougie Daniels.”

  He paused. He looked at her in a way that no one had ever looked at her before. Like he was actually seeing her.

  “He disappeared. I was in the backyard and the neighborhood boys walked by.” She paused, trying to think of how to explain what had happened that day. “He was an ordinary boy,” she said finally.

  “That was when you knew,” he said, his gaze still on her.

  “Knew?”

  “That no one is safe,” he said.

  “You’ll leave him, of course,” he said after the first time they made love.

  That was the next week, on an August night so still and hot that the air felt like gauze around them. They were in the parking lot, in his car. Everyone else had gone.

  Claire couldn’t think of what to say. Women didn’t leave their husbands. That wasn’t the way it worked. Sometimes a man walked out. He left his wife for his secretary, or an air hostess. Or he lost all his money and went West to look for new opportunities. But women, they stayed.

  “I wish I’d met you first,” she whispered.

  Claire had walked in her house, her legs still trembling. The TV was on. Red Skelton. Peter was laughing.

  “How was it?” he asked without looking up when she came in the den.

  “Good,” she managed to say.

  Her eyes moved around the room, taking in all of the things that had once been familiar: the green and gold plaid wallpaper, the curtains that matched perfectly. The Zenith with the rabbit ears on top. The TV trays, metal with scenes of the Old West on them, wagon trains and buffalos. She knew all these things. She did. She’d chosen them. She’d hung the painting above the couch, an oil of orange and gold mums blossoming against a white fence. She’d selected the fabric on the sofa, a soft green tweed flecked with gold and gray. She knew these things, yet nothing looked the same.

  Peter finally glanced up at her.

  “Can you grab me another one of these?” he said, holding up a bottle of Budweiser.

  Claire nodded, but didn’t move. Who was this man? Who was this woman? What were they doing here together on this hot summer night, in this room with the suffocating plaid?

  “Claire?” he said.

  She nodded again, and walked to the kitchen on her shaky legs. She didn’t turn on the light. She just stood there in the darkness, inhaling the smell of the spaghetti sauce she’d made for dinner, and of her own Newports, and of another man on her skin.

  “Have we the nerve and the will?” Claire said softly. “Can we carry through in an age where we will witness not only new breakthroughs in weapons of destruction, but also a race for mastery of the sky and the rain, the ocean and the tides, the far side of space and the inside of men’s minds?”

  She took a deep breath. She hadn’t told him, but she had memorized Kennedy’s acceptance speech too.

  Claire did not know how long she’d slept before she felt the weight of Peter sitting on the bed beside her. She opened her eyes.

  “You were dreaming,” he said.


  “Of JFK,” Claire said.

  He studied her face.

  “Is she . . . ?”

  Peter shook his head. “Hanging in there. She’s medicated, but they said since she pulled through the night, they might be able to ease up on the drugs, so we can talk to her.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Six. Connie’s here. She’ll take Kathy.”

  Claire’s head felt thick and cloudy. All that scotch. She ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles.

  She was aware of her sour breath and thick tongue. Her mind drifted to the Kennedys. What were they doing right now? She imagined Jackie in a negligee of French silk. Maybe white. Or ivory. Lace at the throat.

  “She doesn’t even look sick,” Peter was saying. “Just still. Asleep.”

  Something sour rose in Claire’s throat, reminding her that she was pregnant. She swallowed hard, aware now of her heavy breasts. Instinctively, her hand cradled her stomach.

  Peter smiled. “How’s that little guy?” he said.

  “Not so little,” Claire said.

  In Washington, D.C., at this very moment, bunting was being hung. American flags were being raised. A path to the White House was getting cleared.

  “I know what I’m sorry for,” Claire said, holding his gaze. “I’m sorry I was with another man.”

  Her husband’s face clouded. The muscles in his arm tightened. For a crazy moment she thought he might hit her.

  “I say I’m sorry all the time because I want you to forgive me,” Claire said.

  Peter didn’t hesitate. “I can’t,” he said. “How could I?”

  “Never?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Claire.”

  “Never is a very long time,” Claire said as if she could see the endless years of his anger unfolding right there before her.

  “Hello?” Connie called from downstairs.

  “Okay,” Peter called back to her.

  He looked at Claire.

  “We need to go,” he said.

  She watched him put on a fresh shirt, rebuckle his belt. She thought about what she was most sorry about: that she’d been caught. If that water main hadn’t broken, if Peter hadn’t come home that day, everything would be different.