B007Q6XN82 EBOK

by Hood, Ann

  “It’s inauguration day,” Claire said softly as she perched on the edge of the bed. She wondered if her mother-in-law could hear her. “Jack Kennedy is going to be our next president,” she continued.

  She glanced up at her husband, who was standing by the window gazing out.

  “She was so happy he won. Called me up and said that everything would be fine now,” Peter said. “Lifelong Democrat. They both were.”

  It took Claire a moment to realize he meant his parents were both Democrats. He rarely talked about his father, who had died when he was twelve. He’d worked as a foreman in a textile mill and died in an accident involving machinery there. Although Claire didn’t know the details, Peter had alluded to how horrendous a death it had been.

  She turned her attention back to her mother-in-law. “They say he’s wearing a morning suit,” Claire said. “Striped trousers, white jacket, silk top hat—”

  Behind her, Peter chuckled. “This is what you tell a dying woman?” he asked.

  “Well,” Claire said, “it’s what I’d want to know.”

  A candy striper with a blond ponytail wheeled a cart stacked with magazines, newspapers, cigarettes, and candy bars into the room.

  “Grab a newspaper, would you?” Peter said.

  The girl held out a Providence Morning Journal to Claire.

  “Does she have a Globe?” Peter asked.

  Embarrassed that he didn’t address the girl directly, Claire looked through the papers herself.

  “Here’s one,” she said, plucking a Boston Globe from the pile.

  On the front page Jackie, dressed in a pearl white satin gown, smiled out at her.

  “To think she had a baby just eight weeks ago,” Claire said, admiring Jackie’s waistline.

  “Next thing I know, Clairezy,” Peter said, “you’re going to insist we name the baby Jackie.”

  Claire skimmed the article about the celebration the night before, how they’d attended a classical concert by the National Symphony at Constitution Hall, and then drove past the Washington Monument, past bonfires and snow-removal workers with flamethrowers, until they reached the armory itself. She wondered what the concert had been. Something traditional, like Mozart? Or contemporary, like maybe Aaron Copeland? Why didn’t the paper give the details? In a couple of hours they could tune into Dave Garroway and maybe see some footage from last night, if there was a television set somewhere.

  “It says that Ethel Merman went right up to Jack Kennedy and sang, ‘You’ll be swell! You’ll be great! Gonna have the whole world on the plate!’ Isn’t that marvelous?”

  The list of performers included just about everybody famous: Nat King Cole, Gene Kelly, Harry Belafonte. Claire tried to imagine what it must have been like to be there.

  “The party went until one-thirty this morning,” she read out loud. “And Frank Sinatra sang, ‘that old Jack magic,’ instead of black magic—”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Peter said. “The old bird is interested in all this.”

  Claire looked up from the paper and saw that the tiniest smile had appeared on her mother-in-law’s lips. She took her mother-in-law’s hand in her own. It felt small and fragile and dry.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Claire said, leaning closer to the old woman.

  It appeared to Claire that she gave the slightest nod.

  “Did you see that?” Claire said, not taking her eyes from her mother-in-law’s face. “Did you see her nod?”

  “I’m not sure,” Peter said.

  “Isn’t it exciting, Birdy?” Claire asked again.

  She and Peter waited, afraid to breathe too loudly. But nothing more came.

  Peter touched Claire’s arm. “You can bring the dead back, Clairezy,” he said softly.

  Dr. Spirito appeared in the doorway, rumpled and yawning. Behind him, Bridget held a stack of folders.

  Without having to be asked, Bridget opened the top folder and handed it to Dr. Spirito. He scanned it, yawning again.

  “I’m surprised she made it through the night,” he said quietly.

  He closed the folder and strode into the room, stethoscope swinging. He listened closely, sighed.

  “She has such nice color in her cheeks,” Claire said hopefully.

  “You know what I see time and again?” Dr. Spirito said. “They hover like this, one foot in the here and now and one already moving into the next world, and all of a sudden they sit up and demand ice cream or something. Reminisce. Crack jokes. Seem to be back. Like they have one last gasp of life in them, you know?”

  Bridget nodded as he spoke. “I see that every day.”

  Peter and Claire studied his mother. She did not seem about to sit up and demand ice cream.

  Dr. Spirito made some notes in the file, then snapped the folder shut and handed it back to Bridget.

  “She’s comfortable,” he said, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “She’s not suffering at least.”

  “So we just wait?” Peter asked.

  “You just wait,” the doctor said.

  “Doctor?” Claire said, stopping him before he walked out. “I think she can hear us. I think—”

  “Doubtful,” the doctor said. “She’s somewhere far away, dear.”

  Claire thought she heard her mother-in-law sigh. She turned, half expecting to find the old woman shaking her head at this. But of course not, Claire thought as she watched the even rise and fall of her mother-in-law’s chest.

  “I’m going to find us some coffee,” Claire said when the big hand on the clock on the wall clicked noisily onto the twelve. Seven o’clock.

  “Good idea,” Peter said from behind the open Globe.

  Jackie in her pearl white satin dress smiled out at Claire. Right now, she was getting dressed for the inauguration, Claire thought. They would go first to Holy Trinity Church for mass, then on to coffee with the Eisenhowers at the White House. Claire sighed in frustration. Dot was probably already awake, setting up for the party. Claire could imagine her ironing her white napkins with blue-striped edges, polishing her coffee service pieces.

  “Maybe you can rustle up some Danish too?” Peter asked.

  “I’ll try.” Claire grabbed her lipstick from her purse and stood at the small mirror above the sink, carefully applying it. She saw Peter watching her and expected a rebuke. Why put on lipstick to go to the cafeteria? Instead, she saw him smile.

  “You look nice, Clairezy,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, twisting her hair into a chignon. “It’s so funny,” she continued, “Rose keeps popping into my mind.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about her in ages. Married a pilot, right?”

  “Yes,” Claire said. She sprayed a little Shalimar on her wrists, then turned from the mirror. “Remember their wedding out on Long Island? They danced their first dance to ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ remember?”

  But he didn’t seem to be listening. “You sure you’re just going for coffee?” he asked.

  Even though he was still smiling, Claire looked away from him. A warm flush ran up her neck and cheeks.

  “And Danish,” she managed to say before she walked to the door.

  “Claire?”

  She paused.

  “Anything but lemon, okay?”

  As if she didn’t know he hated lemon.

  “Got it,” she said.

  At the nurses’ station, Bridget had been replaced by a chubby red-haired nurse.

  “Excuse me,” Claire said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  The nurse had lots of freckles, a round face.

  “Is there a phone I can use? I need to make a long-distance call.”

  “Well, sure,” the nurse said. She picked up a heavy black phone and slid it toward Claire. “Just be brief.”

  “Of course,” Claire said, tucking the receiver between her shoulder and ear and dialing the operator.

  The nurse watched her closely. Claire turned from her slightly as she asked the operator to connect her,
carefully enunciating Dot’s phone number.

  It seemed to take forever to make the connection. When the phone began to ring, Claire could picture it on the telephone table in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. Even when Dot answered, Claire could imagine her taking the seat attached to the little table, perhaps dropping the dishrag onto her lap, bending her head to hear better.

  “Oh, Dot,” Claire said. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “What’s wrong, darling?” Dot said, immediately picking up on Claire’s tone.

  Of course she would. Dot had an uncanny knack for such things. Later on that terrible day when Peter had found her with her lover, Claire ran into Dot at the market. She thought she’d acted perfectly natural. But Dot had taken her hand and pulled her close. My goodness, she’d whispered, what in the world has happened?

  “It’s Peter’s mother, I’m afraid,” Claire said. “Right after the party—”

  “Was it grand?” Dot asked, and Claire heard her take a drag on her cigarette.

  “Well, yes. Yes, it was.”

  “Did you wear the pewter sheath?”

  “The thing is, when we got back, and this is so odd really, because she seemed fine, but it appears she’s had a heart attack—”

  “What?”

  “They’re not sure she’s going to make it,” Claire said.

  “Oh dear,” Dot said.

  Claire twisted the telephone cord. “I’m sorry to drop this on you while you’re getting ready for the party.”

  “It’s going to be so much fun. I think we’ve got about ten couples coming. Plus Polly, of course.”

  “Of course,” Claire laughed.

  “Even the Waterstons are coming,” Dot said.

  “How did you ever persuade them to come to a party?”

  “I think they just want to watch the inauguration in color,” Dot said.

  Claire could hear the smirk in her voice. Dot had the only RCA color television in the neighborhood, even though a lot of people were talking about getting a set before the show Walt Disney was producing aired in the fall. Apparently it had to be watched in color.

  “. . . and the Merrills are coming,” Dot was saying, “and do you remember the man who was at Trudy’s last summer? He works with Dick? His wife was in the hospital with something . . . maybe getting her appendix out? Hello? Claire?”

  “I’m here,” Claire said.

  “I thought we lost the connection,” Dot said. “Anyway, he and his wife are coming and—”

  “Dot,” Claire said, “I have to go, the nurse let me use the phone to call but—”

  “Of course,” Dot said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Claire paused, trying to get control of the tears that had come on. Surely, Dot would know immediately that she was crying.

  “Do you need me to do anything?” Dot was asking.

  “I’ll call later,” Claire said.

  “Darling? Are you crying?”

  “Of course not.”

  She said goodbye quickly and hung up. The nurse was still watching her closely.

  “It’s an emotional time,” the nurse said. “Hormones make you emotional like this.”

  Claire wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I need to find coffee,” she said, trying to collect herself. “And some Danish?”

  “Are you all right to go on your own?” the nurse said.

  Claire nodded.

  “Down to the first floor, all the way in the back. There’s a little place for coffee and. If you want a more substantial breakfast—”

  Claire waved her hand in the air, as if waving away the words. She mumbled a thank you, then walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. Alone in the elevator, she finally let her mind rest on the fact that her lover—and his wife—were going to be at Dot’s party. What if she had been there too? The idea of seeing him again made her tremble. Instinctively, her hands went to her stomach. She felt the slow waking-up of the baby inside, the rolling and stretching. If she had been at Dot’s party, as she was supposed to be, she would have seen him again. And he would have known.

  The elevator doors slid open. The bright fluorescent lighting illuminated everything in front of her and for a moment Claire forgot what she was supposed to do. Then she stepped out of the elevator, just as the doors began to shut, pushing her way out. Down the hall, she saw people with paper cups of coffee and doughnuts in their hands. But she could not move toward them yet. Instead, she stood, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach, imagining first Dot, filling finger rolls with her famous chicken salad (I add grapes and walnuts, Dot had explained) and then Jackie dressing for church. What she did not think of was her lover, how he smelled like limes, or how he might look when she walked into Dot’s living room, or what he might do to see her like this.

  8

  The Obituary

  VIVIEN, 1919

  On the ride back to Napa, Vivien and Sebastian did not speak. The Ford truck he’d borrowed from Robert to come and get Vivien bounced uncomfortably. It was made for farmwork, not for long-distance drives. Vivien was relieved to not have to make conversation. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, inhaling the smells of leather and earth that filled the cab. Pamela’s face kept floating into her thoughts, startling her into remembering why she was heading north back to Napa instead of asleep at the Hotel Majestic in San Francisco.

  Ever since that man had wandered grief-stricken onto her doorstep and launched her into her career as an obituary writer, Vivien had written hundreds of obituaries, too many of them for children. Just last year, when the Spanish influenza hit, not a day passed without a parent falling into Vivien’s arms, overwhelmed by grief. Vivien had struggled to honor a person so young that their character had not yet revealed itself. She had sat at her small desk, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to find the words to capture the child who had just taken her first steps, the boy who had loved his big sister or applesauce or his mother’s lullabies. Children who could only say a few words—Mama, doggie, bye-bye; who had learned to wave or jump or kiss good night; children who could recite the alphabet or count to ten or write their names in shaky oversized letters; so many children dead, and Vivien given the task to capture the thousand days or less they had lived.

  On April 18, 1906, when that earthquake hit San Francisco and took David from her, Vivien began to speak the language of grief. She understood that grief is not neat and orderly; it does not follow any rules. Time does not heal it. Rather, time insists on passing, and as it does, grief changes but does not go away. Sometimes she could actually visualize her grief. It was a wave, a tsunami that came unexpectedly and swept her away. She could see it, a wall of pain that had grabbed hold of her and pulled her under. Some days, she could reach the air and breathe in huge comforting gulps. Some days she barely broke the surface, and still, after all this time, some days it consumed her and she wondered if there was any way free of it.

  She knew the things that brought comfort: hot tea, clear broth, a blanket on one’s lap, the sound of one’s loved one’s name said out loud, someone to listen, a hug. But even these things could not comfort a parent who has watched their child die, who has sat helplessly by their child’s bedside. The parents of dead children wail. They pull at their clothes and their hair as if they need to leave their bodies, shed their skin, disappear. Vivien had come to recognize the blank stare in their eyes, the grief robbing them of any other emotion but it.

  And now Pamela was dead, and Lotte had entered this world. Vivien remembered a mother who had come to her last winter, her face bloated with grief. The woman had been unable to sit still, and instead paced relentlessly around Vivien’s parlor. She had lost not one but two children, within hours, and she kept repeating the events of that morning as if by mere repetition they would change. Vivien had seen this often. Mourners needed to tell their stories. Not once or twice, but endlessly, to whoever would listen.

&nbs
p; “They were playing together at my feet,” the woman said. “I even remarked on how cheerful they both were, how happy. I remember thinking that I had been doubly blessed. Two beautiful happy children. And then first Amelia got sick, right in front of me. I rushed her off to my bedroom, to get her away from Louisa. This influenza is highly contagious. I know this. And by the time Amelia was gone, Louisa was already sick, already dying too. The doctor never even made it to our house. When he arrived it was too late. He said, ‘So many children gone. Too many.’ And I screamed at him. ‘But not mine! Not mine!’”

  She walked and told the story again and again, stopping only to stare at Vivien in disbelief.

  Finally she said, “The Twenty-third Psalm. I keep saying it to myself. But the words have stopped making sense.”

  That was when Vivien realized that in fact those particular words made too much sense.

  “The psalm says, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” the woman said. “But God isn’t comforting me. I hate him! He is cruel, not loving.”

  How the grief-stricken hated God! Vivien thought. She could hear her own voice cursing him, could feel her own heart hating him.

  She wrapped her arms around the woman, and said softly, “Darling, the psalm tells us that we must walk through the valley. We cannot walk around it, I’m afraid.”

  The woman’s voice against Vivien’s shoulder was muffled. “I don’t want to,” she cried. “I don’t want to be there. I want my babies back.”

  Vivien used the Twenty-third Psalm in Amelia and Louisa’s obituaries. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Their mother’s cup had runneth over with joy and with sorrow, all in a matter of hours.