by J D Ventura
“I am afraid your friend Stephanie is over simplifying things for you, dear, perhaps to facilitate an abbreviated discussion of a very complex issue. Mrs. Hall and I discuss a wide range of issues at the council meetings. She uses the wall as a red herring when it suits her. It’s a symbol of her broader political views and I, for one, don’t give it much thought.”
Keith stared at his wife, looking wide-eyed and angry. “Marie, I think that’s quite enough politics for one night. Don’t you agree? Dear?”
Marie slowly turned her gaze from Claire to her husband and her expression instantly changed, as if she realized she had gravely overstepped. Locking eyes with Keith, she nodded slightly in agreement, before turning to Sam, a cheery expression washing over her face, “Tell us about NASA? How exciting!”
Before Sam could respond, Claire pushed her chair back and stood. “May I use your bathroom?”
“Of course, dear, it’s down that hall. First door on the left,” Marie said, a broad, satisfied smile crawling across her wrinkled face.
“Excuse me,” Claire said, turning and abruptly steadying herself with one hand on her chair as the Xanax she had taken before coming over hit her.
She walked down the dimly lit hallway to the bathroom and shut the door behind her. On the opposite end of the room, another open door led to the master suite. Claire took hold of the door and slowly closed it, then paused. An odd silhouette in the corner of the bedroom caught her eye. She peered through the darkness trying to make out what the object was. Was it a floor lamp? Maybe. A long black pole shot up toward the ceiling near the nightstand, but then curved suddenly toward the floor. Where the pole bent forward, a sheet covered what she imagined to be the lampshade. The white covering rustled gently, ghost-like, catching the faint eddy of heat rising from a vent along the floorboards. As she walked closer she realized what it was: a birdcage.
Claire went back to the sink and ran the water and then returned to the bedroom, walking softly across the carpeted floor. She grabbed the edge of the sheet and slowly lifted it. A large, dark bird sat on a perch at the very back of the deep enclosure, its dark silhouette barely discernible in the blackness. It just sat there, silent and unmoving. She moved her face closer to the cage, her vision slowly adjusting to the darkness, but still not able to tell even what type of bird it was. As her nose touched the cage’s metal bars, the creature’s eyes flew open. They were illuminated, electric, as red and enflamed as campfire embers. The crow cocked its head in study of her and she stifled a scream.
“So, the agency has really been an amazing place to work. It really has allowed me to pursue science on my terms, even if the bureaucracy can be a bit maddening at times. And I-”
Sam stopped talking as Claire emerged from the hallway, looking pale and flustered. She preempted their questions by pushing her dining room chair back underneath the table. “I am so sorry folks. I must be battling a tummy bug. I’m, I’m so embarrassed. Please forgive me, but, Sam, I really need to go home.”
Everyone immediately rose to their feet and Sam came around the table and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“Oh dear!” Marie said. “I do hope it wasn’t Keith’s cooking?”
“No, no, no,” Claire said. “Everything is divine. I really think I’ve just caught a little virus, and I especially don’t want to give it to you folks. The dinner was so lovely. So thoughtful.”
“Do you want some lamb to take home with you? For later perhaps?” Keith asked, following everyone through the living room to the front door.
“Oh, please, we’ve troubled you enough,” Sam politely pleaded. “We will have you folks over to our place real soon.”
Keith opened the front door and the two couples shook hands goodbye. As Claire and Sam stepped onto the front porch, Marie closed the door and turned off the porch light, plunging Claire and Sam into darkness.
She awoke without Sam beside her, just as an orange line of emerging sunlight cast a cool band of pink and purple skyward from the horizon. She was glad she hadn’t told Sam about the bird in Marie’s bedroom, choosing instead to let him also believe she was ill. The addict in her often preferred white lies to inconvenient truths.
After donning her robe, splashing her face with cold water, and pulling her hair back in a ponytail, she made her way down to the kitchen, where she immediately noticed the absence of the smell of coffee. Near the coffee maker was a note in Sam’s exacting penmanship:
Claire, I hope your tummy is feeling better; I didn’t want to wake you. Gunderson wants me to meet him to provide a progress report on the project. Be back next Sunday. Afraid I’m going to miss the masquerade ball. Have fun! And give Stephanie and Marc my best. I’ll call and text. Hope your tummy feels better. Love, Sam
She flung the note aside like a bill she had no intention of paying. Her face went hot with anger. We came out here to this house presumably for him! “Claire,” he said, “I need the solitude. I need a place to work, he had insisted. The house’s price is too good to pass up. The director himself insisted I spend more time away from the Agency. Bullshit! He is never even here!”
She fished in the back of her spice cabinet for the Xanax, her hands trembling, and her eyes beginning to tear up from an overwhelming sense of frustration. She took two of the pills and brewed a cup of coffee. The irony of a masquerade ball made her laugh out loud. Perfect, just what I need, more mystery! Her phone’s ringtone indicating her mother was calling – The Bitch is Back by Elton John – gave her the green light to pour a shot of Jameson’s into her mug in lieu of cream. Guess the gloves are off, huh Claire?
She took a deep chug from her mug and answered the phone. “Hello, Mother.”
“How is life on Mars, dear? Have you learned how to thatch a roof or work a loom yet?”
“Ha. Ha. Seriously, Mother, I was just sitting down to breakfast. Can I call you back?”
“I’d prefer to talk to you now, while your personality is…crisper.” This was an obvious shot at her daughter’s suspected relapse. Jealous much, old lady? You just wish you were off the wagon with me.
“Yes, well, I would have preferred my mother was crisper throughout my teens and twenties, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”
“No, Claire, we most certainly do not. Almost never, in fact.”
“I’ll call you in a few,” Claire said, not biting at her mother’s conversational bait.
“A few what?” her mother asked.
“Huh?”
“Days, weeks, months? I’m managing my expectations, given your renewed interest in old vices.”
“Mother, please, I’m not in the mood to spar with you, okay? Sam is unexpectedly gone for a week and I am not in a good mood. Can I just call you back when I am feeling chattier?”
“Where did he go this time?”
“Back to D.C.”
“Lucky him. For what?”
“Work,” Claire said.
“I thought he’d retired, to be with you, out in the country.”
“He’s closing things out, but he has some loose ends to take care of. Anyway, let me call you later, okay?”
“Are you upset with him? For leaving you alone?” her mother asked.
“I don’t blame him, mother. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“Of course, you don’t, dear. Of course, you don’t. Goodbye, talk to you later.”
The line went dead and Claire poured the rest of the whiskey into her coffee mug.
Claire’s mother was no stranger to blame. After Jenny’s death, Evie first blamed her ex-husband, then Claire, then the booze and, finally, after an intervention and 90 days at some rehab in Baltimore, herself. She took a receptionist job at a local non-profit, which became a national non-profit, and, determined not to “marry another bum,” got hitched to a wealthy philanthropist donor nearly 20 years her senior. She was
a quick study when it came to the moneyed class in the nation’s capital, making the leap from twelve-stepper to lady-of-leisure in record time. And, after travelling the world and throwing what must have felt like thousands of cocktail parties and fundraisers, she had managed to convince herself she was as blue-blooded as the rest of them.
Deeply distrustful of any men when it came to her surviving daughter, her mother had never been a fan of Sam. Claire wouldn’t have been surprised if her mother had stood up at their wedding and objected to the union. After Sam’s diagnosis, she had met her mom at their favorite brunch spot in D.C., Rose Thorn, and, over a third round of blood orange mimosas and apricot crepes, broke the news to Evelyn, or Evie as her waspy friends called her.
Her mother glanced quickly at her compact and, using a tissue, dabbed the red lipstick – Rendez Vous by Dior – from her top incisors. She had worn this shade for as long as Claire could remember, springing for it even before she became a deca-millionaire. It wasn’t quite red and it wasn’t quite pink, and somehow the color suited her in its youthful sophistication. It mattered little to Evie Sanders if most of her physical vitality these days came from an absolute genius of a plastic surgeon and a line of skin creams made of monkey placentas. She liked being a woman, but she also liked being a girl. Feminists were lonely and didn’t wear makeup. Feminists foolishly signed prenups. Her daughter was a feminist, someone who wanted to be equal with her husband. Her daughter wanted a man who would raise the kids if asked, attend couples’ yoga with her, and go to “family” counseling at the faintest sign of discord. Sam was that guy.
As she was known to do, Evie was holding court more than having brunch. “…and Marsha, you remember her, dear, from Lake Drive, her husband is a partner in that law firm that represented your father’s-”
“Stepfather’s.” Claire corrected under her breath.
“-company when those Oriental investors sued for, oh, I cannot remember what, anyway, Japs, yada, yada, yada. She and her husband, Everett, who is African American, drove to Montauk from Bethesda instead of flying. Can you imagine? No thank you.”
“Mother, why is Everett being black a relevant detail to that story?” Claire had asked, pointing to her now-empty champagne flute while making eye contact with the passing waiter.
“Claire! They prefer African American, and are you going to be the PC police throughout this whole meal or can I speak freely?”
“They actually prefer black, I’m pretty sure, but whatever.”
Her mother flattened the linen napkin to her lap and then pressed her hands together in front of her face as if she were about to pray. “Claire, why are we here? You never want to go to brunch with your sweet, dear, racist mother anymore, so why now?”
“I never called you racist. You’re not a racist.”
“I’m a little racist,” her mother smiled, holding her hand out and resting her chin on her chest to take in the enormous diamond and gold band on her left ring finger. “I am so glad your father- “
“Stepfather.”
“-insisted on having this stone reset, it just looks a hundred times better and I – “
“Mom, Sam is sick.”
Evie stopped talking and leaned over to the waiter, who had just arrived to drop off Claire’s fourth mimosa, and whispered, “I’ll have a virgin Manhattan. Tell Felix to work his magic, dear.”
Evie reached across the table and grabbed her daughter’s hand. She caressed Claire’s fingers with her thumb. “Is it cancer, dear?”
“No. But it is serious. He has a rare neurodegenerative disorder.”
“Sounds horrible, dear. A what now?”
“He has an incurable form of early dementia. Like Alzheimer’s. He is only now starting to show symptoms, but they’ll progress and he will get worse.”
“Isn’t he too young for Alzheimer’s?”
“It’s like Alzheimer’s, mother. Like Alzheimer’s.” Claire felt the familiar impatience only her mother could provoke manifest itself physically in the form of her frantically tapping right foot. Tap, tap, tap.
“Who is your doctor?”
Tap, tap, tap.
“You need to go to a reputable expert, my dear.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Have you considered Sam might just be getting older and this is merely plain-old forgetfulness? Or this is his excuse for constantly forgetting to put you before his work?”
Claire’s fourth mimosa was somehow gone and she was having difficulty discerning if her mother’s questions sounded ridiculous because she was getting drunk, or because the questions were just stupid and insensitive. Knowing her mother, it was most likely the latter. Disease and sickness of any kind made Evie extremely uncomfortable. According to Evie, Jenny, of course, had been mentally ill, something she got from her biological father. Claire theorized that was because her mother cherished, above all else, being in control, after so many years of not having any. Illness could not be willed away; it often did not respond to money or a strong moral constitution, and sometimes people you loved got sick and died. It frequently did what it pleased, and this terrified Evie, who had won a pitched fight with breast cancer not long after she’d buried her oldest daughter.
“Mother, he wants us to move. Out of D.C.”
“Out of the District? Don’t be silly,” she said, taking the first sip of her caramel-colored faux cocktail.“Why? Has he already forgotten you both like living there?”
“Okay, that’s cruel. Can you please listen to me? I need you to help me understand this, because I am having trouble with this and I am stressed out and I have been drinking a lot again –”
“So I see. You get that from my side, I’m afraid.”
“And taking way too many drugs.”
“Drugs, Claire?”
“Yes, mother, I have been taking Xanax, for my anxiety.”
Evie started laughing and fanning herself with the menu, before standing to remove the silk jacket of her pantsuit, which she handed to the ever-attentive waiter, “Guillermo, be a dear and coat check this, peach. Gracias.”
“Mother, he’s Italian.”
“Claire,” Evie said, exhaling tiredly as she sat back down in her chair. “Xanax are not drugs. I think of them as supplements. Griselda orders them for me off the Internet. Of course, you have to watch the drinking. Nasty stuff. And you can start by watching me drink another delicious pretend one.” The waiter appeared and soundlessly guided her drink onto the table. “But I fail to see how leaving the city is going to make his Alzheimer’s any better.”
“It’s not exactly Alzheimer’s, it’s— “
“Whatever it is. Claire, my point is, I am almost always a proponent of a change of scenery and a fresh start. Very therapeutic, usually. I wrote that book. But this is different. I would think you would both want to be surrounded by a proper support network – me, believe it or not, yes! – and your friends and Sam’s colleagues. Why does he want to slowly go crazy in the boondocks?”
“I honestly don’t know, Mother,” Claire said. “Maybe he figures by moving out here he won’t be the only one losing his shit. I’ll be right there with him.”
“I know you, Claire,” her mother said with a finger wag. “You will lose your shit, long before he does. You are susceptible to it, Claire. Let’s not forget.” Then, under her breath, almost to herself, “Dear God, if only we could.”
The week had gone by in slow motion, as if someone had poured maple syrup over the world and everything had come to a sticky standstill. Her days went like this: wake up, have Irish coffees, first with coffee and then without, plus two eggs and toast; take Xanax; nap; drink some more; eat dinner, usually a frozen Lean Cuisine; take more Xanax; drink; drink; drink; drink; black out.
On Saturday, the day before Sam was due home, Stephanie’s call woke her from her nap. She had fallen asleep on the couch shortly after
finishing her breakfast, which consisted of the usual two Xanax, a shot of Scotch and a piece of buttered seedless rye. She answered the phone, sounding groggy and unsure. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Silence.
“Stephanie. Claire? Are you still in bed, honey? It’s 1 pm.”
“What? I, no, I’m awake. I was just napping. Who is this again?”
“It’s Stephanie. Hall. Your new BFF, remember? Anyway, I was wondering if you and Sam are going to the Murray’s masquerade ball tonight.”
“Oh, right. Shit, that’s tonight. I feel like we just got that invitation.”
“Well, the actual invitations went out a few weeks ago, before you were here.”
“So, what’s the deal, they’re moving? Is that right?”
Stephanie hesitated for a moment before replying, “Apparently, the decision was rather sudden. I, for one, hate to see them leave. If I know her, she’ll throw one hell of a party, though.”
“Sam can’t make it. But I’m going. I think.”
“He can’t? That’s too bad.” She sounded genuinely disappointed. “Do you know what you’re going to wear? The buzz around the ‘hood is people are taking the theme pretty seriously. Never too old for playing dress up, I guess.”
“I haven’t the slightest clue.”
“Well, why don’t you and I go gown shopping? I know this shop in Charleston that specializes in evening gowns. And I have an extra masquerade mask you can use. Can you sneak away from Sam today?”
“Damn. Good thing you have a mask. I would have been stuck. And, as far as Sam goes, he’s been gone all week. I’m all yours, girlfriend.”
“I’ll be right over.”
As she left the house, Claire retrieved a pack of cigarettes she kept hidden in a cookie jar in the kitchen. Smoking for her was occasional, a vice born not from physical addiction but from what one of her shrinks called “a deep-seated fatalism.” Whatever. She just liked the way they boosted her energy, albeit temporarily, in the face of too many Xanax. She sat on a wicker chair on the porch, staring out onto their empty street – always empty – and was struck with an overwhelming sense of homesickness. She missed her friends, the taqueria down the street from their apartment, the smell of wet pavement after it rained, the noise.