“Why not?” Claire had said.
“Why not indeed,” he said, raising his glass to hers and clinking. “Obviously,” he said, “to us.”
They had talked that day too. About the election—that was all anybody could talk about. About Claire’s fascination with Jackie. About his fascination with Marilyn Monroe. But then the talking stopped. They were half drunk, having sloppy sex first on the sofa Peter hated and then on the twin bed in Kathy’s room, the one she’d never slept in yet, which they were planning on moving her from the crib onto by Thanksgiving. Miles had ripped her new lace bra. She had banged her knee on his chin, then laughed at the fact that her knee was even near his chin.
Outside, she heard voices, someone getting into or out of a car.
She felt reckless and alive. She clawed at Miles. He was saying something to her, his breath boozy and sweet, all bourbon and cherries. The air around them seemed electrified. That stirring in her, that thing, was an abyss, a chasm, something that needed to be filled. She told him that she needed to run away. Do women ever do that? Run away from their perfect lives? Miles had looked at her hard. No, he told her, they run away from their imperfect lives.
He kissed her, and she opened her mouth to him, tangled her fingers in all that dark hair.
Then Claire opened her eyes.
In the doorway stood Peter, his tie in a perfect Windsor knot, a pulse beating in his temple.
“Get out,” he said calmly, and at first she thought he was speaking to her.
But then she realized that he was talking to Miles, who was struggling to his feet, dragging the white sheet patterned with daisies along with him.
“Get out of my house,” Peter said.
Claire had the comforter around her now, covering herself with it, the daisies everywhere.
Miles gathered his clothes. When he walked past Peter, Peter seemed not to notice. He could only look at Claire, as if he were trying to find his wife somewhere in that bed.
“Get dressed,” he said finally.
“I . . . need some privacy,” she said. “I need a minute.”
Peter didn’t leave. He watched her clumsily pull her blue silk blouse on over her torn bra, watched her try to button the buttons.
“Are you drunk?” he asked her, his voice for the first time since he’d walked in revealing emotion.
Claire nodded. What was the point in denying any of it?
“Peter,” she said, “I’m so unhappy.”
“Unhappy?” he said, almost in wonder.
“I don’t know what I want or what I feel. I thought I wanted this. Us. But now I’m not so sure.” Her only lie that. She couldn’t hurt him more than she already had.
Peter shook his head.
“I can’t look at you,” he said, and he turned and walked out.
To Claire it seemed they would be trapped in the overheated car forever.
Peter had barely spoken since they started driving north. His hands in the brown leather driving gloves Claire had bought him for Christmas clutched the steering wheel hard, and his nose was red from the cold.
Outside, the snow fell furiously. Claire sat uncomfortable and frightened beside him. The station wagon, that massive green thing that she hated to drive, even on sunny days or for short errands, fishtailed and slid on the slick road.
“She’s so excited about this party,” Peter said. He let out a low whistle. “Eighty years young,” he said.
Claire chewed on her bottom lip, the waxy taste of her lipstick almost pleasant. They hadn’t eaten anything since they left five hours earlier. She didn’t dare ask Peter to stop, even though she would love a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. Every so many miles, she saw the orange roof of a Howard Johnson’s through the snow on the side of the road. But she didn’t bother to mention it.
Peter was hunched over the steering wheel now. “Goddamn it! I can’t see anything.”
Claire took a tissue from her purse, and wiped away the condensation on the windshield.
“Don’t do that,” Peter said. “It’s leaving smears.”