He had always been this way: demanding, a perfectionist, someone who wanted things done his way. Until last summer, Claire had accommodated him. She hadn’t liked it, the way he could be so critical of others, including her. Especially her. She hadn’t liked that when she tried to tell him what she thought or felt, he might walk out of the room, saying, “Keep going. I can hear you.” And Claire would be alone in an empty room, feeling foolish. Still, he loved her. She knew that. He loved her the best way he could. But Claire wasn’t sure that was enough anymore.
She shook her head, as if to shake these thoughts away. For weeks now she’d been doing nothing but worrying about what to do about her marriage. Women did not leave. Unless there had been adultery or abuse, and even then, they usually stayed. She remembered the story of a woman who had lived a few streets away, long before Claire and Peter moved into the neighborhood. She’d left her husband and the judge had not let her take her children. She abandoned them, Dot had explained, her face set in disgust. If she left Peter, would a judge let Claire keep her children? Or should she stay and possibly never feel happy again?
Claire swallowed hard, then offered, “There’s a Howard Johnson’s up ahead. Maybe you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Maybe,” he said, softening.
He liked when she took care of him; Claire knew this. But it was getting harder for her to take care of him when she didn’t really like him very much anymore. She had to keep reminding herself that it was her job to care for him. That was what wives did.
“It might be a long night. We might as well have a little something in our stomachs.” He added gently, “You, of course, already have a little something in yours.”
Claire laughed politely. This baby did not feel at all little. It jammed up against her ribs and pressed on her bladder. It made her short of breath and short on patience. When Peter made love to her now, she kept her nightgown on. She didn’t feel very pretty these days.
Relieved, Claire felt the car slow even more and make a slippery turn into the Howard Johnson’s.
“Maybe I can call Birdy and be sure the party is still on,” Peter said, opening his door and stepping into the night.
The snow seemed to gobble him up. If only, Claire thought. She imagined that when she too stepped out of the car, Peter would really have vanished. She would go inside and wait out the storm, sipping coffee and dreaming of her new life, free of her husband. Stop it, she told herself. You are married to this man, for better or worse. When she had spoken those words four years ago, she had meant them, hadn’t she?
Peter’s voice cut through the storm. “What are you waiting for?” he called.
Claire sighed and got out of the car. She opened the back door, and awkwardly lifted their sleeping daughter into her arms.
“Come on, baby,” Claire murmured to Kathy.
Kathy wrapped her arms around Claire’s neck and hung on her like a koala bear. The parking lot hadn’t been plowed yet, and Claire had to pick her way slowly across it, trying not to fall. Peter stood in the harsh light by the front door, smoking and waiting for them. Claire could feel his impatience in the air.
“Of all days for the world to come to an end,” she heard him saying.
Kathy’s breath, sour from the potato chips she’d eaten in the car, warmed Claire’s cheek.
Finally, they reached the entrance. Claire panted from the walk and the weight.
Peter dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his boot.
Claire grabbed at his arm.
“What?” he said. His eyes were bloodshot from the hard drive.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “If I could take it back, I would.”
Their eyes met briefly before he walked over to the hostess, stomping snow from his overshoes as he did.
Claire watched him. She was sorry. Sorry about the blizzard. Sorry that she’d fallen for another man and had an affair with him. Sorry Peter had caught them together, Claire and this man. She let herself remember him for a moment. How they thought so alike he sometimes could finish her sentences. The way he kissed her with such ardor. His ability to laugh and be—oh, the word that Claire thought of was carefree. He could be carefree while Peter always seemed so serious, so burdened.
Standing in this restaurant, her husband’s angry eyes on her, the storm raging outside, Claire even let herself miss Miles.
Peter was in the orange vinyl booth now, opening the large menu.
Claire walked clumsily toward him.
“I always like the fried clams here,” he said, without looking up.
“They are good,” Claire said, even though all during this pregnancy fried foods made her sick. Also certain fruits—melon, pears, grapes. And tomatoes. Or were tomatoes fruit too? She wasn’t certain.
She glanced around for a high chair for Kathy. The restaurant was oddly bright and very crowded. Travelers had decided to pull over, out of the storm, like they had, and there was a buzz in the room, a sense of being in something together. The name Kennedy swirled above the noise, adding to the excitement of the blizzard.
“Are you going to sit?” Peter said, as if he had just noticed her.
Kathy, asleep against her shoulder, mumbled.
“I was looking for a high chair,” Claire said.
He’s the man we need, she heard. Things will be different now.