“The wreath that rings every U.S. metropolis is a green garland of place names and people collectively called Suburbia. It weaves through the hills beyond the cities, marches across flatlands that once were farms and pastures, dips into gullies and woodlands . . .”
Really, she thought as she flipped the pages of the magazine, who needed to read a description of her own life? Her own happy life, she added as she took in bits of information. The Negro songstress Eartha Kitt got married. So had Mussolini’s daughter. Judy Holliday and Jimmy Stewart both had new movies opening. President Eisenhower was off to Japan—he always seemed to be off somewhere, Claire thought—and the Prince of Cambodia needed to lose twenty-two pounds.
She closed the magazine and set it on the grass beside her chair. The smell of roses was heavy, almost hypnotic. Claire heard bees. Across the Parkers’ yard next door, she could see a gaggle of boys walking down the street, the tops of their summer buzzed haircuts shining in the late afternoon sun. She recognized them all, and took comfort in the familiarity of her surroundings. A white car passed the boys, then disappeared around the corner. Closer now, the kids’ voices grew louder, their excited tone one that only children can have. They were talking, from what Claire could glean, about going to the moon.
That white car appeared again, slower this time. Probably someone lost in the maze of streets that made up Honeysuckle Hills. People used to the grids of city streets, the logic of numbers and letters, got confused when they had to navigate Mulberry, Maple, and Marigold Streets.
Kathy’s sharp wake-up cries cut through the air, halting Claire’s private time. Forgetting the tea and the magazine, Claire made her way back inside, up the stairs to Kathy’s room.
“Bad Mommy,” Kathy pouted.
Claire patted her daughter’s bottom to be sure she hadn’t wet the bed. Dry. A small victory.
“Come here, Kitty Kat,” Claire murmured, lifting the rigid girl. Kathy always woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
After a snack of graham crackers and milk and playing paper dolls, Kathy finally grew less crabby.
Claire let her help set the table, to carry the napkins and the silverware out to the patio. She taught her how to fold the napkins into triangles, and to place the forks on the left, the spoons and knives on the right.
“Four letters in left. Four letters in fork,” Claire explained. “Five letters in right. Five letters in knife and spoon. That’s how you remember.”
Kathy nodded, even though she hadn’t yet learned to recite her ABC’s and still watched Romper Room and Captain Kangaroo every morning as Claire cleaned the house. Kathy liked to sing along with Miss Bonnie: Bend and stretch, reach for the stars. Here comes Jupiter, there goes Mars. Still, Claire didn’t think it hurt to spell words and explain complicated things to her now. Maybe it would help her understand eventually.
“Now it’s time to make Daddy’s martini,” Claire said.
Kathy padded back inside right behind her, climbing her little stool so that she could reach the counter. Claire carefully measured the gin and then the vermouth, letting Kathy pour the jiggers into the shaker.
“Shake, not stir,” Kathy said proudly.
Claire laughed. Her daughter might not know her ABC’s, but she knew the secret to a good martini.
“That’s right, Kat,” Claire said.
By the time the martini was chilled and the cheese was sprayed onto Ritz crackers and the potatoes mashed and the canned green beans warmed, Peter’s car pulled into the garage. Everything right on schedule.
Looking back on that evening, Claire tried to find the beginnings of a rupture, the way they say the San Andreas fault is already cracked and over time shifts more and more until the earth finally cracks open. But she could never find even a hairline fracture. She remembers feeling satisfaction over the dull predictability of her days. If she did not feel a thrill at the sound of Peter’s key in the front door each evening, she did feel a confidence, a rightness, to the way the hours presented themselves.
Peter walked in, handsome, a bit slumped from his day having the admiral rant at him and everyone around him. They both took pride in the fact that Peter was the only civilian who worked for Admiral Rickover at the Pentagon, an honor that made up for the admiral’s erratic behavior and famous temper. Peter kissed Claire and Kathy absently on their cheeks, loosened his tie, and took his place on the turquoise couch he hated, waiting for Claire to appear with that martini, now perfectly chilled. She always wet the glass and placed it in the freezer so that it was frosty and cold too. For herself, she poured a glass of Dubonnet, adding ice and a twist of lemon. On a warm night like tonight, Kathy got Kool-Aid, poured from a fat round pitcher with a face grinning from it.
“I thought we’d eat outside,” Claire said after settling onto the pink chair across from him.
“Mmm,” Peter said, already distracted by something in the newspaper he’d opened on the coffee table.
“Eisenhower’s off to Japan,” Claire said, because a woman always needed to keep up with current events.