He took a step back. “Why can’t you be like this again?” he asked her.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Like you are tonight. Happy. Like a good wife. Like you’re mine,” he said, his voice cracking.
“I’m trying,” she said.
But even as she said it, she imagined years and years of this, of smiling and nodding and pretending to like his kisses. Of pretending to love him.
“I want to forgive you,” he said. “God help me, I do.”
She was afraid if she tried to speak, she might scream, so she just nodded and gulped back this thing rising in her throat.
“I want to have this baby and make it work.”
Claire was nodding and nodding, choking.
“But I’m not sure I can ever look at you without picturing—”
This was too much. She quieted him by kissing him again, by letting him kiss her and grow hard against her.
“Tell me you love me,” he whispered.
“I love you,” she said, the lie coming easily because this life she was living, all of it, had become such a lie.
Peter stepped back.
“The toasts,” he said.
“I just have to put on lipstick,” Claire said.
“I’ll wait.”
He would never trust her again, not even here in this strange city. Obediently, Claire went into the ladies’ room, reapplied her lipstick and powdered her cheeks, then went out where her husband waited for her.
Back home after the party, Birdy still beamed.
“It was worth living this long just to have that party,” she said.
“It was a wonderful party,” Claire said agreeably.
Her ankles were swollen, and she’d removed her shoes. She wanted nothing more than to go to bed. But here they were, the three of them sipping cognac, and recollecting the details of the evening.
Finally Claire excused herself.
“Of course, darling,” Birdy said, perhaps eager to have Claire leave. “You need your rest.”
Claire didn’t even bother to hang her beautiful dress. She pulled on her nightgown and slid in between the cool stiff sheets. Her mother-in-law ironed her sheets, and her napkins, Claire remembered. She was more sober now, and thinking of the party at Dot’s that she would miss tomorrow.
The door creaked open and Peter appeared, backlit from the hall light.
“Checking up on me?” Claire said.
“Coming to bed,” he said.
He closed the door and she heard him undressing.
“You can stay up with Birdy,” Claire told him. “You should.”
“She wanted to turn in. Besides,” he continued, coming to the twin bed where she lay, “ever since those kisses in the cloakroom . . .”
He didn’t need to finish. Claire understood. She made room for him in the narrow bed, and almost immediately he was on top of her, pushing inside, his lips brushing her cheek.
When he was finished, he smoothed her hair back.
“You’re getting too big for this way,” he whispered.
“I need to sleep,” Claire said, kissing him lightly, hoping he would go.
He did. But Claire couldn’t fall asleep.
As she lay there trying, she heard a bang from somewhere down the hall. And then a faint voice.
Claire sat up, straining to hear.
Yes, someone was calling out there.
Quickly, Claire got up and hurried out of the room.
At the end of the long hallway, Birdy lay crumpled, still in her Chanel suit and pearls. Her skin was a strange gray, and from here it looked like she wasn’t breathing.
“Peter!” Claire yelled as she rushed to her mother-in-law.
6
Because I Could Not Stop for Death
VIVIEN, 1919
The Western Union man stood on Vivien’s doorstep. She could see him there, waiting.
He banged on the door again.
“Western Union,” he said in a voice that let Vivien know he had said those words too many times in his life.
“Yes,” she called to him. “I’m on my way.”
She smoothed her skirt and patted her hair in place, primping as if for a date. Ridiculous, she thought, taking a deep breath and finally moving toward the door.
“Telegram,” the man said.
Vivien nodded, but didn’t hold out her hand to take it from him. He was sweating in his rough brown wool jacket with a WU pin on its collar.
“For Vivien Lowe,” he said impatiently, shaking the telegram at her.
When this didn’t seem to do the trick, he added, “From Denver, Colorado.”
“Thank you,” Vivien managed.
She accepted the telegram, but did not open it or go back inside. Instead, she stood and watched him straighten the bicycle he had leaned against the house, jump on it, and ride off down the street. A young man in a black suit passed the Western Union man, his head dropped, his eyes on the street.
“Watch it!” the Western Union man shouted, swerving.
But the young man did not look up. He kept moving steadily down the street. When he reached Vivien’s door, he stopped and checked a piece of wrinkled paper clutched in his hands. Then he raised his eyes, not seeming to notice that Vivien stood there, and checked the number above the door.