Claire laughed nervously. “I’m married,” she said again, wondering which of them she was reminding.
“Do you know what’s strange?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her to answer. “I love my wife. I do. But there’s something here.” He waved his hand between them. “I want to stand out here and talk to you all night. I want to, I don’t know. I want to get to know you.”
Claire wondered about his wife. Was she pretty? What did she do if they didn’t have children? What did women without children do all day? Did she work?
“I’ve always been faithful to my wife,” he said quietly. He took her hand then. He pulled her close.
“Tell me more,” he said.
“There was this boy in our neighborhood,” Claire began. “Dougie Daniels.”
He paused. He looked at her in a way that no one had ever looked at her before. Like he was actually seeing her.
“He disappeared. I was in the backyard and the neighborhood boys walked by.” She paused, trying to think of how to explain what had happened that day. “He was an ordinary boy,” she said finally.
“That was when you knew,” he said, his gaze still on her.
“Knew?”
“That no one is safe,” he said.
“You’ll leave him, of course,” he said after the first time they made love.
That was the next week, on an August night so still and hot that the air felt like gauze around them. They were in the parking lot, in his car. Everyone else had gone.
Claire couldn’t think of what to say. Women didn’t leave their husbands. That wasn’t the way it worked. Sometimes a man walked out. He left his wife for his secretary, or an air hostess. Or he lost all his money and went West to look for new opportunities. But women, they stayed.
“I wish I’d met you first,” she whispered.
Claire had walked in her house, her legs still trembling. The TV was on. Red Skelton. Peter was laughing.
“How was it?” he asked without looking up when she came in the den.
“Good,” she managed to say.
Her eyes moved around the room, taking in all of the things that had once been familiar: the green and gold plaid wallpaper, the curtains that matched perfectly. The Zenith with the rabbit ears on top. The TV trays, metal with scenes of the Old West on them, wagon trains and buffalos. She knew all these things. She did. She’d chosen them. She’d hung the painting above the couch, an oil of orange and gold mums blossoming against a white fence. She’d selected the fabric on the sofa, a soft green tweed flecked with gold and gray. She knew these things, yet nothing looked the same.
Peter finally glanced up at her.
“Can you grab me another one of these?” he said, holding up a bottle of Budweiser.
Claire nodded, but didn’t move. Who was this man? Who was this woman? What were they doing here together on this hot summer night, in this room with the suffocating plaid?
“Claire?” he said.
She nodded again, and walked to the kitchen on her shaky legs. She didn’t turn on the light. She just stood there in the darkness, inhaling the smell of the spaghetti sauce she’d made for dinner, and of her own Newports, and of another man on her skin.
“Have we the nerve and the will?” Claire said softly. “Can we carry through in an age where we will witness not only new breakthroughs in weapons of destruction, but also a race for mastery of the sky and the rain, the ocean and the tides, the far side of space and the inside of men’s minds?”
She took a deep breath. She hadn’t told him, but she had memorized Kennedy’s acceptance speech too.
Claire did not know how long she’d slept before she felt the weight of Peter sitting on the bed beside her. She opened her eyes.
“You were dreaming,” he said.
“Of JFK,” Claire said.
He studied her face.
“Is she . . . ?”
Peter shook his head. “Hanging in there. She’s medicated, but they said since she pulled through the night, they might be able to ease up on the drugs, so we can talk to her.”
“What time is it?”
“Six. Connie’s here. She’ll take Kathy.”
Claire’s head felt thick and cloudy. All that scotch. She ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles.
She was aware of her sour breath and thick tongue. Her mind drifted to the Kennedys. What were they doing right now? She imagined Jackie in a negligee of French silk. Maybe white. Or ivory. Lace at the throat.
“She doesn’t even look sick,” Peter was saying. “Just still. Asleep.”
Something sour rose in Claire’s throat, reminding her that she was pregnant. She swallowed hard, aware now of her heavy breasts. Instinctively, her hand cradled her stomach.
Peter smiled. “How’s that little guy?” he said.
“Not so little,” Claire said.
In Washington, D.C., at this very moment, bunting was being hung. American flags were being raised. A path to the White House was getting cleared.
“I know what I’m sorry for,” Claire said, holding his gaze. “I’m sorry I was with another man.”