She glanced up at her husband, who was standing by the window gazing out.
“She was so happy he won. Called me up and said that everything would be fine now,” Peter said. “Lifelong Democrat. They both were.”
It took Claire a moment to realize he meant his parents were both Democrats. He rarely talked about his father, who had died when he was twelve. He’d worked as a foreman in a textile mill and died in an accident involving machinery there. Although Claire didn’t know the details, Peter had alluded to how horrendous a death it had been.
She turned her attention back to her mother-in-law. “They say he’s wearing a morning suit,” Claire said. “Striped trousers, white jacket, silk top hat—”
Behind her, Peter chuckled. “This is what you tell a dying woman?” he asked.
“Well,” Claire said, “it’s what I’d want to know.”
A candy striper with a blond ponytail wheeled a cart stacked with magazines, newspapers, cigarettes, and candy bars into the room.
“Grab a newspaper, would you?” Peter said.
The girl held out a Providence Morning Journal to Claire.
“Does she have a Globe?” Peter asked.
Embarrassed that he didn’t address the girl directly, Claire looked through the papers herself.
“Here’s one,” she said, plucking a Boston Globe from the pile.
On the front page Jackie, dressed in a pearl white satin gown, smiled out at her.
“To think she had a baby just eight weeks ago,” Claire said, admiring Jackie’s waistline.
“Next thing I know, Clairezy,” Peter said, “you’re going to insist we name the baby Jackie.”
Claire skimmed the article about the celebration the night before, how they’d attended a classical concert by the National Symphony at Constitution Hall, and then drove past the Washington Monument, past bonfires and snow-removal workers with flamethrowers, until they reached the armory itself. She wondered what the concert had been. Something traditional, like Mozart? Or contemporary, like maybe Aaron Copeland? Why didn’t the paper give the details? In a couple of hours they could tune into Dave Garroway and maybe see some footage from last night, if there was a television set somewhere.
“It says that Ethel Merman went right up to Jack Kennedy and sang, ‘You’ll be swell! You’ll be great! Gonna have the whole world on the plate!’ Isn’t that marvelous?”
The list of performers included just about everybody famous: Nat King Cole, Gene Kelly, Harry Belafonte. Claire tried to imagine what it must have been like to be there.
“The party went until one-thirty this morning,” she read out loud. “And Frank Sinatra sang, ‘that old Jack magic,’ instead of black magic—”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Peter said. “The old bird is interested in all this.”
Claire looked up from the paper and saw that the tiniest smile had appeared on her mother-in-law’s lips. She took her mother-in-law’s hand in her own. It felt small and fragile and dry.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Claire said, leaning closer to the old woman.
It appeared to Claire that she gave the slightest nod.
“Did you see that?” Claire said, not taking her eyes from her mother-in-law’s face. “Did you see her nod?”
“I’m not sure,” Peter said.
“Isn’t it exciting, Birdy?” Claire asked again.
She and Peter waited, afraid to breathe too loudly. But nothing more came.
Peter touched Claire’s arm. “You can bring the dead back, Clairezy,” he said softly.
Dr. Spirito appeared in the doorway, rumpled and yawning. Behind him, Bridget held a stack of folders.
Without having to be asked, Bridget opened the top folder and handed it to Dr. Spirito. He scanned it, yawning again.
“I’m surprised she made it through the night,” he said quietly.
He closed the folder and strode into the room, stethoscope swinging. He listened closely, sighed.
“She has such nice color in her cheeks,” Claire said hopefully.
“You know what I see time and again?” Dr. Spirito said. “They hover like this, one foot in the here and now and one already moving into the next world, and all of a sudden they sit up and demand ice cream or something. Reminisce. Crack jokes. Seem to be back. Like they have one last gasp of life in them, you know?”
Bridget nodded as he spoke. “I see that every day.”
Peter and Claire studied his mother. She did not seem about to sit up and demand ice cream.
Dr. Spirito made some notes in the file, then snapped the folder shut and handed it back to Bridget.
“She’s comfortable,” he said, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “She’s not suffering at least.”
“So we just wait?” Peter asked.
“You just wait,” the doctor said.
“Doctor?” Claire said, stopping him before he walked out. “I think she can hear us. I think—”