“Would you mind?”
Peter dropped into one of the hard chairs and picked up the Globe. “No need for you to be bored to tears,” he said.
“I’ll get it and come right back,” Claire said.
But Peter didn’t answer. He already appeared involved in a news article.
She put on her coat and still-damp gloves.
“I’ll need the keys,” she said.
“They’re in my pocket,” he said, indicating his jacket hanging behind the door.
“Well then,” she said after she’d collected them and picked up her purse.
“Drive slow,” he said. “It’s icy.”
Of course it was icy. Hadn’t they just had a huge blizzard?
But she told him she would be extra careful.
“By the way,” Peter said. “I found a TV, up in what they call the solarium. We can watch the inauguration.”
“Oh, good,” Claire said.
“Hurry back,” Peter said as she moved toward the door.
As soon as she emerged from the car, Claire heard Kathy crying. Moving as fast as she could up the narrow path Jimmy had shoveled, she climbed the steps, finding the front door unlocked. That smell of oil heat and yesterday’s supper hit her as soon as she walked into the small foyer, and Claire swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat.
The steps that led up to her mother-in-law’s apartment stretched invitingly in front of her. The thought of climbing back into bed appealed to Claire much more than dealing with Connie and Jimmy and all of their children. But Kathy’s crying did not seem to be letting up. Claire took a few deep breaths, then pushed the door to the downstairs apartment open. Cartoons blared from the television, and a trail of toy soldiers and crushed Frosted Flakes led to the kitchen. Claire hardly noticed the little boy in the big wet diaper chewing on one of the soldiers.
“Darling,” she said, lifting Kathy from the high chair where she sat, red-faced from screaming.
“Who the hell is Mimi?” Connie said. She was sitting on a stool at the breakfast counter, still in her nightgown, smoking a cigarette.
“Her stuffed animal,” Claire said, smoothing Kathy’s tangled hair. “I forgot it,” she admitted softly.
To Kathy she murmured, “Mimi’s waiting for you at home.”
This only made Kathy scream louder.
Connie, unfazed, got up and poured herself more coffee, holding the percolator up as if it were asking Claire if she wanted some.
“Yes, thank you,” Claire said.
She patted Kathy’s back, taking in the chaos of the kitchen. In a second high chair, Cindy—a girl with lots of dark curls and her father’s green bulging eyes—played in milk that had spilled from her cereal onto the tray, humming as she splashed. The baby slept splayed in a playpen in the middle of the floor. Dirty dishes crowded the counter and the sink and that Shirelles song blasted from the radio.
“God, I hate that song,” Claire muttered.
Kathy’s sobs had turned to hiccups, and Claire sunk onto one of the stools, still patting her daughter’s back.
“Sugar? Milk?” Connie asked, holding the bottle of milk over the cup.
“Black,” Claire said.
Connie slid the cup to Claire, somehow finding a path amid the mail and kids’ drawings and crumbs that littered the counter.
“How’s Birdy?”
“You’re not going to believe this but she opened her eyes and spoke to me,” Claire said.
“Right before they die, they do that,” Connie said knowingly.
Claire decided that Connie reminded her of Gloria Delray. She had that same confidence in everything she said.
“It’s true,” Connie continued. “My nonna did it. At death’s door, then all of a sudden she asked us to sing ‘Oh, My Papa.’ She loved that song. You know it?” Without waiting for an answer, Connie said, “She sang right along too. And I asked her how to make gnocchi, why mine always came out like lead, and she told me the secret.”
Kathy had quieted and was sucking her thumb, her eyes on the cartoons.
“Don’t overknead the dough,” Connie said.
“Hmm,” Claire murmured politely. “Well, I better get back. I’m just going to get my knitting.”
“You knit? I crochet. Mostly just afghans.”
“The women in my neighborhood have a little knitting circle,” Claire said. “It’s something to do. You know.”
“These the ones with the contest?”
Claire frowned.
“The Jackie thing,” Connie said. “What color will she wear today.”
“Oh, yes,” Claire said. “The same ones.”
“Teresa down the street, she crochets these cute little men that you put your extra toilet paper rolls inside. They have long legs and funny hats. Cute. She said she’s going to teach me.”
“That’s nice,” Claire said. She’d noticed a toilet paper roll dressed in one of these crocheted outfits in Connie’s bathroom earlier when she’d changed Kathy’s diaper. It looked hideous with its long crocheted legs dangling over the bowl.