“I’ll send you the pattern,” Connie said.
Claire smiled and nodded politely, then carried Kathy into the living room where Little Jimmy, the oldest, had managed to chew the heads off an army of Redcoats. He grinned up at Claire, his mouth circled in red. Claire hesitated, then scooped up all of the soldiers—Roman gladiators and Civil War Confederates and doughboys and Redcoats. Most of them were headless, she realized as she dropped them onto the top of the television.
“Thanks for watching her,” Claire called as she left, relieved to be out of the apartment’s old food and dirty diaper smell.
Upstairs she grabbed her knitting quickly and then got back into the car, feeling guilty that Kathy would no doubt spend the morning in front of that television set, ignored.
Still, as she drove back to the hospital, a peace settled over her. She liked being alone, away from Peter and his dying mother. Away from Connie’s dirty apartment and her mother-in-law’s empty one. She fiddled with the radio until she heard Elvis Presley singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Singing along softly, she let herself miss her lover. She imagined driving to Dot’s instead of to the hospital, showing up at the party. His wife wouldn’t be there after all, and somehow seeing each other again would solve everything.
Even as she thought it, she reprimanded herself for being so foolish.
Elvis sang, “Does your memory stray . . .”
Tears sprang to Claire’s eyes. She changed the station, twirling the knob without caring where it landed.
The hospital appeared in front of her, gray and hulking. It looked like a place people went to die, Claire thought. The parking lot was full, and she had to drive around and around to find a space. For a moment, she considered leaving again. But to go where? Back to that house? She imagined picking up Kathy, combing her hair and washing her face and the two of them boldly driving away. They could stop at Rose’s in New London, Connecticut, make a getaway plan. They could drive all the way to Washington, D.C., and get a glimpse of JFK and Jackie, on their way to an inaugural party.
Across the parking lot, an elderly couple made their slow way to their car. Claire sighed, and drove in their direction. As she waited—eternally, she thought—for the man to unlock the door and then open it for his wife and then help her inside—it hit Claire that she might never have what those old people had: a marriage that lasted for all those years, a man who, bent and frail himself, would still pause to tenderly take her elbow, to look at her with love.
And then an even stranger thought came to her. Maybe she didn’t need someone to take her elbow, to lead her around.
Claire shook her head, as if shaking the thought away.
The man’s shiny green Valiant finally backed out of the parking space and she turned the car into it. Last night, Peter had liked her pretending, playing the good wife again, a role she knew too well. Agree with your husband’s opinion, even if you think he’s a horse’s ass for believing that, her mother had told her. She could bite her tongue when she disagreed. She could try to learn to parallel-park, touch her hair less, stop apologizing. Didn’t all of the women she knew do this? Didn’t Dot learn how to play golf because her husband wanted her to? Didn’t Trudy take every vacation on the Outer Banks because her husband liked to go fishing there? She spent her time in Duck cleaning the rented cottage, cooking three meals a day, and watching her three kids. Someday, Trudy always said when she came back, her nose peeling and her chest freckled from the sun, I might actually go on a real vacation. Hadn’t Roberta voted for Nixon because her husband was a Republican?
What you want, her mother had told her, is someone who can take care of you. A man who can provide for you and your children. Someone steady. Someone predictable. That described Peter. It did. His pants were always perfectly creased, his tie tied in a Windsor knot, his shoes polished. He gave her a big budget, let her buy what she wanted for herself, let her redecorate when she got bored with the wallpaper or the carpeting. At the Pentagon, he got his promotions right on schedule. He did the right thing.