“I was an air hostess and—”
“Aha!” Penny said, pointing a finger at Claire. “That’s another way to meet rich guys.”
Claire struggled to respond. How could she tell this girl that marrying for security, for the wrong things, would not make her happy?
But Penny did not want to talk. She walked into the solarium ahead of Claire, who watched her survey the room before going to stand by a tall young doctor with glasses like Buddy Holly used to wear. Penny planted herself beside him. When the doctor spoke to her, she looked up at him without raising her head, just by lifting her eyes slowly upward.
On the television, the presidential motorcade moved slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue. Claire saw the car with JFK and Jackie come into view. He wore a silk top hat. Jackie wore a hat too, a seamless wool felt one in taupe. Taupe? Claire thought. She strained to see if she could tell what color Jackie’s outfit was yet. But she couldn’t make out anything but their beautiful faces smiling out beneath their hats. Roberta had thought Jackie wouldn’t wear a hat at all, even though all of the other women had insisted that protocol demanded it. And here she was in a hat tipped to the back of her head rather than sitting straight on top. Claire smiled to herself. Now they would all have to start wearing their hats that way.
“She’s hanging in there still,” the man beside her said.
At first Claire didn’t recognize him, but then she realized this was the doctor they’d spoken to earlier.
“Doctor!” she blurted. “My goodness, I almost forgot. I came here to get you.”
He glanced at the television, and then back at Claire.
“She spoke to us,” Claire said. “She sat up and spoke.”
Once again, the doctor glanced at the TV.
Then he sighed. “Let’s go take a look,” he said.
As Claire and Dr. Spirito walked down the hallway, Claire begged off, pointing to the ladies’ room.
“Of course, of course,” Dr. Spirito said, continuing on his way.
But instead of going into the ladies’ room, Claire ducked into one of the phone booths that lined the wall. Inside, she sat on the small stool and emptied her change purse. Almost five dollars in nickels and dimes. Surely that would be enough to call Rose. The idea had struck her as soon as she saw the bank of phone booths, their wooden doors lined up in a neat row. Rose had popped into her mind so frequently since they’d left yesterday that Claire decided to call her old roommate.
The operator found Rose’s number in New London and told Claire how much money to deposit. Like magic, there was a brief pause, then the shrill ring of the phone in her ear.
“Hello,” Rose answered, her voice the same husky one Claire used to envy.
“Rose, it’s Claire Fontaine,” Claire said, returning to her maiden name easily.
“Claire!” Rose shrieked.
Then, away from the receiver, she called, “Honey, it’s Claire Fontaine on the line,” and Claire heard Ed exclaiming what a wonderful surprise this was and how the hell was old Claire?
Claire had stood up for Rose and Ed at their wedding, and Rose had done the same for hers six months later. That was the last time they’d seen each other. Ed wrote Christmas letters, long funny ones about his layovers with TWA and what Rose had redecorated that year and which exotic location they’d hiked or biked, Ireland and Argentina and Greece. At first, Claire had sent Christmas cards, beautiful paper cuts of snowflakes or winter scenes, a quick note written inside, a photo of Kathy in a baby Santa suit trimmed in white fake fur one year, the next a snapshot of her in the snow in her red snowsuit. But nothing this past Christmas. Claire had been too overwhelmed by everything that had happened to pretend they were still a happy family.
“It is so funny that you’re calling today,” Rose was saying. “Ed and I were just talking about you after the news last night.”
“News?”
“Aren’t you still down in Alexandria, Virginia?” Rose asked. “We didn’t get a card from you at Christmas—”
“I know,” Claire said, remembering how in his Christmas letter this last time, Ed had actually written in rhyme. “I’m sorry. Life has been—”
“Well, then you know about that boy who was kidnapped down there,” Rose said.
“Dougie Daniels? Oh, Rose, it was just awful. He lived two streets away from us. In fact, I saw the car that afternoon.”
“She saw the car that took that boy,” Rose said, away from the phone again.
“No shit,” Claire heard Ed say.
“But you didn’t hear that they caught the man?” Rose said to Claire.
“What? They did?” Claire said. Odd that Dot hadn’t mentioned that when they’d spoken earlier.
“He lived in . . . where did he live, Ed?” Ed’s reply was muffled. But then Rose said, “He lived in Arlington. The Shirley Park Apartments. Do you know them?”
“No.”
“Apparently he was some kind of a handyman there. Franklin Smythe. Not Smith. Smythe.”