“So when you come home you’ll get a little dinner party as a prize,” Dot said.
Claire tried to imagine reentering her life after all that had happened. She tried to see herself dressing for a dinner party, sitting at the vanity with the triple mirrors in her bedroom, putting on her makeup and choosing which earrings to wear. But it seemed impossible that soon she would be able to do that: to walk arm in arm with Peter down Huckleberry Lane to Dot’s house where there would be cocktails in heavy crystal glasses, warm puffs of cheese on a silver tray, salty mixed nuts; to sit beside someone at Dot’s long dining room table and make small talk; to be witty, or even a little charming; to hug everyone at the end of the evening and let Peter help her into her cashmere coat and step out into the cold winter night; and then to thank the babysitter, check on Kathy, get into bed and wait for her husband. All of it impossible.
“I’m sorry, Dot,” Claire said, realizing that Dot had been talking. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said isn’t it wonderful that they caught the man who did that terrible thing to Dougie Daniels? It’s finally over and we don’t need to think about it again,” Dot said with a sigh of finality.
“So much to not think about, isn’t there?” Claire said.
“Well, yes,” Dot said slowly. “Better to think about what I’ll serve for your prize dinner. Maybe beef Wellington? And to think about Jackie’s gown and how at this very minute they’re twirling on the dance floor at the Armory.”
Claire got out of bed, tucking the receiver between her shoulder and cheek and stretching the phone cord so that she could go to the window and open the blinds. Outside, snow had begun to fall again on the half-empty parking lot. The sky looked almost bright with the clouds and snow.
“It’s snowing again,” she said.
“We missed you today,” Dot told her. “Roberta’s husband actually got tickets to the ball and they’re there right now. She promised to tell us all about it tomorrow. Oh, and that couple? You know the ones who—”
“Yes,” Claire said.
“She had a bit too much to drink and got all weepy and chatty. Like the time Trudy drank too many daiquiris last summer and told everyone how she lost her virginity? So embarrassing, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it seems they’re adopting a baby. A little boy just born a couple of days ago. I’m not sure Bill would ever adopt. Would Peter?” Then she added quickly, “Not that you would ever need to. I’m sure you can have more babies, right, Claire?”
“Adopt a baby?” Claire repeated. “But why in the world—”
“Mumps,” Dot said, lowering her voice. “Apparently the husband had mumps and can’t . . .”
Claire pressed her forehead against the cold window, trying to think.
“Dreadful, isn’t it? I mean, who knows what the real parents are like? Why, they could be hemophiliacs or Communists or just about anything,” Dot was saying.
Mumps? Claire thought. The baby, Arabella, was hers and Peter’s after all. And now, Miles was about to start a family with his wife. He was moving on without her. As he should, Claire knew. Yet the loss of him, of who she was and who she was with him, made her choke.
“But darling, you need to rest. I’ll pick up your newspaper from the steps tomorrow and bring in the mail. You’ll be in your own house before you know it.”
Claire hung up the phone, sitting on the edge of the bed. She thought of her husband and what he said, that this was for the best. But that was because he believed they would never really know who the father was. One more thing not to think about. One more thing to push away. Had people told Dougie’s mother not to think about what had happened? Was the world unwilling to think about men like Smythe and babies who died too soon and women who did not love their husbands?
Well, Claire thought, she wasn’t unwilling.
A nurse came in and Claire recognized her as the one who earlier that day had predicted she would have a boy.
“I see you’re sitting up,” she said. “That’s good. You should even take a little walk.”
Claire didn’t answer.
“Just need to take your temp,” the nurse said.
“You don’t remember me?” Claire said.
The nurse put the thermometer in Claire’s mouth and watched the Timex on her wrist.
“It was a girl,” Claire said.
At last the nurse glanced up. She took the thermometer from Claire and read it, carefully recording her temperature in the chart.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said when she’d finished. She gave Claire a bright smile. “Water under the bridge.”
The hospital corridors were dim and silent. Claire’s legs felt heavy and clumsy as she moved along them, reading the room numbers as she passed. It was odd to have this swollen stomach, these large breasts, but to have such emptiness.