The Smart One

Chapter 13





Claire knew before she opened her eyes that it wasn’t good. Her head was throbbing, and it felt like she was on a boat, or something that was moving very slowly, back and forth. She opened her eyes to find that it was just a couch—Lainie’s couch—and not a boat. Her right hip ached, probably because she’d been lying on it for hours without moving. She looked in front of her and saw a full glass of wine on the coffee table, and Jack standing and staring at her. He was still in his pajamas, which were dark blue with light green monsters printed on them, and he was holding some sort of Transformer-looking toy, although Claire realized with a horrible throb of her head that it couldn’t be a Transformer because kids didn’t even play with those anymore—or did they? Were they back? She couldn’t remember, and thinking about it was making her want to vomit.

“Hi,” Jack said. He rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. “Hey, you’re still dressed for the party.”

Claire closed her eyes. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn over last night. Sleeping on Lainie’s couch wasn’t a first—she’d done that plenty—but being so drunk that she couldn’t bother to borrow a T-shirt and sweatpants was a new low. In the kitchen, someone was banging drawers open and closed, like they were in a hurry. Lainie walked out into the room holding a cup of coffee.

“Hey, bud,” she said, touching Jack’s head. Then turning to Claire, she said, “I feel awful.”

Claire sat up slowly, and held on to the arm of the couch in an attempt to stop the spinning in her head. “Really? I feel great.”

Lainie laughed. “You kept me up way too late last night. And made me drink way too much wine. I’m so screwed. I have to bring a pie to Brian’s mom’s house.”

“Really, well, I have to actually stand up at some point today. And right now I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Do you want some coffee?” Lainie asked. She was now moving quickly around the room, picking up the last of the party remnants, taking the empty glasses into the kitchen, and throwing out the napkins. Ever since Lainie had had kids, she didn’t really get hungover. She claimed she did, but she never sat still and moaned about it. “I can’t,” she said once. “I don’t have a choice, so it’s like my body figured out how to get through the hangover while letting me move around.” It made Claire feel worse to watch her up and cleaning.

“No coffee for me, thanks,” Claire said. “I just need to lay here for a minute.”

“Sure. Your phone has been ringing, by the way.”

“Oh God.” Claire knew it was Weezy. “I should go home soon.”

Jack was folding and unfolding his little toy into a truck and then a robot. He was making those noises that little boys make to mimic an explosion, or a rocket, or a bomb.

“Hey, bud, you want to help me make a pie?” Lainie asked. Jack looked up and nodded. “All right, then, go get dressed.”

Jack ran out of the room, and Claire sat up. She told Lainie what Jack had said to her about still being dressed for the party, and the two of them snorted with laughter.

“Okay,” Claire said, finally standing up. “I think I might make it.”

“OH, CLAIRE,” WEEZY SAID when she walked in.

“What?”

Weezy sighed. “Look at you. You’re going to be exhausted. I need your help today.”

“I’m right here, ready to help,” Claire said. She smelled like liquor and cigarettes, and she stood on the other side of the kitchen so that Weezy wouldn’t notice.

Weezy went back to stirring the stuffing, sighing as though Claire had just caused a huge inconvenience. The stuffing was in three different pots, each one overflowing, little stale bread pieces jumping onto the counter at random. “I just wish you hadn’t stayed out all night. We’ve got a big day.”

“I’m fine,” Claire said. She was reminded of the recurring fight that she and Weezy had had after every grade school sleepover. Claire would get angry, Weezy would accuse her of being tired, and then Claire would scream that she wasn’t tired, and then Weezy would threaten that she’d never go to another sleepover again.

All Claire wanted was to go to her room and lie down just for a minute, but Bets was in her room, probably going through her drawers, and snooping through her things. There had been some issues with the sleeping arrangements. Normally, Max stayed in the basement and Bets stayed in his room, but with Cleo here, they needed an extra place for her, so Claire was sent packing to Martha’s room, which had twin beds, Cleo took Max’s room, and Bets got Claire’s room. No one was happy.

Claire grabbed a bagel from the counter, spread it with cream cheese, and ate it in huge, quick bites. She hoped that it would make her feel better. She headed upstairs to take a shower, but Martha was in the bathroom, so she lay down on one of the twin beds and waited.

Martha came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. She closed the door and then listened to make sure that no one was outside the room. “It smells like an ashtray in there,” she whispered. “Last night, I woke up and there was smoke coming out from underneath the door.”

Claire laughed. Bets was a secret smoker, but it was a secret that wasn’t very well kept at all. When they were little, they used to ask Weezy, “Why does Bets smoke in the bathroom?” and Weezy would shush them.

“It’s her secret,” she told them. “She doesn’t want anyone to know, so we can’t say anything. She’d be embarrassed.”

And so, for years now, Bets would disappear into a bathroom and emerge with smoke billowing behind her. Sometimes she’d cough. “I’m getting a cold,” she’d say. And none of them would say a word.

Once, Claire and Doug had been sitting on the back deck, and Doug touched Claire’s arm and silently pointed up to the bathroom window, where a hand holding a cigarette was going in and out of the window. Claire had shrugged. “It’s her thing,” she said. “She doesn’t want anyone to know. We just let her be and pretend we don’t see anything.”

“Your family,” Doug had said, “is just so Catholic, it kills me.” Claire never exactly knew what he meant, since secret smoking didn’t really seem like a Catholic trait to her.

Claire had also warned Doug that Bets was just a little bit racist. She wanted to give him fair warning. “You know,” she told him, “not like really racist but like old-people racist.” Doug had tilted his head like he didn’t quite understand, and she said, “You’ll see.”

“The president looks blacker on my TV,” Bets told Doug that night. Doug coughed on his water. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s true. He looks so much darker on my TV at home. He looks practically white here.”

“Mom,” Weezy said, “that’s enough.”

“What? I’m just making an observation. Come over and watch him on my TV and you’ll see what I mean. He looks blacker there.”

“Mom, drop it.”

Bets turned to Doug and shook her head. “No one can say anything these days. You can’t say a single thing without someone being offended, without the polite police coming to tie you up.”

That was Bets, always full of inappropriate comments. They spent every holiday whispering about her while she was in the next room. At least she made things interesting, and gave them something to talk about.

In her room, Martha was now drying her hair with the towel, then stopped and sprayed a can of air freshener in the direction of the bathroom and Bets. “One day,” she said to Claire, “she’s going to burn down the house.”

“I know,” Claire said. “And then we’re all going to have to lie to the firemen about what started it.”

CLAIRE STOOD IN THE SHOWER for a long time. She let the hot stream run over her, and then she had to sit down because she started to feel a little nauseous. Even from inside the shower, Claire could hear Weezy yelling up the stairs at people, giving orders.

“I can do this,” she said to herself as she shampooed her hair. It was fine. She could make it for an hour, then have a drink and some appetizers and she’d be fine. Thank God their cousin Drew wasn’t coming this year. Not that Claire didn’t love him, but when he came to family gatherings, they all abstained from drinking out of support. It was miserable. Well, all of them abstained except for Bets, who once told him that she thought alcoholics were people that couldn’t handle their liquor. “Maybe you’ll get the hang of it as you get older,” she’d said to him. Maureen was out smoking on the deck, but Weezy had stepped in to defend him.

“Mom, Drew has a disease and he’s been very brave in dealing with it,” she said, in a speech that would have made any Lifetime Movie writer proud. It was embarrassing to watch Weezy standing there, knowing that she thought she was doing something very important.

Weezy put her hand on Drew’s shoulder and the three of them stood in an awkward triangle, until Bets said, “Cancer is a disease. Not being able to drink is just a goddamn shame.”

Claire was all for abstaining when Drew was there, although sometimes she wondered if he really was an alcoholic or if maybe that was just where his problems showed themselves. He was only twenty-two when he went into rehab—a baby, practically. Which one of them wasn’t an irresponsible drinker at that age? But Claire kept this thought to herself, since Drew seemed to be doing well in the program and had gotten his life back on track.

The last time he’d come, two Thanksgivings ago, the dinner seemed to drag on forever as they’d sipped at Diet Cokes and some stupid raspberry spritzer that Weezy had made in an attempt to have a fun nonalcoholic cocktail. Bets had gotten drunk by herself, not needing any of them to join her. She was happy as a clam to down glass after glass, and all of them realized that she was much harder to deal with when they were all sober. As Drew had pulled out of the driveway that night, Weezy was already opening a bottle of red.

“Good God,” Claire said to Max. “It looks like Mom’s going to rip the cork out with her teeth.”

So, yes, it was better that Drew wasn’t coming. After all, Cathy was enough to deal with. The first year after she came out, she’d made a point to mention her sexuality at every turn. When she first brought Ruth to meet the family, she’d made a point to introduce her to Bets in a way that left no room for misinterpretation.

“Bets, this is my girlfriend, Ruth,” she said. “And by girlfriend, I mean sexual partner.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Max had said under his breath, and he and Claire had laughed. Martha shot them a look, like they were being rude, but really. She didn’t know why Cathy had to talk about her sex life all the time. No one else did. Claire was all for it, thought it was great and that Cathy should be who she was and they could all live life together. Cathy was the one that talked about it all the time, and that got tiring. It wasn’t like she’d invented being a lesbian.

“IT’S INTERESTING,” CATHY SAID ONCE at a family dinner. “Some people would think that my father being a misogynist had something to do with me being a lesbian. I don’t believe that sexuality is something we choose, but others disagree. Some think it’s something we learn.” Then she’d turned to Claire. “What do you think?”

Claire had just shrugged. How was one supposed to even answer that question? She didn’t remember Uncle Harold all that well. He’d been around when they were younger, and then he and Maureen had separated and he’d moved to Oregon. Claire hadn’t seen him since.

She remembered the time (the only time, she was pretty sure) that Cathy and Drew went to visit him there, how Cathy had called Maureen from some strange person’s house to tell her that she and Drew had been left there, that their dad had gone out and told them to “stay put.” Maureen had come over to the Coffeys’ that night, screaming and crying, was on the phone with the police in Portland, trying to get them over to her children. She’d flown out there the next morning and had come back with Cathy and Drew.

Maybe Harold visited once or twice after that, maybe he’d come to a birthday party that Cathy had, but Claire was fuzzy on that. And soon, as the years went by, they stopped talking about him at all. It was like he’d never even existed. Claire had no idea if he was a misogynist or not. Mostly she just thought he was a really shitty dad.



DOWNSTAIRS, WEEZY HAD A NEW APRON on that was already covered in stuffing and potatoes. The kitchen table had casserole dishes spread all over it, with different Post-it notes stuck to each one that said things like, Bake at 350 for 20 minutes, uncover for last 10, and Vegan Stuffing! And Put in the same time as sweet potatoes. And then there was one note that said, inexplicably, Will and Green Beans.

Weezy kept reaching up to push her hair out of her face. She looked hot and annoyed. Cathy, Ruth, and Maureen had arrived and all crowded themselves into the kitchen. They were chatting away, believing themselves to be kind in keeping Weezy company, but Claire knew that all Weezy wanted was for them to get the hell out of her kitchen so that she could spill and curse and cook in peace.

Will and Bets were in the living room, watching the TV in silence. They both seemed happy. Will just wanted to watch the football game, and Bets was probably just gauging the blackness of the NFL players on this screen as opposed to her own.

Max and Cleo were in the basement. They’d been kind of quiet all weekend, and she thought they might have had a fight of some kind. Poor Max. It wasn’t easy to deal with a significant other in this household.

Martha was at the stove, stirring apples and cranberries and looking worried. She’d made this dish every year for the past ten years, and still every time she fretted about it and tasted it, apologizing to everyone that it wasn’t quite right, until people praised it so much that she smiled down at her plate and said, “It’s not that hard.”

When Claire walked into the kitchen, Weezy was arranging appetizers on a platter and Cathy was eating crackers and talking about her job, which had something to do with computer programming. Ruth saw Claire and gave her a hug. “Hi!” she said, like they hadn’t just seen each other the night before. Claire always liked Ruth, and sometimes wanted to pull her aside and say, “You know you can do better than Cathy, right? You’re way nicer.”

“Okay then,” Weezy said. She clapped her hands and then held them together like she was praying, which maybe she was, for strength to make it through the day. “Ruth? Would you take these out to the family room and then why doesn’t everyone head out that way to spend some time with Bets.”

Ruth nodded and picked up the tray of cheese and crackers. Cathy followed behind her, still talking about her job—something about a man named Brett, and why he was responsible for spreading a virus throughout the company.

“What can I do to help?” Maureen asked.

“Nothing. Really, we’re all set. You can go relax.”

“I think I forgot to add cinnamon,” Martha said. “Oh shoot!” The mixture boiled and spit a little bit, and Martha jumped back to avoid it.

“I can stay in here,” Maureen said. But Weezy just shook her head, and Maureen got up and headed out, looking like she was being punished. During Thanksgiving, Maureen ended up sulking and smoking in corners of the backyard, looking like a teenage version of herself.

“I’ll go see if people need drinks,” Claire said. She took orders in the family room—white wine spritzer for Bets, beer for Cathy, white wine for Ruth, and for Maureen “anything with vodka.”

“Do you want some help?” Will asked, but his eyes were still on the game.

“I’m good.”

Claire went to the bar and first made herself a large Bloody Mary with olives. After a few sips of that, she took the drinks to the family room and delivered them to each person with a napkin. She took her drink and walked down to the basement, knocking on the doorframe.

“You guys? Are you in there?”

“Hey,” Max said. He sounded tired. Claire peered around the side of the door and saw both of them sitting on the bed. Cleo’s eyes looked a little red. They were definitely fighting.

“You should come up soon,” Claire said. “Cathy’s talking about her job, which is fascinating, and Bets is getting ready to tell us all why we’re a disappointment. You don’t want to miss it.”

“We’ll be up in a minute,” Max said. He didn’t smile.

Claire felt bad for them. Once, during a trip with Doug’s family, she and Doug had gotten into a fight about the cable bill. It was so stupid, but at the time she was so mad she thought she was going to scream at him, right in front of his parents. She’d found the bill and saw that he’d added this crazy football package that basically doubled the price.

“We split this bill,” she’d hissed at him in their room. “And you didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me about it? To ask me?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Doug said. “I’ll pay for it.” Then he tried to shush her, which she hated.

“Don’t you shush me,” she’d said. “Don’t you dare shush me.”

The Winkleplecks were a quiet family. They never yelled. At dinner, if someone accidentally interrupted another person, they’d say, “Oh, I’m sorry. Go on.” There was no talking over anyone else. When someone started telling a story, the whole family turned and gave that one person their total attention. It made Claire feel very nervous to ever talk around them.

She knew Doug was scared that his parents were going to hear them fighting. “Shhh,” he kept saying. “It’s fine. I’ll pay for it, okay?”

“That’s not the point,” Claire had said. But she couldn’t quite say what the point was, exactly. Just that she was so mad at him that she wanted to scream, and she wanted him to scream back. But they couldn’t, and that made it worse. And Mr. and Mrs. Winklepleck were always there, quietly reading or watching TV at a very low volume. There was nowhere to go, and Claire stayed mad at him the whole trip.

And now it looked like poor Max was in the same situation. “Okay, guys,” Claire said. “See you up there. You want me to bring some drinks down here for you?”

“No, thanks,” Max said. “We’ll be up soon.” Claire left them down there, wondering what it was that they could be fighting about.

CLAIRE FRESHENED HER BLOODY MARY, and sat down next to Cathy on the couch. She reached forward and grabbed some slices of cheese. The worst part is almost over, she told herself.

Cathy turned to her and lowered her voice. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I’m really sorry. About Doug and everything.”

“Thanks,” Claire said.

“I really mean it,” she went on. “I know how sometimes news can be worse when everyone else gets ahold of it. You forget how you even feel about it. But just remember that however you feel about it is fine.”

“Thanks,” Claire said again. But this time her eyes watered a little bit and Cathy squeezed her arm. Maybe being with Ruth had made Cathy a nicer person. And maybe Claire should ease up on the Bloody Marys a little bit.

LAST NIGHT, FRAN HAD TOLD HER that she was “D-runk.” That’s how he’d said it, pronouncing the D and the runk, as if they were two different words. She’d protested, telling him she was just tipsy. And then, as they walked into the kitchen to look for snacks, she’d tripped on her heel and ended up facedown on the kitchen floor.

“I’ve fallen,” she said, “and I can’t get up.”

“Come on,” Fran said. He lifted her up and brushed the front of her, like she was a little kid that had fallen in dirt. “Time to go home.”

“No, I was just kidding,” she said. “Don’t you remember that commercial? I was just pretending.”

Fran had walked her across the street and down the block to her front door. “I should get home anyway,” he said. “People are coming over early tomorrow. Why do people eat so early on Thanksgiving anyway? Who wants to eat mashed potatoes at noon?”

“We don’t eat until late,” Claire said. “Like six o’clock, usually.” She sat on the front cement steps and rested her head on her knees.

“Okay, then,” Fran said. He knelt down. “Do you want to go inside?”

“I think I’m just going to sit here for a while.”

“What?”

Claire lifted her head. “I said, I’m just going to sit here for a while.”

“Do you want me to wait with you?”

Claire shook her head. “No, you can go home.” She put her head back on her knees and waved her arm. “Go, I’m serious.”

“I’d feel better if you were inside,” he said.

Claire stood up and walked down the steps. “Okay, I’ll go in the back door, then.”

She waved good-bye to him as he walked down the driveway and the sidewalk, and then when he turned the corner, she walked across the street and back to Lainie’s.

Almost everyone had gone home, but Lainie’s two younger sisters were still there, and they cheered when she walked in. “You’re back,” Lainie said. “Yay!”

They sat on the back patio and smoked cigarettes, until Claire started feeling like it was going to make her puke. Lainie smoked only when she was drunk, but she didn’t like to smoke in the front of the house, in case any of her clients walked by. “Pilates people do not smoke,” she always said.

They talked about Fran, and Claire re-created her “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” scene for Lainie, who loved it.

“What do you want with Fran?” Lainie asked. Claire shrugged. She really didn’t know.

“I don’t think I want anything,” she said. “Or maybe just a little something. I don’t know.”

She barely remembered their moving back inside the house, and vaguely remembered sitting on the couch and then just laying her body down sideways to sleep. Then the next thing she remembered was waking up to Jack calling her out on sleeping in her clothes.

“RUTH, AREN’T YOU GOING TO HAVE any turkey?” Bets asked.

“Bets, Ruth is a vegan,” Cathy said.

Bets sniffed. “Right, I forgot.” She asked the same question every year, and Claire was pretty sure that she put “Vegan” right along with “Alcoholic” on her list of things she didn’t believe in.

“Martha, how’s the job going?” Maureen asked.

“Fine. I mean, good. It’s going well.”

“You must be the only white caretaker out there,” Bets said. “All of ours are foreign, probably illegals. You’ll be in high demand.” She smiled at Martha.

“Mom,” Weezy said. Bets just shrugged and held up her hands, like, What do you want me to do?

“Should we say grace?” Will asked. They all bowed their heads, and afterward Will raised his glass and said, “Let’s eat!”

Claire noticed that Cleo was just poking her food around on her plate. “Are you okay?” she asked her quietly, but everyone heard her anyway.

“What’s the matter, Cleo? Are you not feeling well?” Weezy asked.

“There was a bug going around the retirement community last week,” Bets offered. “Four people died.”

Claire and Ruth caught each other’s eye and smiled, then looked down at their plates. It wasn’t funny, of course, that four people had died. It was just that the first time Ruth met Bets, she’d been going on and on about all of her friends that had died. Ruth had very nicely asked Claire later, “Does your grandmother talk about death a lot?” and Claire had laughed so hard she’d peed a little bit. Ever since then, the two of them were in serious danger of getting the giggles when Bets announced that another bridge partner had dropped dead.

“The sweet potatoes are wonderful,” Will said. “And so are the apples and cranberries. Martha, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Martha smiled as everyone chimed in, “Yes, they’re amazing, they really are. So tasty.”

Claire had moved on to white wine and she finished her glass and refilled it from the bottle at the table. Thankfully, it was making her headache go away. There would be another one tomorrow, she knew, but for the moment it was worth it to get through this dinner.

“We’ll call Drew after dinner,” Weezy said.

“Where is Drew?” Bets asked. They’d told her maybe ten times already.

“Drew stayed in California. He’s having Thanksgiving with some coworkers,” Maureen said.

“Well, that sounds downright depressing,” Bets said.

“I think it sounds nice,” Max offered. “To be someplace where it’s warm, I mean.” He got up and returned with another beer. On his way back to his seat, he patted Cleo’s shoulder. The table got quiet and all Claire could hear was chewing and forks hitting the plates.

“Do you like train travel?” Bets directed this question at Ruth, who looked as surprised as the rest of them.

“Um, yes, I do. I haven’t done much of it, but I do like it.”

Claire saw Weezy and Maureen give each other a meaningful look across the table. They were always on the lookout for signs that Bets was losing it, and bringing up train travel out of the blue was a bit strange.

“Should we go around and say what we’re thankful for?” Weezy suggested. It was something they’d done when they were little, and every so often, when conversation was lacking, they did it again. One year, Drew said he was thankful for the dirt bike that he’d gotten for his birthday, and Bets tried to make him choose something else. He’d refused, telling her that really was what he was most thankful for. Bets got mad and told Maureen that she’d raised materialistic children. Weezy had come to her defense, and all the kids went upstairs to play and listen to their mothers fight with their grandmother. Will had gone into the kitchen to clean, which was more desirable than staying at the table and fighting over a dirt bike.

Now, when they went around the table to say what they were thankful for, everyone gave up and just said “Family” and “Health” as their answers. Weezy was about to start, when Cathy interrupted her.

“Well, actually, I have an announcement to make,” she said. She looked around the table and smiled, looking a little nervous. “Last night I asked Ruth to marry me, and she said yes!”

Claire thought she felt time stop. Bets had her fork in her hand and she held it right above her plate, a strange little smile on her face. Everyone else stared at Cathy, as though it would take a minute to understand what she had said. Finally, Martha squealed and jumped up to run around the table and hug Cathy and Ruth. Once she moved, everyone seemed to get unfrozen.

“This is so exciting,” Martha said over and over.

“Will you be my maid of honor?” Cathy asked. Martha started to cry and Claire rolled her eyes before she could stop herself.

“Of course,” Martha said.

“Well,” Maureen said. “What a surprise. Well. What a happy Thanksgiving.”

“To the engaged couple,” Will said, holding up his glass. Claire knew he would repeat the story later, to friends and coworkers, saying, “You can’t pick who you love, you know. As long as they’re happy, we’re happy.”

They all raised their glasses and clinked them to the right, to the left, and the center. Now Claire knew why Cathy had mentioned Doug. She really did feel bad that she was going to announce her engagement so soon after Claire’s ended. That’s why it was sincere.

Cathy turned to Claire. “Will you be my bridesmaid?” she asked.

“Of course,” Claire said. “I’d be honored.” She took a sip of wine.

LATER, AFTER THE TABLE WAS CLEARED and the dishes were stacked, and the dishwasher was started, they all rested in the family room. It would probably be two days before the kitchen was really clean again. It never seemed worth it to Claire, to make all that mess for one meal. But then again, Thanksgiving was not her favorite holiday.

Someone suggested playing a game, but no one really wanted to, so they just sat around for a while. Will fell asleep in his chair and started snoring loudly. Claire leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Maureen, Cathy, and Ruth were getting ready to leave.

Everyone hugged, and Bets went up to bed. Will stood up and stretched, pretended that he hadn’t been sleeping and said that he was heading to bed as well. The house smelled like turkey grease, which made Claire feel a little sick.

Claire and Martha unloaded the dishwasher and got another group of dishes in, and then they started washing the china and crystal by hand. “Oh, thanks, girls,” Weezy said. She was on the couch with her feet up. “You don’t have to do all that. I’ll be there in just a minute.” But her eyes were closed, and she looked like she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

Martha kept talking about Cathy’s wedding. “I’ll have to give a speech,” she said. She almost dropped the wineglass she was drying. “What will I say? Oh, I’m already nervous. What do you think she’ll want us to wear?”

“Burlap sacks,” Claire said.

“Very funny. Ruth has a great sense of style.”

“Yes, but we’re Cathy’s bridesmaids. I think she’ll be the one picking out the dresses.”

“Oh, well, we can suggest some things. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

They finished the second round of cleaning, and Claire went upstairs to get ready for bed. Martha came up a little while later, when she was already under the covers.

“I tried to get Mom to go to bed, but she’s still on the couch. She kept saying, ‘I’ll get up in a minute.’ ”

“Mmm-hmm,” Claire said. She was half-asleep.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Martha whispered.

CLAIRE WOKE UP WITH A START, in the middle of a nightmare where she was falling off of a balcony. She sat up to steady herself, and saw Martha squatting by the door, which was cracked open.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Shhhh,” Martha said. She motioned for Claire to come next to her.

“What?” Claire said. But she got up and went to the door. She could hear her mom’s voice, but couldn’t quite hear what she was saying. Then she heard Max, who sounded like he was crying.

“What’s going on?” she asked Martha.

Martha turned, her eyes wide. “I think Cleo’s pregnant,” she said.

“No—did you really hear that?”

“I think so. It’s kind of hard to hear.”

“No way. Max is probably just failing a class or something.” But even as she said it, Claire knew that she was wrong. She couldn’t hear what Max was saying, but she knew he was upset. And not much upset Max. In fact, almost nothing upset him. Claire tried to ignore the excited look in Martha’s eyes.

Claire never understood the way that Martha got almost giddy when there was tragedy or drama. She fed off of it. She could find a problem in any situation, even the most pleasant. But when there was a real problem, like this, that’s where she really thrived. She got involved, she talked about it constantly. It was like being a part of the drama made her feel included and important.

They sat crouched together, listening to the rise and fall of Weezy’s and Max’s voices. They heard Cleo’s name and something about her mom. They heard Weezy say, “Decisions to make,” and “young” and “difficult.” And once, they heard an “Oh, Max,” from Weezy, and then they heard Max really start to cry.

They looked at each other, and Claire knew that it was true. Cleo must be pregnant, because what else could it be? Unless Max had killed someone, but even then, Weezy would be on the phone with a lawyer or the police. And she wasn’t. She was just talking to Max, her voice filled with disappointment. And that was never a good sign.

Poor Max, she thought. Poor, poor Max.