The Smart One

Chapter 16





This was what a psychotic break looked like. Claire was pretty sure of that. Sometimes, she wanted to stand up in the middle of the office, at dinner with her family, or while she was in Fran’s basement watching ESPN with him, and scream, “I am having a psychotic break, people. I am having a breakdown and no one is noticing.”

But that only happened if she let herself think about it, which she tried not to do most of the time. She found it was easier to ignore everything that was going on and just get through the day. She stayed busy. If she wasn’t at Fran’s watching a movie or drinking a beer, she was running around the neighborhood with her iPod on, sprinting down the dark streets in the cold until her chest was too tight to breathe and her legs hurt. Anything to make sure that when she got into bed that night, she’d fall asleep quickly.

AT HOME, THE AIR WAS FILLED with Max and Cleo. Weezy was acting like someone with a brain injury, sometimes slow and spacey, sometimes sharp and wild. The day after Thanksgiving, she’d told them the news in the kitchen, and although they’d already guessed, it was still a shock to hear.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Weezy said. She looked nervous, like they might have already spread the news around town.

“Of course not,” Martha said. “Oh my God, we won’t tell anyone.”

“People are going to find out eventually,” Claire said.

“I know that,” Weezy said. “But let’s just hold off. It’s no one else’s business.”

“People are so gossipy in this town,” Martha said. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Why are you crying?” Claire asked.

“They’re so young. How can they handle this?” Martha’s nose was running.

“Martha,” Claire said, “stop acting like you’re the one that’s knocked up.”

“Claire, that’s enough,” Weezy said. “This isn’t easy on your sister. This isn’t easy on any of us.”

“Why isn’t this easy for her?” Claire said. “What’s so hard about it? Just because you’re embarrassed doesn’t mean you can act like this is all about you.”

“This has nothing to do with being embarrassed,” Weezy said.

Martha looked up at the ceiling then, just as the tears poured down her cheeks. She let out a strange squeak and left the room quickly. Weezy turned to Claire with a look that said, Are you happy now?

“Jesus,” Claire said.

“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to your sister.”

“It actually might.”

None of them spoke to one another for the rest of the day. Will looked like he wanted to get out of the house. He’d been angry in the morning, but by the afternoon, he looked exhausted. He and Weezy had been holed up in their bedroom having whispered conversations. Around dinnertime, Will tried to act normal, asking if anyone else was interested in warming up some leftovers, then going ahead and taking out the Tupperware containers and warming up the turkey, stuffing, and gravy until the whole house smelled like Thanksgiving again. He was the only one who ate.

They didn’t apologize to one another. That isn’t how they worked. The three of them were just short and chilly to one another for a few days, and then eventually it went away. Even Martha and Weezy spoke to each other with pursed lips and stilted conversation, although Claire was pretty sure they hadn’t been fighting with each other. It was like no one could keep track of who was mad at whom.

Even Ruby the dog was upset by the situation. She knew that everyone was out of sorts, and she spent her time walking up to each member of the family and licking them on the hand, as if to say, Don’t worry, it will all be fine. At the end of each day, she looked exhausted, lying on her green bed in the corner of the TV room, her head on her paws. Ruby had taken to eating her food quickly, like she was afraid someone was going to take it away from her if she paused or looked up.

“She’s not even chewing,” Claire pointed out. And it was true. The dog was just scarfing down her food, swallowing the pieces whole.

“Maybe she’s an emotional eater,” Martha said.

“A what?” Claire asked.

“An emotional eater,” Martha repeated. “You know, like she’s eating her feelings because she’s upset about Max.”

Both Weezy and Claire stood and stared at Martha without saying a word.

AFTER THANKSGIVING, MAX HAD TAKEN to calling Claire’s cell phone every day. “Just checking in,” he’d say.

“Things will get better,” Claire told him. She could think of nothing else to say.

“I can’t even imagine that right now,” Max said.

“Trust me. I know it seems bad, but in a few months it will be fine.”

“Months?”

“Just give it time.”

Claire convinced Max to come home for Christmas, telling him it would be worse if he didn’t. So he’d arrived with Cleo in tow, who still wasn’t talking to her mother and was so quiet that she didn’t even seem like the same person. All of Christmas was quiet, actually. They sat around reading books most of the time, which seemed to be the perfect activity since they could ignore each other and still pretend to be spending time together. Everyone took a lot of naps. And even Bets, who didn’t know that Cleo was pregnant yet, seemed to sense that something was off and was on unusually good behavior.

“Won’t your mother miss you?” she asked Cleo.

“Oh, no. She’ll be fine.”

One night, Claire got up and had a cigarette in the bathroom. She never would have dared if Bets hadn’t been there, but who was going to know the difference? She sat on the tile floor, her back against the wall, and smoked slowly, letting the cigarette burn down to her fingers. She sort of understood what it was that Bets liked about this. It was secret and solo. It was just one little thing that she had for herself. When she was done, she flushed the butt down the toilet and went back into Martha’s room and climbed into the twin bed.

“Did you just smoke in there?” Martha asked.

“No,” Claire said. “I didn’t.”

They all went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and came back home to have eggnog by the fire. Bets excused herself, telling everyone that it was well past her bedtime.

“I’m an old woman,” she said. “Practically on death’s door. I’m not cut out for this anymore.” She’d worn her best red suit, which seemed too big for her. Bets had always been tiny. “I barely eat,” she sometimes said. But now she was practically miniature. She seemed to be proof that old people really did shrink. It was a frightening thought.

The rest of them settled in the living room and Will started a fire. Claire was certain that they all wished they could go to bed like Bets had, but this was their tradition and they didn’t really have a choice.

Weezy poured everyone eggnog with a shot of whiskey, except for Cleo, of course. “This one’s a virgin,” she said, handing the glass to Cleo. Cleo blushed and took it. “Well, that’s an awful term, isn’t it?” Weezy asked. It was like everyone was trying to be as awkward as possible.

Claire even wished that Cathy was there with them. It would have been lovely to have someone to talk loudly and hog the conversation. But Maureen, Cathy, and Ruth had decided to visit Drew in California for Christmas. “We’re just in need of some sunshine,” Maureen had said. But that was a lie. Maureen just didn’t want to be anywhere near the Coffey house that Christmas. And really, who could blame her? She’d offered to come back and fly home with Bets on the twenty-seventh, which was her way of apologizing, and Weezy had seemed to accept it gladly.

Christmas morning, they opened their presents politely, thanking each other like they’d met not long ago; like they were acquaintances or office mates who were fond of each other. They balled up wrapping paper and threw it into a big black garbage bag that Will held open. Anytime someone made it in, Will would shout, “Two points for you!”

By the time they all sat down to eat ham at the table, their patience was thin and their small talk was bordering on nasty.

“Don’t take so many potatoes,” Martha told Max.

“Calm down, there’s plenty left for you, porky,” he said.

“I can’t believe any of you are hungry,” Bets said. “You all ate like pigs going to slaughter this morning. I can barely even imagine eating a meal right now.”

“I could use some help in the kitchen,” Weezy said.

“I’m right here, trying to help,” Will said.

“This ham looks really fatty,” Claire said.

Only Cleo remained almost completely silent. She was probably trying to will herself to be anywhere but there, thinking that no matter how much she was fighting with her own mom, this was worse. You could almost see her thoughts: There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

Fran spent the holiday in Florida with his parents, and when he returned, he brought her a little tchotchke, a tiny stage with a group of stones with googly eyes and little guitars. Underneath the label said ROCK BAND. Claire took it and laughed.

“It made me think of you,” Fran said. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

He also gave her a beautiful light tan leather journal. She realized that he probably found both presents in some little gift shop that was nearby, but she didn’t hold that against him.

She gave him a plaid scarf that she’d bought at the last minute, during a moment of doubt when she couldn’t justify sleeping with someone for three months and not giving him a Christmas present. He seemed to like it.

IT WAS A RELIEF TO GO BACK TO WORK after Christmas, which was the first time Claire had ever thought such a thing. Even though the heat in the office was on full blast and the place was always too warm, and everyone always seemed to have wet shoes that smelled like dogs, Claire was glad to be back. It meant that time was moving forward, that winter was continuing on. The people of PP loved talking about the weather, and even when it was barely snowing outside, they’d come in sniffling and saying things like, “We’re due for another whopper,” or “It took me twenty minutes to clear off my car this morning!”

Right before Christmas, Leslie had called Claire into her office to tell her that Amanda had decided to take another three months off unpaid. “It’s company policy that allows you to do that,” Leslie said. “So legally we have to let her. I won’t get into the details, but let’s just say I’m not surprised we’re in this situation.”

“Uh-huh,” Claire said. She couldn’t blame Amanda for not wanting to come back to PP right away.

“We’re hoping that you’ll be able to stay on for the next three months.”

“Sure,” Claire said.

“That’s great. That really gets us out of a bind.”

It didn’t seem like a bind at all to Claire, but she didn’t say anything. If she couldn’t do it, wouldn’t they have just called the temp agency and gotten someone else? But she could tell that Leslie was the kind of person who enjoyed being annoyed at work, who liked to sigh deeply and tell her friends, “You just have no idea what I’m dealing with at the office. No idea.”

“So you’ll stay until the end of March?” Lainie asked when she told her. “That’s good.”

“I guess.”

“Well, it’s a job. And that’s what you need.”

“I know. It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m going to be there forever. Like I’m just going to keep working at PP and keep living at home for the rest of my life.”

“Claire, it’s three more months. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“It’s just when I look at the past year, I feel like I messed up so much that there’s no telling what I could do.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re not going to live at home forever. You’ll move out, and probably soon. You’re just taking time to figure out what you want to do. It’s just a time-out.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Claire thought about Lainie’s words when she was at Proof Perfect, making copies or opening the mail. “TV Time-out,” she’d whisper sometimes at her desk. It was something they used to scream when they were little, when they were in the middle of a game and someone needed a break. They’d be running around, playing tag or kickball, and someone would yell, “TV Time-out!” and just like that, they’d all stop right where they were, put their hands on their knees, and catch their breath.

EVERY WEEK, MAX FORWARDED AN e-mail from a baby website to Claire that had been forwarded to him by Cleo. Claire was familiar with the website. Lainie had been obsessed with the same one when she was pregnant with Jack. “Do you believe this stuff?” Max would sometimes write at the top. The e-mail gave weekly information about skin and organs and fingernails. It gave comparisons to objects, so that you could imagine how big the baby was: The baby was a peanut, a grape, a kumquat, a cucumber. Okay, maybe they didn’t use that last one, but Claire couldn’t bring herself to read the e-mails. She knew that Max was overwhelmed, knew that he needed her to talk to, so that she could tell him that it was all going to be fine. So she did try.

Your baby is an orange, your baby is a peach, your baby is a plum, a watermelon, a fig. This is what Claire thought each night before she went to sleep. She listed them out of order, then went backward, making the baby smaller and smaller. Sometimes she’d keep going, creating her own list of objects: Your baby is a basketball, a watermelon, a dachshund, a couch. The list of items ran in her head fast, until it felt like she wasn’t in control of them anymore. How could you tell the difference, she wondered, between hearing voices in your head and your own thoughts?

And then one day, when the IT guy was working on her computer, she saw his eyes get wide and he turned to her with a smile. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order.”

“What?” Claire said.

“Your baby is a lemon,” he said. “You can barely tell.”

“Oh no, that’s not me. That’s my brother’s baby.”

“Oh, sorry about that.”

After he left, Claire tried to figure out what he meant when he said, You can barely tell. Barely tell? “I can barely tell that you’re a huge loser,” she muttered. And then she felt mean. And she deleted the e-mail.

FRAN’S PARENTS WERE STILL IN Florida and Claire started sleeping there a few nights a week. Whenever she left the house with a bag and said she wasn’t coming home that night, Weezy raised her eyebrows.

“What?” Claire would ask. Weezy would just shake her head.

It wasn’t much different with Fran’s parents gone all the time, since they’d seemed oblivious to Claire’s presence anyway. She’d met them a few times and they’d seemed uninterested and bored. His mom was a thin woman with short gray hair who wore sweat suits and looked tired. His dad was the same.

Claire knew without having to ask that these were not the kind of parents who asked after her, or asked Fran much about his life, for that matter. They were the parents who were truly surprised when Fran was caught smoking pot in his car at the high school, who were annoyed about it mostly because it meant they’d have to go in and meet with the dean.

One Saturday, Claire went over to help Fran watch his niece. Fran’s sister lived a few towns over, in an apartment building. She was divorced. Claire vaguely remembered her from high school. Bonnie was a couple of years older, and used to stand with the group of kids that huddled at the edge of the parking lot to smoke cigarettes in the morning and the afternoon.

Fran’s niece was about three years old, and was not an attractive child. It seemed horrible to think that, but it was the truth. She had stringy blond hair and her nose was way too big for her face. She always had food on her clothes and cried often and loudly. Also, she was a hitter.

When Claire got to the house, Fran was smoking a cigarette in the basement and Jude was sitting on the floor playing with a doll. Two lines of snot were running out of her nose.

Claire tried, but she couldn’t take an interest in the little girl. She pretended to, kneeling down to talk to her, but Jude just snatched up her doll to her chest and reached out to smack Claire. After that, she just watched. Fran seemed fond of his niece, or at least not opposed to her. He made her macaroni and cheese and got her milk in a sippy cup, which she immediately poured down her shirt. For the rest of the day, the little girl was slightly damp and smelled sour. When Claire got up to leave, she leaned down and touched the top of Jude’s head.

“ ’Bye, Jude,” she said.

“ ’Bye, stupid,” Jude replied.

She and Fran never went out, which suited her just fine. Sometimes they picked up food or got takeout, but mostly they just sat in the basement. “Don’t you two ever want to go out to dinner?” Lainie asked. Claire knew she thought it was weird, but to her it would have been weirder if they ever left the basement.

“Not really. We’re fine just hanging out,” she said.

It wasn’t just that she never wanted to spend money (which she didn’t), but it was like they both knew that their relationship, or whatever it was, worked best in the basement. If they took it out into the light of day, it would be different.

All through high school, Claire had imagined what it would be like to date Fran. Fran now seemed like a different person than the one she used to spend hours thinking about. In high school, Fran had worn a gas station shirt to school almost every day. It was navy and had the name BUD stitched above the left breast pocket. She would wonder what it would be like to lie next to him, rest her head right on top of the BUD.

She remembered the way Fran would sometimes take huge sandwiches to parties, how he would sit, stoned, in the middle of a room and shove a sub in his mouth, letting lettuce and onions drop all around him, like he was the only person in the room, or really, like he could give two shits about what these people thought of him anyway. In her whole life, Claire was pretty sure she had never felt that comfortable.

Sometimes when she was with him now, she would have a moment where she’d think, I am lying in bed with Fran Angelo. It was a strange, out-of-body experience, like when she used to get stoned in college, stare in the bathroom mirror and think, That is me. That is me looking back at me, until she got dizzy and had to leave the room.

WINTER SEEMED LONELIER, although Claire couldn’t say exactly why. She was barely home, but when she was, the idea of going somewhere else seemed so hard. It was like the idea of putting on boots and a coat exhausted her.

She didn’t spend as much time at Lainie’s, mostly because with the three boys stuck in the house, it seemed smaller and much more crowded. The last time she’d been over there, Jack spent most of the time leaping from the couch to the table to the chair. “I can’t touch the ground,” he screamed. “It’s lava and if I touch it, I’ll die.” Then he’d leapt back over to the couch and hit his arm on Claire’s nose. “Ow!” he yelled. He cradled his arm against his chest with his other hand and glared at Claire like she’d hit him. “That hurt,” he told her.

Martha had gotten in the habit of coming into Claire’s room every night. She’d sit on the edge of Claire’s bed and rattle off a list of things she’d done that day. She talked about her job and Max and Cleo. It didn’t matter if Claire answered her or even really listened. It was like Martha just needed to hear herself talk.

Claire tried to be patient with her, but it wasn’t easy. Most of the time she just wanted to be left alone. She found herself shutting her bedroom door early, turning off the lights and getting into bed so Martha would leave her alone.

One night, Claire woke up outside the house in her pajamas. She stood there, heart pounding, and realized that she must have sleepwalked out of her room, down the stairs, through the garage, and outside.

There she was, barefoot, staring right into the living room and trying to figure out what had happened. It felt a little like waking up in a hotel room on vacation and not knowing where you were for a few minutes—only so much worse. Claire hadn’t sleepwalked in years. As a child, she’d occasionally wander out of her room and down to the kitchen or into her parents’ room. Once, she’d walked out the front door, but Will had been following her and managed to guide her back to her room.

At camp, she’d once woken up a few feet from the cabin, and her counselor, a snarly teenage girl with horrible acne, was behind her, looking like she’d just seen a ghost. “What the hell?” the counselor had said. “You’re, like, possessed or something.” From then on, Claire had a note in her camp file that said PRONE TO SLEEPWALKING. PLEASE MONITOR.

But she’d thought she’d outgrown this little habit. All those years that she lived in apartments in New York, she never even worried that she’d do such a thing. And here she was, standing outside in winter in the middle of the night.

A few nights later, it happened again and Claire woke up standing on the front porch. Ruby was right behind her, her head tilted as if she was getting ready to bark. Claire hurried back into the house, locked the door, scooped Ruby up, and headed to her room, where she scrunched underneath the covers and tried to get warm again.

Telling her family was out of the question. Weezy would freak out, Martha would insist that she needed to go see a therapist, and Will would start trying to figure out how to lock the doors so that she couldn’t get outside. The whole family would talk about it at dinner for weeks. Martha would pretend that she knew the medical reasons for sleepwalking, as if being a nurse qualified her to diagnose Claire. No, it was out of the question.

The next night, Claire put a stack of books in front of her door, so that she couldn’t open it without knocking them down, which she hoped would be enough to wake her up. She was pleased with the plan, pretty sure that this would keep her safely inside. Although she did go to bed every night a little afraid that she was going to wake up somewhere strange.

AT THE END OF FEBRUARY, the whole family came down with the flu. It was a flu that sent each of them running to the bathroom again and again. Just when one would flop down on the couch, dehydrated and exhausted, the next one would hear a rumble in their stomach and get up, clutching their middle and running out of the room.

Martha and Claire lay on the couch, trying to watch a movie, but they couldn’t get through much before one of them had to leave. They were starting to get delirious. The flu had been going on for almost three days now and there was no sign of its slowing down. They had all said out loud that they might be dying.

“We look like a diarrhea commercial,” Claire said. Martha started to laugh. “What?” Claire asked.

“A diarrhea commercial? I know what you mean, but it sounds like you’re talking about an ad that’s selling diarrhea.”

“Oh yeah,” Claire said. She started to laugh too. “I meant like Pepto-Bismol or whatever.”

The family shuffled around in their pajamas, getting ginger ale and toast from the kitchen and then heading back to the couch or their beds. For the first time, when Max called, Claire told him truthfully that they hadn’t talked about him and Cleo in days. “We’re too busy talking about each other’s shit,” Claire told him. “You’re off the hook.”

“I think I might be coming down with something too,” Lainie said to Claire on the phone.

“Well,” Claire said, “you would know if you had this.”

“Yeah, I just feel so pukey all the time. Great. I’m sure the worst is coming.”

But then a couple of weeks later, Lainie called and asked Claire if she could go out for a little bit. “Brian’s watching the boys,” she said. They met in Lainie’s driveway, and Lainie drove to the Post Office Bar, a place that they used to frequent during the summers when they were home from college.

“This okay with you?” she asked.

“Sure,” Claire said. “I haven’t been here in forever.”

They ordered two drafts of some sort of amber beer, and a basket of Parmesan-garlic fries, which looked like frozen french fries that had been warmed and covered with grated cheese, but were actually not bad. The bar was empty, except for one older man at the end of the bar, who was doing a crossword puzzle and drinking. Claire wondered where he went in the summer, when this place was overrun with underage kids and a DJ came in on Friday nights. She wondered if he was mad when that happened, if he felt like his house had been taken over, or if he had a different place that he found, another quiet place for the summer.

“I’m pregnant,” Lainie said. She was addressing a thin, limp fry that she was holding. It seemed to bend further with the news.

“What?” Claire said. “When?”

“I just found out last week. It wasn’t the flu.”

“Oh my God. Well, congratulations.”

Lainie’s eyes had started to fill with tears. “I can’t be pregnant,” she said. “What am I, that reality TV woman that has like a hundred kids? I’m barely recovered from Matthew. I can’t be starting this all over again.” She took a sip of beer and the tears fell on her cheeks.

“Should you be having that?” Claire asked.

“It’s just one beer,” Lainie said. “It won’t do anything.”

“Okay,” Claire said. She was unsure how to continue.

“It’s just so f*cked up. I can’t believe I let this happen. We have, like, just barely enough money now, but not even really. And that’s with me teaching, which I can’t do much longer.” Lainie’s nose had started to run, and Claire handed her a napkin.

“You’ll be okay,” Claire said. “I know you will. It seems crazy now, I’m sure, but you’ll be okay.”

Lainie lifted the glass of beer to her lips and then put it down again without drinking. “I don’t even want it,” she said, pushing it away. “Not really. I just ordered it because I’m annoyed I can’t have it.”

“What did Brian say?”

“Same as me. He just doesn’t know how we’re going to afford it, or even fit in our house anymore, not that that matters, because we’re not going anywhere. We can’t.”

They sat together for a while, Claire reassuring Lainie that it would be fine, and Lainie listing all the things that would be different. They picked at the fries, and Claire drank both of the beers, even though by the time she got to Lainie’s, it was a little warm.

“Well, maybe it will be a girl,” Claire finally offered, as they paid their tab. “You did always want a girl, too.”

Lainie laughed and put the last group of french fries in her mouth, dragging them through the cold grease that was dotted with garlic before eating them. It was a bitter sort of laugh that sounded like she was a wise old person who’d seen it all. “It will be a boy,” she said. “I know it. We’re just going to have all boys.”

WHEN CLAIRE GOT BACK HOME, she didn’t even bother going inside before she called Fran. He was sleeping, but he answered the phone. “Come over,” he said. And so she ran there, all six blocks to his house, like she was in a race. She stopped when she got to his driveway, and rested for a minute, putting her hands on her knees.

She walked down the stairs on the side of the house, and turned the doorknob carefully. Fran never locked the door, which usually bugged her, but tonight she was grateful. The room was dark, and she stood in the doorway for a minute, letting her eyes adjust, so that she could see enough not to crash into anything.

She walked to the side of the bed and looked down at Fran, who had fallen back asleep. He was so handsome, but when she looked at him, she thought what her high school self would have thought: He’s so hot. She touched his head and he opened his eyes and gave her a sleepy smile.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re a nice surprise.”

She bent down over him, putting her face in his neck and smelling him, all cinnamon and smoke, and for one scary second, she thought she was going to start crying. Fran pulled sleepily at her shirt and then her pants.

“Off,” he said. “Take these off.”

And so she unbuttoned her jeans, fumbling with the zipper, like she couldn’t make her fingers move fast enough. She slid out of them quickly, tripping a little as she pulled them off her feet. Then she took off her shirt with one movement and finished the rest before getting into bed, sliding in between the sheets and moving over next to him so that her skin was touching his. “Come here,” he said, and so she did. She would have done anything he told her to at that moment, would have listened to anything he said.