Jackie swallows. She glances back towards the party, where Pete’s voice can be heard above the others. Her hands are still held in Claire’s.
“I’d like that,” Jackie says. She finally squeezes Claire’s hands, and before she drops them, she flashes a smile that holds at least a hint of her usual vivaciousness. “Give me a call on Monday?”
The fact that Claire never visits,cannever visit, on the weekend when Pete is home remains unspoken.
Claire stays in her little hidey-hole for a few long, quiet minutes after Jackie has headed home. She can hear Pete calling for her, wondering where she is—that it’s taken him this long to realize she’s gone isn’t surprising. Claire ignores him until a small child sprints through the bushes, barreling into Claire’s middle.
“Oh. Sorry, Mrs.Davis,” the girl says—it’s Jane, the one Martha scolded not long ago. She does have grubby hands and scraped knees at the hem of her skirt. “We’re—um, we’re playing hide-and-seek.”
Jane shifts from foot to foot. There’s a hole in one of her stockings, and a toe is poking out. She looks an absolute mess, like she’s been tumbling through the dirt with the boys. She also looks supremely nervous. She must be expecting another scolding.
“Don’t let me get in your way,” Claire says, smiling down at her. “This is a good hiding spot.”
Jane relaxes immediately. She’s all long limbs and knobbly elbows, scrappy and tomboyish; Claire is sure her mother must be frustrated to no end by it, much like Claire’s once was, but Jane doesn’t seem to care. She crouches down in the mulch with no regard whatsoever for her nice dress. “Thanks! Don’t tell Darren I’m here, he thinks a girl can’t win.”
“Mum’s the word,” Claire says, pressing a finger to her lips. She moves to slip through the bushes and back to the party, but she stops just short. “And, Jane?”
Jane looks up at her guardedly. There’s a twig in her hair, and a fierce brightness in her eyes. An expectation, maybe, of being told she’s too much. Too wild. Too unladylike.
“You look like you’ve had a grand time today,” Claire says. “Keep having fun, okay?”
Jane breaks into a grin, wide and happy. “Yes, ma’am.”
Pete is sticking fireworks into the ground with a few other men when Claire finds her way to the party again. He’s stumbling a little—usually Claire would remind him to eat something or slow down on the beer, but instead she settles into a lawn chair next to Martha. He can take care of himself for a night.
“Where did you disappear to?” Martha says. She’s watching the proceedings like a hawk, ready to give input on firework placement as always.
“I ran back home to powder my nose,” Claire says.
Martha doesn’t press. She heaves herself up to make her slow way towards the fireworks, calling directions to Walter and Pete, and Claire relaxes into her chair.
All in all, not a bad Memorial Day.
~ ~ ~
Her mother’s phone call comes in early the next morning. She often likes to ring up after she goes to church, and Claire appreciates the earliness with the time difference—Pete likes to sleep in on a Sunday, so the conversation doesn’t get interrupted.
“How are things?” her mother asks.
Claire whisks the waffle batter aggressively, frowning at the lumps that won’t quite break down for Pete’s breakfast. “Fine. How are things for you?”
“Lovely,” her mother says simply.
The line crackles. It’s not uncommon to run out of things to talk about—these calls are usually short, full of small-talk and random chatter. They don’t talk about anything substantial. They never have. If ever Claire tries, her mother changes the subject.
Lately, though, everything Claire has been thinking and feeling has felt substantial. And who else can she talk about it with? Martha is a direct line to Pete. Jackie is the source of most of her ennui. Isn’t a woman supposed to get advice from her mother? Passing wisdom through generations, and all that?
“A few things are…less than fine,” Claire says carefully. She sets the bowl of batter down, tucking the phone more securely into her shoulder as she turns to slicing strawberries.
Miriam pauses for a long time before she answers.
“Such as?”
“Pete and I have been fighting,” Claire says. “On occasion.”
“Oh, honey,” her mother sighs.
“I know,” Claire says.
