She can hear movement, as if her mother is getting more comfortable to listen. “What have you been fighting about?”
“A friend of mine.”
Another pause. This one is longer and feels heavy with some meaning Claire is still sorting out. She cuts berry after berry, careful to keep the slices even.
“A friend?” her mother says. “Is this friend…a man?”
“No, Mother.” Claire sighs. “Her name is Jackie. What do you take me for?”
“I was only asking.”
“Pete doesn’t want me seeing her anymore. But I have been. I’ve been going against his wishes,” Claire admits quietly. Even if she can already sense the judgement that will follow, saying it out loud untangles one of the many knots in her chest. “Almost every day, now.”
“Claire,” her mother sighs. “You need to keep Pete happy. Why would you do something so foolish?”
“I don’t know why he hates her so much,” Claire says in a rush, throwing down her knife. “They all do. They dislike her without even knowing her. She’s wonderful, Mother. She’ssmart, and independent, and so kind. She’s myfriend. Why is that such a bad thing?”
“I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“He thinks she’s a bad influence on me,” Claire mutters. She feels petulant, now, like in talking to her mother she’s been brought right back to being seven years old, trying to explain why she ruined her church dress splashing in puddles.
Her mothertsks. “It sounds like perhaps she is.”
Claire clenches her jaw until her teeth hurt.
“I just want what’s best for you,” her mother says. It’s the same tone she used when Claire expressed doubts on her wedding day. “A happy, secure life. Safety. Why would you put that at risk?”
“Why should Pete get to control every single thing I do?” Claire says. The syrup warming on the stove is starting to bubble, and she turns the knob down. “It isn’t fair.”
“He is your husband.”
“But—”
“This is how it works, Claire,” Miriam says. “You have nothing to cry about. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Pete takes care of you, and you stick it out. Things will get better.”
Claire is struck dumb, for a moment—it’s been years since her mother was so firm with her. The last time she can remember was in sixth grade, when she had chipped one of her teeth playing rough on the playground equipment and almost ruined school picture day by getting blood on her dress.
Claire runs her tongue over the chip, still there on her second incisor. Small, but significant. The remnant of her last act of defiance, before very recently. Her mother had wanted to get it filled with some kind of bonding, but her father had disagreed. He said it gave her character.
“So what’s for breakfast?” her mother says brightly, as if the conversation never happened at all.
Claire shouldn’t be surprised. Her mother has always avoided difficult conversations, always emphasizing that it’s better to look at the positive. But even for her, this is an abrupt pivot.
“I have to go,” Claire says. She can hear Pete moving around upstairs, grunting and snorting, and it’s never a pleasant morning when he comes down to find no breakfast.
“Oh. Sure. But you’ll do what I said, won’t you?” her mother says insistently.
“I’ll talk to you next week,” Claire says. She slams the receiver down harder than she meant to, but itisrather satisfying.
Claire sits for a moment in her frustration. She didn’t expect her mother to be particularly helpful, but she didn’t expect to be scolded, either.
When she hears the upstairs bathroom door open and close, Claire shakes herself out of her thoughts. She puts the coffee on and sets the waffle iron to heating. She makes Pete his breakfast, cleans up the kitchen, and spends the afternoon cutting coupons while Pete goes out golfing with Walter.
~ ~ ~
On Monday, Claire jets over to Jackie’s house as soon as Martha’s car pulls out of the drive for her weekly grocery shop.
Claire likes to think she’s gotten better at reading Jackie’s subtle facial expressions. When the door opens, there’s a moment of genuine shock on her face that fades to happiness, though Jackie tempers it quickly.
