She gets no answer. When Claire leans close, she can hear the distant sound of a baby crying. She knocks again; this time, she hears movement beyond the door. A muted thump, like something has been tripped over, and Martha’s voice swearing.
Claire blinks in the bright sunlight. Martha doesn’tswear.
“Martha?” Claire calls.
From what Claire can guess is the den, she hears a muffled voice. “I don’t have time to entertain today.”
“You don’t need to entertain me,” Claire says, shifting from foot to foot on the stoop. “Will you let me in?”
“I’m busy,” Martha says. Her voice sounds hoarse, even behind the door.
“I’m here to help.”
“I don’t need your help!” Martha says shrilly. “Why don’t you go have tea with yourrealbest friend?”
Claire sighs. She shifts the Tupperware to her hip. “I’d like to visit with you.”
Martha stays quiet. The baby is still crying. Slowly, in the window to the right of the door, Claire sees a curtain shift.
Claire holds the container up to the gap like a peace offering. “I have blueberry muffins.”
The curtains flutter back into place. After a few long beats, the door opens a crack. Even through the sliver Claire can see that Martha’s eye is bloodshot and puffy.
“The house isn’t fit for company,” Martha says.
“Mine never is, according to your standards.”
The crack widens a little, and then shrinks again, as if Martha is going to shut it on her.
“Please let me in, Martha,” Claire says softly. “I don’t care about your house.”
After a few beats, the door creaks slowly open. Claire steps inside; when she finally takes in the state of the place, she has to stifle a gasp.
The den is a mess. Blankets stained with spit-up are strewn all about, and it clearly hasn’t been dusted in at least a week. Martha herself looks absolutely exhausted. Her red hair is limp and unkempt, and there are dark bags under her eyes.
Daniel continues to cry in his portable crib near the couch.
“Everything is just fine. Just fine,” Martha says before Claire can ask, hurriedly tidying up. She grabs at a collection of baby bottles, knocking them all about in her hurry. “You can’t stay long, though. It’s time for Danny’s nap.”
The baby’s cries reach an ear-splitting volume.
“He has colic, you see,” Martha says, over the noise. Her eyes are watering. Her voice shakes as she chases one of the fallen bottles under the coffee table. “The doctor says it should clear up by twelve weeks. But until then—”
It’s as if the baby doesn’t need to breathe. He cries and cries, and Martha’s shoulders start to shake.
Claire leans down, grabbing the fallen bottle and helping Martha to her feet. “Walter isn’t helping, is he?”
“Why would he? He’s the head of the household. This is my job,” Martha says fiercely. “Taking care of the house and the baby is my job, and I—” Martha’s voice finally cracks open into a sob.
Claire should feel some kind of satisfaction, maybe, that Martha is getting a comeuppance for her recent behavior. That her façade of perfection is breaking apart. But she doesn’t. She pities her. She wraps her arms around Martha, and lets her cry.
“He never sleeps,” Martha sobs into Claire’s shoulder. “He’s up at all hours, and he cries constantly, and when he does sleep I have so—so much to do around the house that I can’t—and Walt keeps saying—”
“To hell with Walter,” Claire says loudly.
Martha reels back. She seems momentarily shocked out of her tears, blinking up at Claire, and Claire takes her by the shoulders.
“Go try to put Daniel down for his nap. I’ll clean up down here,” Claire says firmly.
