Claire tilts her head to read the box.Electrolux:Luxomatic,Model1205.
It’s a new vacuum cleaner.
“See all the attachments?” Pete says, popping the box open to pull the thing out. It’s a pale blue that reminds Claire painfully of Jackie’s Mustang. “This way you can get all the nooks and crannies you usually miss. And it has different settings, see?”
Claire stares uncomprehendingly as Pete points out the new-fangled features. He holds up the hose and various attachments as if they’re everything she could have ever wanted, the perfect gift for his old lady. His ball and chain. He’s talking animatedly, but the words aren’t quite registering in Claire’s brain.
The wasp sting throbs.
Claire thanks him with a kiss on the cheek. She makes him a gin and tonic, cutting lemon slices with numbed fingers. The juice stings in her mangled nail beds. She pushes her tuna casserole around on her plate at dinnertime and cleans up the dishes while he turns on the evening news. Then she climbs the stairs, and shuts herself in their darkening bedroom.
The evening has turned cloudy. It looks like it might rain again, and Claire sits in the dim room as the last minutes of dusk cast shadows across the floor.
The walls feel too close. The duvet is too scratchy. The room smells like Pete’s cologne. And the whole room is Pete’s, really, isn’t it? Claire’s vanity is in the corner, but the room is laid out the way Pete likes it. The photos on the walls are of his family. Even Claire’s clothes hanging in the closet are from his mother. Where is Claire, in this house? Is she in the book on her nightstand, the next novel chosen by Martha for book club? Is she in her new vacuum cleaner? Everything that’s hers is hidden away. The outfit Jackie bought for her. Her sketches, her paintings, her photos with Jackie. Every night before she goes to sleep, she’s been taking the photos out of their hiding place in her vanity drawer, just to feel something. Now she feels too much. She feels so much that it won’t fit inside her. It fills every space in her body.
The low tones of the television drift up from downstairs. Rain is starting to patter on the window. There’s a knot in Claire’s chest, growing bigger by the moment. She’s digging her nails in so hard that her hands are numb.
Grasping desperately across the bed, she presses her face into the nearest pillow andscreams.
It’s maybe the loudest sound she’s ever made, and yet the pillow muffles it to all but her own ears. She screams until her throat is hoarse. It wrenches loose the knot in her chest, butwhen her breath finally runs out it leaves her feeling completely hollowed. It isn’t just her hand that hurts, now—it’s everything. Her stomach. Her throat. Her heart.
She can feel a sob coming. It’s rising in her throat, making her eyes sting—
“Claire, honey?” Pete calls, just barely audible from downstairs. “Another drink?”
With a heaving effort, Claire chokes it back. She grits her teeth, wipes her eyes, re-applies her mascara, and somehow wills her hands to stop shaking as she fixes Pete his drink.
~ ~ ~
Claire had held out some hope that book club would be a welcome respite, but it hardly helps at all. It’s at Dorothy’s house this time, Martha having finally loosened her grip on being the only host, and for once Claire is glad that it always devolves into gossip. She’s been so distracted lately that she didn’t finish the book, and the quick sidetrack into the usual chitchat is welcome.
“I haven’t seen Susan Wilson here for a few meetings,” Dorothy is saying, raising her eyebrows as she refills everyone’s teacups. “Do you think she’s decided she’s not a fan of literature after all?”
Martha shakes her head. Her little Daniel is in the crook of her arm, and she’s having trouble balancing him as she sips her tea. “I’m not sure. I’ve sent the invitations, but she hasn’t shown up since the spring.”
“I heard she’s having troubles with her husband,” Louise says.
The baby makes a squeaky kind of noise, and Martha readjusts his swaddle. “And where did you hear that?”
“The Wilsons live a few doors down from me,” Louise says. There’s a smugness to her voice—she’s clearly relishing being thefirst to reveal a new and juicy piece of information. “I heard that he’sswunga bit too far, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re not saying they’re…” Dorothy says, making a vague gesture with her hands.
Louise grins. “Like a saloon door, from what I hear. And Susan is no saint, either. Did you hear about what happened at that big housewarming party, back in March?”
Claire’s head snaps up. She’d barely been following the conversation, but her attention is lassoed effectively with just a few words. “Jackie’s party? What about it?”
“What I heard is that Susan and the hostess wereverypreoccupied,” Louise says.
Claire scoffs, sitting up a little straighter. “Preoccupied with who? Mr.Wilson? Don’t be ridiculous.”
The mention of Jackie makes her stomach hurt; the idea of her with Mr.Wilson, a tall and insufferably loud man with a penchant for bad jokes, makes it roil. Jackie can do miles better than him. She wouldn’t give him the time of day, Claire knows it.
“No,” Louise says, leaning closer and grinning like she’s sitting on the biggest exclusive the neighborhood has ever seen, “witheach other.”
It might as well be a gunshot. Claire’s ears start to ring.
With each other.
