Motherhood. Spending her days trapped in the house with no way to get around, which will only get harder when she’s lugging a baby around like Martha. Living next to Jackie, watching her shadow pass by the window and knowing what she might have had a chance at if she’d just been a little braver.
Pete has already gotten out of the car, letting the door slam behind him, but Claire stays where she is.
“Claire?” Pete calls.
Claire grips the armrests. All the worry of the last few weeks, all the anxiety, all resentment and fear and guilt, has settled into something cold and hard and angry right in the middle of her chest.
Pete appears at the window. He taps hard on the glass. “Did you hear me? We’re home.”
“I heard you,” Claire says distantly. “I’m coming.”
The next morning, Claire puts two dollars out of the grocery money into an envelope and hides it in her vanity.
Chapter 22
Slowly, carefully, Claire plans her exit strategy.
She gathers her few precious belongings together, and the bare minimum of clothes she might need—undergarments, pajamas, and a few of her old dresses that Rita didn’t make for her. Photos of her own family, always tucked away in an album rather than on display with Pete’s. A few of her favorite books, including the one where she hid Jackie’s three photos. A few precious knickknacks, and her art supplies.
Everything else can be left behind. Her makeup, her kitchen tools, her jewelry. The baubles that Pete has bought her as gifts over the years. All of it is dust to her.
She starts to put away as much of Pete’s grocery money as she can into that envelope to use as an emergency fund, pinching pennies and cutting coupons to keep him from noticing. She digs through the couch for forgotten dimes. The weeks press on, and what was at first a contingency starts to become a reality.
The straw that breaks her back is surprisingly mundane.
Martha’s Halloween party is a mainstay of the neighborhood. Claire half expected it to be cancelled this year, what with the baby, but apparently, he’s sleeping better these days—Martha has his little pumpkin costume all sewn up by the time the day comes. Helping in the party planning gives Claire something to direct her energy toward. She helps to decorate. She washes and irons her usual costume (a black dress and little homemade cat ears) and Pete’s (he refuses to dress up any more than a tie with tiny bats on it). She gives out bags of homemade cookies to trick-or-treaters, and when the kids have retired, she brings her potato salad across the road on Pete’s arm, trying not to thinkabout the fact that there’s clearly also a party going on at Jackie’s house and she hasn’t been invited.
Sure, Pete wouldn’t let her attend, but Jackie always used to invite her.
The evening seems to drag by. Claire feels as if she’s having the same conversation over and over again—how are you? How’s your husband? Is the bathroom renovation going well? Oh, yes, he’s getting so big, last I saw him he was crawling—no, Pete and I aren’t expecting any time soon—no reason, just not the right time—Sharon’s Swedish meatballs are delicious, what’s the recipe?
It’s exhausting. A never-ending performance that she’s not sure she can keep doing.
Where Martha’s party gets more subdued as the night presses on, Jackie’s seems to ratchet up in intensity. Claire can see the activity from Martha’s front window, where she takes up residence to get away from the excruciating conversations. There are lights in the windows, bent by the shadows of dancing people. She can’t hear the music, but she can imagine what it sounds like. Not the Monster Mash currently grating on her ears, but loud rock and roll. There are even some people out on the front lawn. Claire is sure someone in a Dracula costume is vomiting in Jackie’s hydrangeas.
Pete’s cologne fills Claire’s nose before she hears his voice.
“Why are you sulking over here? It’s not very sociable.”
“I’m not in a very sociable mood,” Claire says flatly. A woman with dark hair is stumbling down the street arm-in-arm with another woman, and Claire watches them intently until they pass under a street-lamp and it’s made clear that it isn’t Jackie.
Pete lowers his voice. “Then get in one. This is a party.”
Claire squeezes her fist until pain shoots up her arm. “I’ve been on all night. I’m tired.”
“What are you talking about?On?” Pete says, his volume rising a little. “How hard is it to make conversation? Stop embarrassing yourself and come back to the party.”
Someone is comforting the vomiting Dracula across the street, rubbing his back and pulling his long hair out of his face. It looks to be a tall woman with an impressively voluminous hairstyle. Claire isn’t doing anything embarrassing like that, is she? She’s not vomiting in Martha’s rose bush or drinking too heavily. She’s just asking for a minute to compose herself.
Claire has been actively trying not to bring Jackie to mind too often lately—it hurts too much. But Jackie’s words come back to her now.There’s nobody to embarrass here, Claire.
Claire runs her tongue along her teeth, finding the familiar groove of the chip on her incisor, and she whirls around.
“I saidno, Pete,” Claire says loudly.
All heads turn towards them. It isn’t just a small dinner party with Martha and Walter, this time—half the neighborhood is here. At least, the half that isn’t at the party across the street.
Pete’s neck turns fuchsia.
