“I’ll come pick you up. I doubt you have money for the bus fare,” Pete says, before Claire has gotten those two words out. “Just give me an address.”
Claire takes a deep breath. She clutches the envelope, holding it to her chest like a shield. She repeats Anita’s advice in her head—it’s not a request, chickadee. Phrase it as a statement. Don’t let him refuse.
“We’re getting a divorce,” Claire says loudly.
Pete’s line buzzes.
“I have the papers,” Claire says, when enough time has passed without Pete speaking. “I need you to sign them. Will you be at home tomorrow?”
“We’re not getting a divorce,” Pete says.
Claire pushes on. “You have the option of refusing to sign the papers, but I can file them either way starting next week. It’s better for both of us if you just sign.”
Pete grunts. “You’re being ridiculous. I don’t know where you’re holing up, but it can’t be pleasant. Come home tonight for Martha and Walter’s party. We can get you settled again in the morning.”
It’s as if Claire hasn’t been speaking at all. Pete is bulldozing over everything, pushing onwards the way he always does. Claire is tired of being bulldozed.
“I’m not coming home, Pete,” Claire repeats, her voice rising almost to a shout. “I’m filing for divorce.”
“I haven’t been unfaithful. And neither have you,” Pete says, with utter confidence. He speaks with the tone of a teacher telling his student they can do extra credit to bring their grade up. “You have nowhere to go. There’s no need to disrupt our lives. If you come home tonight, we’ll forget this ever happened.”
Claire looks down at the paperwork in her hand, searching for some way to make Pete accept the truth. There’s nothing in the typewritten letters on the page, but she does notice something else—the perpetual nail-marks in her palms have finally healed. She can still see the scars, but they’re a faint silvery-pink instead of an angry red. Somehow in the last few weeks she’s broken the habit. She hardly noticed that she hasn’t been clenching her fists lately.
Strangely, that’s the thing that makes Claire hang up the phone while Pete is still fruitlessly arguing. She’s sure he must still be expecting her to turn up at Martha’s party tonight with a brand-new happy attitude, ready to ring in the New Year together.
It’s not unexpected, but it is exasperating. After thanking the shop owner for the use of the phone she stomps up the stairs to her apartment, tossing the papers onto the table and flopping backwards onto her mattress with a groan.
If she does go to Martha’s party tonight to give Pete the papers, he’s going to corner her. She can feel it. He’ll talk overher, involve other people to make her feel guilty, and in the end probably won’t accept the papers anyways. The lawyer told Claire that the proceedings can continue if Pete refuses to sign them, but it’ll get more complicated and expensive. Should she just shove them in the mailbox? Leave them at the house while Pete is at work after the holidays? She doesn’t want to wait that long.
But Pete won’t be home tonight, will he? He’ll be at Martha’s party. Claire still has her old house key. Nobody will see her if they’re all busy celebrating the New Year. She could go tonight and leave them on the table for Pete to find on the first day of 1970.
Claire is slow and careful while getting ready. She takes a hot bath. She rubs hair oil through her damp curls and lets them air-dry. She pulls the clothes that Jackie bought her out of her bag, and irons out most of the wrinkles by heating up the bottom of her frying pan. When she puts them on, still slightly warm, she can see her reflection in one of the windows. She looks tall and confident. It’s encouraging—she needs the extra boost tonight.
The sun is down and both parties are in full swing on either side of the street when her taxi rolls into the cul-de-sac, and Claire directs the driver to stop in front of her former home.
The acacia tree is barely blooming, its flowers falling to the grass in preparation for the coolest months. If there’s one thing from this neighborhood besides Jackie that she’ll miss, it’s this tree.Secret love,Jackie had said about acacias. Hidden emotion. Claire picks up one of the wilted puffs, rolling it between her fingers until it comes apart into yellow pulp.
How fitting.
The lights are all dark. Pete hasn’t changed the locks, so Claire slips into the house and through the darkened hall. She stops in her tracks when she flicks the kitchen light on.
The place is a disaster. The countertops are filthy, and the sink is piled with dirty dishes. The trashcan is full of packaging for TV dinners, the table so scattered with papers and bits of trash that Claire isn’t sure where to put her envelope. It looks as if nothing has been cleaned in two months.
Out of curiosity, Claire goes upstairs. In the bedroom, the laundry basket is so full that it’s spilling onto the floor. It looks like Pete has bought new clothes rather than figure out how to work the machine. The bed is unmade. All of her things are untouched. Her engagement and wedding rings have been moved, though—they’re sitting on her dusty jewelry tray, instead of out in the open where she left them.
Claire is surrounded by her things, the trappings of her old life, and yet it feels as if they all belong to someone else. She’s been so changed now that she can’t imagine ever slipping into this ill-fitting role again.
Claire picks the rings up, letting them sit on her palm. They felt like heavy weights when she first took them off. Now, they feel light as aluminum foil. They’re nothing at all, really, are they? Just two pieces of cheap metal and a tiny stone.
Claire makes the bed. She tucks the top sheet in, fluffs the pillows, and smooths out the wrinkles in the duvet just like she used to. Then she leaves the papers on the bedspread, in plain view. Over her own signature, she sets her rings.
Locking the door behind her feels more final than it did last time. She’s strangely aware of the fact that this is probably the last time she’ll ever do it. The decisiveness of it makes her feel more confident than she did going in, and once it’s sealed behind her she turns towards the loud music coming from Jackie’s house. She’s weighing the pros and cons of going inside when she sees the white sign on Jackie’s lawn.
For Sale.
Claire’s stomach lurches.
Her feet take her across the lawns in a daze, and soon she’s staring down at the sign as if it’s going to explain itself to her. Where is Jackie moving to? And why? The listing date on the sign is only a few days ago.
