Chapter 8
April is a busy time at Pete’s work. Things get more hectic for him after Easter with people buying new cars for the summer, and it means he needs a perfect house to come home to—Claire’s time is usually taken up with deep cleanings in late spring.
Lately, though, at least a few hours a week are taken up by Jackie.
Claire makes excuses, at first. She ensures that she always has a solid reason to visit, with some food to share or a question to ask, but it becomes much easier after her third straight day crossing the lawns, when Jackie finally tells her that she’s welcome to come socialize anytime.
Each day she knocks on Jackie’s door means experiencing something new.
Mixing champagne with orange juice over fresh bakery pastries for breakfast. Watching Jackie pop the hood of her Mustang and change the oil, with the femininity of her outfit—a sleeveless jumpsuit with a loud blue and yellow pattern—clashing with her grime-stained hands in a thrilling way.
Going through Jackie’s extensive record collection, most of which Claire has never heard before.
One such new thing is revealed two weeks after Easter, when Claire knocks on Jackie’s door only to be met with silence.
Strange. Jackie’s car is in the driveway, so she should be home. Claire knocks again, and this time she can just barely hear Jackie’s voice carry through the wood.
“Claire?”
The fact that Jackie knows it’s Claire knocking—that her visits are regular and anticipated enough for that to be her assumption—makes her a bit giddy.
“It’s me,” Claire calls back, glancing behind her to Martha’s house across the road. There’s a gap in the curtains, but she can’t see if anyone is behind them. It tinges the giddiness with a bit of worry. “Are you alright?”
“The door’s unlocked,” comes Jackie’s muffled response.
Claire hurries inside, closing the door behind her, and follows the sound of Jackie’s movement to the kitchen.
Jackie is seated in the breakfast nook, surrounded by white papers and greenish herbs. She’s rolling one of the papers into a long, fat cigarette shape, and when she looks up Claire can see dark circles under her eyes. Her smile is genuine, even if it doesn’t quite light her face up like usual.
“Morning,” Jackie says, running her tongue along the edge of the paper to seal it. She scrunches up the ends, holding it out to Claire. “Want to share?”
The papers, the herbs, the strange smell hanging around the kitchen—the combination of everything she’s seeing finally sparks Claire’s brain, and she gasps.
“Is that marijuana?” Claire hisses, looking nervously over her shoulder as if the police might knock the door down at any moment.
Jackie hardly reacts to Claire’s outburst. She sweeps the leftover cannabis into a baggie, tying it up and putting it into a mason jar. “It’s a little harder to get out here than it is in the city, but luckily I brought some with me.”
“But it’s illegal,” Claire whispers. The feeling of being watched has only intensified—if Martha were here, she’d no doubt have something to say. Several things, most likely, and none of them flattering.
“Lots of things are illegal, Claire,” Jackie says quietly.
Even through the film of Claire’s anxiety, the moment feels suddenly heavy.
Jackie’s brow is furrowed as she taps the joint on the table, like she was just reminded of something she’d rather forget.
“You can leave if it makes you uncomfortable. I won’t hold it against you. ”
“I don’t want to leave,” Claire says, sure at least of that one thing. Claire never wants to leave. She only goes back to her own house after their visits because she needs to get things done before Pete gets home. If she had her way, she’d spend her whole day here.
“If you’re sure,” Jackie says. She grabs a silver lighter, flicking the cap off and heading towards the living room. “I don’t usually indulge, but I had a rough night. I’m going to get blazed.”
“A rough night?” Claire asks.
Jackie throws herself onto the plush couch and flicks the lighter. The tip of the paper glows orange, and Jackie take a deep pull on it, holding the smoke in for a few seconds before exhaling it all in a strange-smelling cloud.
“My mother called.”
Claire has never seen Jackie so disheveled before.
She has not a stitch of makeup on her face.
She’s still in her pajamas, a blue gauzy robe over a silk negligée, and she’s sprawled across the couch with the joint in her hand as if she doesn’t have a guest over.
It’s exhilarating to be trusted with this side of her.
Claire wonders if anyone else gets to see it, besides her. She hopes not.
“You aren’t close with your mother, right?” Claire says, carefully perching on the cushion near Jackie’s bare feet. Her scarlet toenail polish is chipped.
“That’s an understatement,” Jackie says, flicking ash carelessly onto the carpet. “Have you ever met a Greek Orthodox mother?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Claire says.
“She’s been trying to get my inheritance renounced. Thankfully my grandfather left a will, but my mother got it tied up in litigation for a few years.”
Claire folds her ankles demurely, resisting the urge to clean up the ash. “Why would she do that?”
“She doesn’t approve of my lifestyle.”
“What, just because you’re not married?” Claire scoffs. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
Jackie laughs bitterly. She takes another puff—the tip of the joint glows orange, and the smoke rises towards the ceiling. “Among many other grievances. C’est la vie.”
“I’m sorry, Jackie.”
“It’s alright. This is helping. And I’m glad you came to see me today.”
Jackie does seem much more relaxed already.
She isn’t acting wild or crazy. She’s just sitting with her head lolled back on the headrest of the couch, humming quietly to herself.
The smell is odd, but not harsh and sharp like cigarette smoke.
Claire has always associated drugs with hard partiers or beatniks, but Jackie is… well, she’s Jackie.
She hasn’t steered Claire wrong yet, right?
“I want to try it,” Claire says decisively.
Jackie cracks one eye open. It’s slightly bloodshot. “Try what?”
“The…the reefer,” Claire says.
Jackie snorts. It turns quickly into a giggle, and her feet worm their way under Claire’s thigh. The warmth of them seems to burn. “Reefer. Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
“I’ve liked all the other new things you’ve shown me,” Claire says, watching the smoke curl lazily from the tip of the joint. “I trust you.”
Something comes over Jackie’s face, then. A tension, maybe, like a raincloud darkening the light in her eyes. But it passes quickly. Jackie sits up, handing the smoldering joint over to Claire.
Claire raises it to her mouth. It seems silly, but the part that Jackie touched to her lips seems warmer than the rest.
“Take a small drag. It’s probably going to make you cough,” Jackie says.
It does, in fact, make Claire cough. There’s a heaviness to breathing the smoke in that she didn’t expect.
It’s a little bit acrid, but it isn’t as horrible as everyone has always made it sound.
Jackie rubs her back throughout, helping her through the coughing fit.
When Claire hands the joint back, she feels rather accomplished.
“I don’t feel any different,” Claire says. Her voice a little rough, and her eyes are watering from the coughing.
Jackie chuckles, taking another puff herself. “Give it a minute.”
A few minutes and a few lungfuls later, Claire can see what Jackie means.
Her skin feels strange. It’s slightly more sensitive than usual, and tingly in some places.
Everything is just a little bit brighter.
She can’t seem to control the things that come out of her mouth, and the heavy, anxious feeling that usually sits in her chest—always present, in some way, in every facet of her life—is completely gone.
The world is just swell all over, and the jaunty, unfamiliar record that Jackie puts into the player makes Claire want to move her body.
Setting the joint at the edge of a crystal ashtray on the table, Claire lets her shoulders twist to the beat of the latest song. It’s upbeat and fun, and it fills her chest like a balloon. “What is this music?”
“The Supremes,” Jackie says, picking up the joint Claire just abandoned. She takes a long drag. Her foot is bopping, jumping to the song even if the rest of her is still. “Aren’t they great?”
“They’re amazing,” Claire says. She jumps to her feet, her hips already starting to twist. The song is too good to stay sitting—it feels like it’s inside her, zooming through every last one of her veins right to her heart. “Jackie, let’s dance.”
Jackie laughs, falling back against the couch cushions. “You have fun. I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”
Claire keeps moving. The self-consciousness she might have felt about dancing in Jackie’s living room can’t seem to get its hooks into her—now that she’s started, she doesn’t want to stop.
“Pete and I used to go dancing sometimes, when we were dating. He was awful at it, but we’d go to the dance hall and do the jitterbug until curfew. ”
Jackie snorts. She’s looking up at Claire with what she hopes is affection. “I don’t think I’ve seen the jitterbug since I graduated high school.”
“Probably because that’s the last time I really got out of the house,” Claire says, starting a spirited hand-jive. “Pete and I stopped going dancing after we got married.”
Jackie’s smile fades into something more somber. It might even be pity, but Claire doesn’t care. As long as Jackie is looking at her at all, the world can’t be so bad.
“Won’t you join me?” Claire says, still bouncing as a new song comes on. It’s even jauntier than the last. “It’s no fun to dance all alone.”
Jackie sets the joint on the edge of an ashtray but doesn’t budge from the couch. “I haven’t danced like that in over a decade.”