Chapter 10
Dinner with Martha and Walter is an awkward affair.
Pete and Walter don’t seem to notice at all.
They talk just as they usually do, blind to the tension that sits between their wives.
Pete swigs his wine; Walter noisily shoves salmon into his mouth.
Martha picks at her asparagus, clearly still upset, while Claire makes patterns in the hollandaise sauce with her fork.
Claire is successful in her resolve to put on a brave face for the night until the conversation turns to the other side of the street.
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of that new neighbor since she moved in,” Walter says, topping up his own wine and Pete’s. “She hasn’t come to book club, has she, Martha?”
“She has not,” Martha says tightly.
“Wonder how she affords that big house without a man around.”
“She’s a photographer,” Claire says, before she can think better of it. “She…told me at the housewarming.”
Martha stabs aggressively at a boiled potato.
“A working woman! She’s certainly easy on the old eyes, isn’t she?
” Walter says boisterously. Whether he doesn’t see Martha flinch or he simply doesn’t care, Claire doesn’t know.
“Bet she’d be a handful, though. Big-city woman like that strikes me as one of those bra-burners. Needs someone to tame her.”
“The looks aren’t worth the trouble, Walt,” Pete says, grinning into his wine glass.
“I’m glad Claire has nothing to do with her.
Don’t need someone like that putting any ideas in her head.
” He says it as if Claire isn’t right next to him.
He does it often, but tonight it sets Claire’s nerves on edge.
It doesn’t help that Martha’s head perks up for the first time all night.
“Oh?” Martha says, setting her fork down demurely. “I see Claire crossing the lawns pretty frequently to visit her.”
Claire’s stomach sinks to the floor.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pete scoffs. He turns to Claire, who stares down at her half-eaten salmon. The other half is currently churning in her stomach.
“Claire? Didn’t you spend the afternoon with our dear neighbor just the other day?” Martha says. There’s a pinched, satisfied sort of look on her face. A small revenge for Claire’s emotional slight. Claire has never seen her look quite so vindictive.
Claire’s nails find their home on the inside of her palm.
“Is that true?” Pete says. His knuckles are stark white around his fork.
“She needed a cup of sugar,” Claire says. She keeps her eyes aimed at her plate. “We had tea. That’s all.”
Walter piles more potatoes onto his plate. The clatter of the serving spoon against the bowl makes Claire’s skin feel itchy.
“Is this why you’ve been slacking off lately? You’re spending all your time socializing with that tramp?” Pete says.
Claire says nothing. Something is bubbling in her stomach. It’s hot and acidic, and it makes her want to snap at someone—at Pete’s furrowed brow, at Martha’s smugness, at Walter and his noisy eating. Swallowing it down is like trying not to vomit all over the dinner table.
“Well, that ends today,” Pete says when Claire doesn’t answer. He chuckles indulgently, looking to Walter, and his grip on his fork relaxes. “Suffice to say, you won’t be associating with her again.”
Claire is sure that if she stayed silent, the topic would pass.
The spotlight would leave her, and she could put her head down for the rest of the meal.
But that hot, bubbling feeling has only gotten worse, and whatever is holding it back starts to dissolve the moment Pete confirms Claire’s persistent fear.
You won’t be associating with her again.
In a surge of indignance, Claire snaps. “You can’t control who I see.”
A hush falls over the table. Walter pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. Martha’s eyes go wide, looking back and forth between Claire and her husband.
Pete’s moustache twitches. “We’ll talk about this at home,” he says. Six words. Deceptively simple, and they’re just enough to cool whatever mania caused Claire to speak up.
The rest of dinner is even more awkward. Usually Pete would stay to share a few drinks with Walter, but tonight Claire avoids her usual post-dinner chat with Martha and says their goodbyes early.
Pete’s demeanor changes the moment they step into their own house.
“You embarrassed me tonight,” he says. It’s a quiet anger, but Claire doesn’t doubt it could get worse at any moment.
“I’m sorry for when and where I said it, but I don’t want to stop socializing with Jackie,” Claire says, trying to keep her tone even. “There’s no reason—”
“This is not a discussion,” Pete says loudly. “You should want nothing to do with her, or the people who were at that party.”
Claire flinches at the volume, but she doesn’t step back.
Her heart pounds against her ribcage. This is the second time in as many months that Pete has been given cause to shout at her, and in both instances it’s been Claire’s fault.
Fighting didn’t help at all last time. She should lower her head, apologize, and do what her husband says.
But that bubbling, acidic feeling is rising further up her throat again. Here, with no audience, Claire can identify it.
She’s angry.
“She came over for tea, Pete,” Claire says forcefully. She doesn’t quite match Pete’s volume, but it might be the closest she’s ever come to actually shouting. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not going to start swinging just because we spent an afternoon together.”
Pete balks. For once, rather than fearing the fallout, Claire is flooded with a kind of exhilaration. A freedom. Standing her ground with Martha had been one thing, but this is another altogether. She’s not going to back down, this time.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Pete says.
Claire strides past him, heading to the stairs. “Nothing. I just don’t see why I can’t be friendly with a neighbor.”
Pete catches her arm as she passes. He pulls it taut until she jerks back from the first step, his grip tight on her forearm. “Clearly it’s getting in the way of your duties as a wife.”
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t,” Claire says, yanking her arm away. She storms up the stairs, fueled by adrenaline, and Pete calls after her.
“I don’t want you seeing her anymore, Claire. And that’s my final word!”
Rather than going into the bedroom where she’ll soon have to share the space with him, Claire darts into the upstairs bathroom and locks the door firmly behind herself.
She can hear Pete’s heavy steps coming up the stairs. He goes straight to the bedroom, slamming the door, and the house goes quiet.
All the anger that propelled her here leaves Claire’s body at once. Her legs seem to quiver—she sinks down onto the closed toilet seat, shaking like a leaf.
She just raised her voice at Pete. She pushed back at her husband. She argued. She’s going to pay dire consequences for it she’s sure, but in the moment it felt good in a way Claire couldn’t have imagined.
Maybe Jackie would even approve.
When Claire finally emerges, Pete is already sleeping. He’s facing the wall, snoring away as if nothing is weighing on his mind. He’s given Claire her rules, and now he has nothing to worry about. She’s not to see Jackie again.
Claire sighs.
She sits heavily at her vanity, combs her hair, and lays out her things. Her necklace goes in its box, her hair pins in their dish, her wedding rings on their shiny plate. Every piece of her orderly life accounted for.
With all her layers removed, Claire looks to Jackie’s house. There’s a light in one of the windows. Claire wonders what it might be like to go there, now. To disobey Pete and show up at Jackie’s door and tell her everything that happened at dinner.
Would Jackie be in that robe she wore the other day? Would they retire to the conversation pit, where Jackie would lounge and give Claire whatever bits of wisdom she can spare? Would she bring out that marijuana again, to help Claire relax? Would Claire partake?
Pete snores loudly, startling Claire from her thoughts.
Sneaking over to Jackie’s is a ridiculous daydream, and nothing more. But Claire refuses to stop speaking to Jackie just because Pete doesn’t like her. If she’s very careful not to alert Martha, she can still make their friendship work. She’s sure of it.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Claire sets down her hairbrush and climbs into bed.
~ ~ ~
Monday morning dawns bright and sunny after a rainy weekend.
Pete puts on a new tie over a clean, ironed shirt.
He reads the paper, grumbling again about degeneracy and shoddy police work as he reads a cover story about some anti-war protests.
He eats his eggs, packs up his briefcase, and leaves for work after a quick peck on the freshly-shaven cheek from Claire.
The moment Pete’s Cadillac rounds the corner, Claire picks up the phone. Jackie answers on the third ring with a curt, businesslike Jacqueline Callas speaking.
“Good morning, Jackie,” Claire says, making herself comfortable at the kitchen table. “It’s Claire Davis calling.”
Jackie’s voice warms up immediately. “And my day gets brighter. What can I do for you?”
Claire twirls the cord around her finger, smiling foolishly into the phone. “I just wanted to talk. And to…well, to apologize, in fact. For what happened last week with Martha?”
“Oh, Claire, don’t worry about that,” Jackie says. Claire can just imagine her waving a casual hand, quick to forgive. “I understand.”
“Even so, it was incredibly rude of me,” Claire says. “I know I must have given a terrible impression, but I very much enjoy our time together. Martha is just quite…”
“Territorial?” Jackie drawls.
“I was going to say sensitive,” Claire says, though not without a smile.
“Of course you were. You’re a kind person.”
“And you’re too kind to me,” Claire says. “I’m glad you aren’t upset.”
“Of course not. I’m happy to hear your voice,” Jackie says. Her voice is warm and easy. Already it’s lifted a weight from Claire’s shoulders.