Chapter 11 #2
Jane looks up at her guardedly. There’s a twig in her hair, and a fierce brightness in her eyes. An expectation, maybe, of being told she’s too much. Too wild. Too unladylike.
“You look like you’ve had a grand time today,” Claire says. “Keep having fun, okay?”
Jane breaks into a grin, wide and happy. “Yes, ma’am.”
Pete is sticking fireworks into the ground with a few other men when Claire finds her way to the party again.
He’s stumbling a little—usually Claire would remind him to eat something or slow down on the beer, but instead she settles into a lawn chair next to Martha.
He can take care of himself for a night.
“Where did you disappear to?” Martha says. She’s watching the proceedings like a hawk, ready to give input on firework placement as always.
“I ran back home to powder my nose,” Claire says.
Martha doesn’t press. She heaves herself up to make her slow way towards the fireworks, calling directions to Walter and Pete, and Claire relaxes into her chair.
All in all, not a bad Memorial Day.
~ ~ ~
Her mother’s phone call comes in early the next morning. She often likes to ring up after she goes to church, and Claire appreciates the earliness with the time difference—Pete likes to sleep in on a Sunday, so the conversation doesn’t get interrupted.
“How are things?” her mother asks.
Claire whisks the waffle batter aggressively, frowning at the lumps that won’t quite break down for Pete’s breakfast. “Fine. How are things for you?”
“Lovely,” her mother says simply.
The line crackles. It’s not uncommon to run out of things to talk about—these calls are usually short, full of small-talk and random chatter. They don’t talk about anything substantial. They never have. If ever Claire tries, her mother changes the subject.
Lately, though, everything Claire has been thinking and feeling has felt substantial.
And who else can she talk about it with?
Martha is a direct line to Pete. Jackie is the source of most of her ennui.
Isn’t a woman supposed to get advice from her mother?
Passing wisdom through generations, and all that?
“A few things are…less than fine,” Claire says carefully. She sets the bowl of batter down, tucking the phone more securely into her shoulder as she turns to slicing strawberries.
Miriam pauses for a long time before she answers.
“Such as?”
“Pete and I have been fighting,” Claire says. “On occasion.”
“Oh, honey,” her mother sighs.
“I know,” Claire says.
She can hear movement, as if her mother is getting more comfortable to listen. “What have you been fighting about?”
“A friend of mine.”
Another pause. This one is longer and feels heavy with some meaning Claire is still sorting out. She cuts berry after berry, careful to keep the slices even.
“A friend?” her mother says. “Is this friend…a man?”
“No, Mother.” Claire sighs. “Her name is Jackie. What do you take me for?”
“I was only asking.”
“Pete doesn’t want me seeing her anymore. But I have been. I’ve been going against his wishes,” Claire admits quietly. Even if she can already sense the judgement that will follow, saying it out loud untangles one of the many knots in her chest. “Almost every day, now.”
“Claire,” her mother sighs. “You need to keep Pete happy. Why would you do something so foolish?”
“I don’t know why he hates her so much,” Claire says in a rush, throwing down her knife. “They all do. They dislike her without even knowing her. She’s wonderful, Mother. She’s smart, and independent, and so kind. She’s my friend. Why is that such a bad thing?”
“I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“He thinks she’s a bad influence on me,” Claire mutters. She feels petulant, now, like in talking to her mother she’s been brought right back to being seven years old, trying to explain why she ruined her church dress splashing in puddles.
Her mother tsks. “It sounds like perhaps she is.”
Claire clenches her jaw until her teeth hurt.
“I just want what’s best for you,” her mother says. It’s the same tone she used when Claire expressed doubts on her wedding day. “A happy, secure life. Safety. Why would you put that at risk?”
“Why should Pete get to control every single thing I do?” Claire says. The syrup warming on the stove is starting to bubble, and she turns the knob down. “It isn’t fair.”
“He is your husband.”
“But—”
“This is how it works, Claire,” Miriam says. “You have nothing to cry about. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Pete takes care of you, and you stick it out. Things will get better.”
Claire is struck dumb, for a moment—it’s been years since her mother was so firm with her. The last time she can remember was in sixth grade, when she had chipped one of her teeth playing rough on the playground equipment and almost ruined school picture day by getting blood on her dress.
Claire runs her tongue over the chip, still there on her second incisor. Small, but significant. The remnant of her last act of defiance, before very recently. Her mother had wanted to get it filled with some kind of bonding, but her father had disagreed. He said it gave her character.
“So what’s for breakfast?” her mother says brightly, as if the conversation never happened at all.
Claire shouldn’t be surprised. Her mother has always avoided difficult conversations, always emphasizing that it’s better to look at the positive. But even for her, this is an abrupt pivot.
“I have to go,” Claire says. She can hear Pete moving around upstairs, grunting and snorting, and it’s never a pleasant morning when he comes down to find no breakfast.
“Oh. Sure. But you’ll do what I said, won’t you?” her mother says insistently.
“I’ll talk to you next week,” Claire says. She slams the receiver down harder than she meant to, but it is rather satisfying.
Claire sits for a moment in her frustration. She didn’t expect her mother to be particularly helpful, but she didn’t expect to be scolded, either.
When she hears the upstairs bathroom door open and close, Claire shakes herself out of her thoughts. She puts the coffee on and sets the waffle iron to heating. She makes Pete his breakfast, cleans up the kitchen, and spends the afternoon cutting coupons while Pete goes out golfing with Walter.
~ ~ ~
On Monday, Claire jets over to Jackie’s house as soon as Martha’s car pulls out of the drive for her weekly grocery shop.
Claire likes to think she’s gotten better at reading Jackie’s subtle facial expressions. When the door opens, there’s a moment of genuine shock on her face that fades to happiness, though Jackie tempers it quickly.
“I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again,” Jackie says. She’s smiling, but it looks skittish. Not a word Claire would usually associate with Jackie Callas.
“I told you you would,” Claire says.
Jackie looks down, fussing at the carpet with her bare toes. Her hair falls like a curtain, concealing her thoughts from Claire. “I know. I guess it was hard to believe.”
“Can I come in?” Claire says.
Jackie steps aside quickly. “Of course. I just have a couple things to finish in the darkroom, and then we can have some lunch. I’ve got leftover pizza?”
“Darkroom?” Claire says. She slips her shoes off at the door, and Jackie ushers her towards the hallway.
The door Jackie shows her through is the only threshold in the house Claire hasn’t yet crossed—the stairs to the basement.
Claire’s house doesn’t have one, so she’s a bit startled by just how pitch black it is—Jackie seems to have blocked the small windows to keep any light from getting in.
Claire can’t see anything at all until Jackie flips a switch, and the room lights up in a strange red glow.
There’s a strong chemical smell on the air down here.
Several tables hold differently colored plastic bins.
Claire has to duck a little to avoid strings of photos draping from the ceiling like clotheslines.
On a sturdy desk against the wall is a large piece of equipment that looks like a microscope.
There’s a sink in the corner, a couch on the opposite wall, and stacks of differently sized photo paper scattered everywhere.
“This is where I develop my prints,” Jackie says. Under the red light, she looks eerie and eccentric.
“You do it all yourself?”
Jackie takes a photo from one of the tables, still shiny with liquid, and clips it to one of the clotheslines. “I like to have control over every aspect of the process. Someday I’d love to have my own gallery too, but that’s a bit of a pipe dream.”
“What are you working on right now?”
“I just finished up a commercial gig. Advertisements for a perfume company,” Jackie says. She moves to a different table, one crowded with six different bins. “But my pet project is in here.”
Claire peers into one of the bins. It’s hard to see under the red light, but swimming in some kind of clear liquid is a large photo. It’s hard to tell if it’s in color or black and white—it’s an amorphous form, like an ink blotch against a light background. “What is it?”
“Look closer,” Jackie says.
Claire squints down at it, trying to see whatever Jackie wants her to see. The liquid makes the shape a little wobbly. She tilts her head this way and that. There’s a shape that could be a head, and perhaps shoulders. Breasts below, and flowing hair. “It looks like a woman. With wings, maybe?”
She stares, and stares, and—
“Wait. It’s an orchid,” Claire says suddenly.
The flower is twisted and shadowed, but the lighter lines that streak up the petals make it clear. Jackie has formed another image with the negative space. Now that Claire has seen it both ways the image keeps shifting back and forth, orchid and then woman and back again.