Chapter 14
The week goes on like any other. Claire cleans the baseboards and tries out a new banana cake recipe.
She calls her mother to give an update on the goings-on at home, entirely incongruous with how she really feels.
Rita sends a new dress in the mail, brownish-yellow with green plaid, and Claire shoves it into the back of the closet.
She skips book club; the last time she went she’d almost pressed her nails right through the skin of her palm again to keep from snapping at the other ladies as they talked about Jackie.
On Thursday afternoon, Claire picks the phone up on the third ring just after lunch.
“Davis residence,” Claire says, tucking it against her ear as she rubs baking soda into the silverware. The forks are starting to tarnish, and the last thing she needs right now is Pete noticing. So long as she keeps up with everything at home, he’s less likely to notice her shortcomings.
“Hello, Davis residence,” comes Jackie’s voice through the receiver, low and warm. “Callas residence calling.”
Claire drops a handful of spoons.
“Jackie,” Claire says, scrambling to gather the utensils again without getting tangled in the telephone cord. It’s rare that Jackie is the one to call first. “How are you?”
Jackie chuckles. “I’m just fine. I’m not interrupting, am I?”
“No, not at all. Nothing important, anyway,” Claire says, shoving everything back into its drawer. Polishing can wait. “Sorry. How’s your day so far?”
“My day is just fine. It’s your day I’m curious about. If I’m not mistaken, it’s a special one?”
Claire toys with her pearls. Today is certainly a special day, in the worst way—she called the fertility clinic this morning. She managed to put off an appointment until early December, at least, and she doubts that Pete will question the date so long as there is one on the horizon. “Is it?”
“Did I write down the wrong birthday on my calendar?”
Claire frowns, darting to her own wall calendar. Thursday, July the 31st. In the stress of this week, she hadn’t even realized.
“You remembered,” Claire says.
“Of course I did,” Jackie says, as if that’s not something marvelous. “Happy birthday, Claire.”
In a humiliating turn of events, Claire finds herself close to tears. She’s been worried since the party that Jackie was upset with her—now she seems completely normal, as if it never happened. And she’s remembered a special day that even Claire hadn’t marked when she woke up this morning.
“Thank you,” Claire says, clearing the choked-up tightness from her throat. “Jackie, that’s—it’s so unbelievably sweet of you to call.”
“So, what did Pete get you?”
“Pete? Oh, he, um.” Claire clears her throat again, looping a finger through her pearls. “Birthdays aren’t really his—”
“He forgot, didn’t he?” Jackie says quietly.
Claire lets out her breath. Lying to Jackie on Pete’s behalf is a waste of her energy, at the end of the day. “I don’t think he’s ever remembered.”
The line is quiet for a moment. Claire could swear she hears Jackie’s fingers drumming on some table surface even through the phone.
“Do you have a minute for me to stop by?”
“Stop by?” Claire squeaks.
“I’ll run quick as a rabbit, I promise.”
Claire darts to the window, her arm tangled in the telephone cord—Martha’s curtains are closed, and her station wagon isn’t in the driveway. It looks as if she’s out. But if she comes back while Jackie is here…
If Claire gets caught with Jackie again, it’s over. She doesn’t doubt that Pete would sell the house and uproot them if she disobeys him this time. She’d never see Jackie again.
But it is her birthday.
“Um. Yes,” Claire says, doubting herself even as she says it. “Sure, yes, I think—that would be lovely.”
Jackie turns up at her door not long after with a smile and a large box wrapped in colorful paper.
“You didn’t,” Claire says, as Jackie steps past her and into the entryway with the box in her arms. “That’s not for me, is it?”
“Open it,” Jackie says, thrusting it into Claire’s hands.
The package is heavy, and Claire holds it against her body nervously. “I can’t possibly accept this. I didn’t get you a gift for your birthday.”
“Mine isn’t until November. Open it,” Jackie says, grinning wide.
It takes some convincing—at one point Jackie threatens to open it herself—but finally Claire is persuaded to rip the paper off. Beneath it is a cardboard box, and inside that box is—
“Art supplies?” Claire says, hardly believing her eyes as she pulls out a fresh set of watercolor paints.
Underneath it is a cup of new brushes, a real sketchbook with charcoal pencils, and a stack of heavy painting paper.
The brushes are good quality. Claire runs them over her fingers, and the sense memory chokes her up again.
The smell of the linen paper brings her back to her childhood room, learning to find the colors of a sunset in a simple set of twelve watercolor pucks.
“It’s a start,” Jackie says. “Eventually I’d love to get you some oils.”
“Oh, Jackie, this is—it’s too much. I don’t even paint anymore. I couldn’t possibly accept this.”
“Anita only let me pay for half of it, so don’t go feeling guilty,” Jackie says. “You said it used to make you happy.” Jackie picks up the sketchbook, pressing it into Claire’s hands. “If that’s true, you should see if you can’t find that happiness again. Don’t let it go.”
Claire’s battle against tears has been a losing one from the start, but she had hoped to delay it until Jackie leaves. It does, however, give cause for Jackie to hug her.
Since the day they shared a joint and Claire stupidly ran her fingers through Jackie’s hair without asking, Jackie’s physical affection has been a fleeting gift.
It always comes as a surprise and ends just as abruptly, like a bolt of lightning in a clear sky, and it usually leaves Claire similarly buzzing with electricity.
The hug Jackie pulls Claire into as she tries not to cry feels like the best birthday present she could ask for.
It’s tender and comforting, and it lasts long enough for Claire to file the details away in her memory.
The smell of Jackie’s hair. The warmth of her body.
The way Jackie rocks back and forth slightly, almost imperceptibly, and rubs little circles on Claire’s back.
“Do you have anything at all planned for yourself?” Jackie asks, pulling back from the embrace as Claire hurriedly wipes her eyes. “Even one little birthday treat?”
Just you, Claire nearly says. Just this one indulgence. She bites down on her tongue to keep the words inside.
When Claire shakes her head silently, Jackie sighs. “All right. It’s your birthday, Martha is out, the weather is gorgeous, and your house is immaculate. Do you know what that means?”
“That I should weed the gardens today?”
“No,” Jackie says, already heading to the door. “It means you should go shopping today. Come on.”
“But…I don’t have any money,” Claire says, to an empty kitchen.
Claire isn’t sure how, but despite her vehement protests she’s sitting in Jackie’s convertible heading downtown within ten minutes.
She’s only been to the department store a handful of times since she and Pete married.
There isn’t anything for her here—she doesn’t shop.
Rita makes her clothes, for a fraction of the cost of a brand-name store.
Pete gives her an exact amount of money per week for groceries.
If they need a piece of kitchen apparel or an appliance, Pete has her order it from the Sears catalogue.
Jackie strolls through the store like she owns the place. She’s confident in the crowd, where Claire is nervous. Jackie flicks through racks of clothing and boxes of shoes with the eye of a seasoned shopper, while Claire trails behind her.
The section they end up perusing for the longest time is completely unfamiliar to Claire, not to mention entirely out of a normal price range.
The mannequins are dressed in bright colors, polka-dots and stripes and loud prints, a far cry from her own muted palette of dresses. Jackie seems right at home.
Claire feels out of place in comparison. Uneasy. Dowdy. Boring.
“Even if I had money with me, I couldn’t possibly afford anything here,” Claire whispers, feeling as if every eye in the store is on her as she follows Jackie through the racks.
Jackie has a bundle of outfits already, dresses and blouses and skirts slung over her shoulder and forearm. She grabs Claire’s hand, pulling her into the men’s section. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not paying.”
“What?” Claire gasps. The price tags she’s seen so far are absolutely sky-high for a gift, especially on top of the art supplies. “That’s absurd, that’s utterly—why are we looking at men’s pants?”
Jackie rolls her eyes affectionately, grabbing a pair of navy corduroys and a light blue button-down. “Trust the process, okay?”
Jackie paces the aisles, grabbing at garments until her arms are full, and then gestures imperiously for an employee to get them a private changing room.
The space they’re led into is huge, with a large mirror, a cushioned bench, a coffee table strewn with fashion magazines, and a large folding privacy fan to change behind.
Still, Claire is shocked when Jackie closes the door behind the employee and doesn’t leave herself. Instead she guides Claire towards the privacy fan with her armful of clothes, and takes a seat on the bench to wait just out of sight.
This must be what girlfriends do. Claire is simply unfamiliar with it—Jackie is in her element, idly leafing through one of the magazines, and the fan is positioned to give Claire total privacy. Jackie clearly wants to see Claire in each of the outfits she’s picked.
Swallowing hard, Claire starts from the top.
The clothes Jackie picked are all over the map. There are a few skirts, a dress or two, and four pairs of pants, two of them in men’s sizes. Jackie also chose two men’s shirts—a polo, and a button-down—with a selection of ascots.