Chapter 18 #2
As Martha looks to be drifting off at the kitchen table, her exhaustion finally catching up with her, Claire misses Jackie with a ferocity that’s frightening.
“Come on,” Claire says softly, putting an arm around Martha’s shoulders. “You should get some sleep. I’ll watch the baby.”
Martha grumbles half-heartedly in protest, but she’s soundly sleeping as soon as her head hits the couch cushion. Claire drapes her in a knitted afghan and spends the afternoon alternating between quiet cleaning and glancing out Martha’s front window at Jackie’s empty driveway.
~ ~ ~
Jackie’s absence continues for eight days, and then ten, and then two full weeks. Claire compulsively checks the window every day, just in case—she has no way to contact her friend, no hint as to her safety or when she might return, and it’s driving her squirrely.
The only clue Claire has about Jackie’s whereabouts is that Jackie has mentioned staying with Theo in San Francisco overnight when she has late jobs in the city. And his telephone number is written on a scrap of paper on Jackie’s refrigerator, right next to Claire’s own.
Claire would never ordinarily abuse her spare key privileges, but this is a special circumstance.
The house is unnaturally still and cold when Claire slips inside.
It’s as if Jackie is the only thing that fills it with life—without her, it’s a mausoleum.
The cloudy day outside casts a greyish pall on the kitchen.
Claire shuffles through, focused on her goal, but when she reaches the refrigerator and finds Theo’s number stuck to it with a magnet she realizes she didn’t bring anything to write it down with.
She darts down the hallway, guilt chasing her like a specter, and slips into Jackie’s office.
Having not been in this room since the night of Jackie’s housewarming party, it looks strange to Claire now.
The desk is messy, scattered with film canisters and scribbled notes in Jackie’s messy hand.
Boxes and camera bags crowd the edges of the room.
No less than seven different tripods are leaned in one corner, all toppled over each other.
It doesn’t look as if Jackie took any equipment with her at all.
The walls are hung with photos. They’re not framed like the ones that decorate the rest of the house but stuck into the drywall with pins.
They cover all kinds of subjects—some are people, others landscapes, and some are contextless pictures of statues or animals or colorful flowers.
It’s like getting a peek directly into Jackie’s mind.
And there, hung among the photos dead center over Jackie’s desk, is Claire’s painting.
It stops Claire dead in her tracks. It’s unmistakable—the acacia tree that should be hanging in Anita’s shop is here, like a beacon of color in the grey of the silent house.
Jackie must have asked for it. Or stranger still, she might have bought it and found it important enough to hang in her office.
She spends a lot of time here, if the empty mugs and food wrappers scattered across the room are any indication.
Claire is still reeling when she finally remembers what she came here for. She bends over the desk, grabbing the nearest pencil—the end of it is chewed to bits—and searches for something to write on. The desk is covered in more loose photographs, but no paper.
Claire forgets her purpose yet again when she notices that the photos all have the same subject.
A woman, with light hair. There’s a shoebox on the floor next to the desk, the dusty lid upended nearby as if Jackie dumped it out.
These photos must have been hidden away.
At the bottom of the box are some envelopes, but Claire ignores them for now.
Curiosity burns in her. She really shouldn’t be rifling through Jackie’s things as well as breaking into her house, but Claire’s willpower has been so weak lately.
She sinks into the office chair, squinting down at the photos.
Whoever the subject is, she’s gorgeous. Her hair is long and dyed a platinum blonde that Claire is sure most people couldn’t pull off.
It’s almost Marilyn Monroe-esque. Her eyes are a startling blue.
She truly does look like she could be on the cover of Vogue.
She’s effortlessly beautiful, and seems like she lives for the camera.
The way she locks eyes with the lens makes Claire feel like she’s the one being stared at.
One picture catches Claire’s attention above all, though. Jackie is in it.
It’s a picture of the two of them together—Jackie is in an armchair, seemingly at one of those parties Claire sees in some of her photographs, and the blonde woman is draped over her lap.
Their cheeks are squished together as they smile for the photographer.
Jackie looks younger, here. She looks happy.
She’s beaming in a way that Claire has only seen for brief but wonderful windows of time, when Jackie lets her guard down.
In the angled light from the window, Claire can see the barest hint of raised letters on the surface of the photo.
She flips it over to find an inscription, in Jackie’s handwriting.
Sept 14, 1964
Valerie,
You and me against the world. Always. You know I’ll wait as long as you need me to.
Endless love,
J.
Claire sets the photo down hastily. The envelopes at the bottom of the shoebox might have piqued her curiosity before, but now she can’t even look at them.
As if she’s been in a trance since she sat down, Claire realizes the gravity of what she’s done.
She springs back up, her heart pounding, and backs away.
She’s just invaded Jackie’s privacy terribly.
She’s not entirely sure what exactly she’s invaded, but that photo feels like something she never should have seen.
Something Jackie wouldn’t want her to see.
Jackie has never mentioned a Valerie. Did Jackie have another best friend, before Claire? Someone she left behind in the city? Is that one of the things she was running from?
Is she running from Claire, now?
Claire does scribble down Theo’s number before she runs back home, but her guilt keeps her from calling.
~ ~ ~
Jackie’s Mustang pulls into the drive around noon the next day.
The relief Claire feels when Jackie emerges with her suitcase is enough to give her a head rush.
The gloom of yesterday’s weather has persisted, but the sprinkling of light rain doesn’t bother Claire—she barely remembers to turn the oven off before she sprints outside, catching up to Jackie just as she’s fiddling with her keys.
“Jackie?” Claire calls, frowning when Jackie’s hand freezes halfway to the lock. “Where on earth have you been?”
Claire was hoping for a smile, at the very least. Maybe even an apology. Jackie is always happy to see her, no matter her mood. Instead, Jackie’s expression when she turns around is so somber that it looks like a mask.
“I stayed with Theo,” Jackie says quietly.
“You didn’t say you’d be gone a week,” Claire says, her breath coming fast from the run. She presses a hand to her chest. “I was so worried.”
Jackie is uncharacteristically withdrawn. When she takes off her sunglasses her eyes are red-rimmed, though she can’t seem to meet Claire’s gaze directly. She’s staring somewhere near Claire’s shoulder.
It all feels off, as if the wrong Jackie has come back from the trip. She’s never been like this with Claire, not even that strange night at her moon landing party. After so much time apart all Claire wants to do is spend the rest of the day soaking her in, but Jackie seems to want the opposite.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” Jackie says.
The words reverberate through Claire, hurting more and more with every echo as she realizes their meaning. Jackie could have slapped her in the face with all her strength and it would sting less.
Claire takes a step back, her hand going to her pearls. Jackie’s words land in her and take root.
“If this is a joke, it’s not very funny,” Claire says. She probably sounds wounded and petty, but she doesn’t see a reason to mask how Jackie is making her feel. Those roots are pushing through her lungs, hindering her breathing. “Have I done something wrong?”
The shadow on Jackie’s face gets darker.
She looks as beautiful as ever, and Claire drinks in her features like she’s been stuck in the Nevada desert for a week rather than in her own home.
Her skin is paler than usual, as if she hasn’t left the house much either, but it makes everything that much starker—her sharp jawline, her expressive brows, her soft lips, the tiny scar on her chin.
From being playfully dragged over a heating vent by her brother as a child, Jackie once told her.
Each feature perfectly fitted to make a wonderful whole.
“No. You haven’t done anything wrong. But I have,” Jackie says heavily.
“What do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t have done this. Any of this. Moving here, getting close to you, trying to get away from what my life was before, pushing you to—” Jackie stops. Her jaw clenches so hard that Claire worries for her teeth. “I need to stop, before I ruin another life.”
“You haven’t ruined anything,” Claire says. She’s having trouble following Jackie’s argument—pushing Claire? If anything, she’s been the first person to truly support Claire. She can’t really regret their friendship, can she?
“I’ve fucked up your marriage,” Jackie says.
Claire tries not to flinch at the strong language.
“I’ve encouraged you to lie, and sneak, and cross-dress,” Jackie continues heatedly. “What do you call that, if not ruining a life?”
“Cross-dress?” Claire says, but Jackie is still talking.
“Please, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Jackie unlocks the door and opens it, shoving her suitcase inside. “It’s for the best.”
“I’m getting quite tired of being told what is or is not for the best,” Claire says fiercely.
Jackie’s eyes flicker up to her, going wide before darting down again.
Claire isn’t usually so direct, but she’s feeling more desperate by the minute.
“Pete is right. I’m a bad influence on you,” Jackie says. It’s toneless, like she’s been rehearsing it in her head but her heart isn’t quite in it. “I won’t drag you down with me. It’s best if we just…” Jackie swallows hard.
Claire can see tears swimming in her eyes. She’s never seen Jackie cry before. Not once.
“If we what?”
“If we go our separate ways.”
“Since when do you listen to my husband?” Claire says. Her anger is deflating, faced with Jackie’s tears. Her voice is quavery now with the effort of holding back her own. “Did he tell you to say this?”
“No.”
“Is this because of what happened in the pool?” Claire says, desperate now and not bothering to hide it. “That was—it was nothing, we don’t even have to talk about it. We were just having fun. Please, Jackie, don’t do this. Please.”
The tears slip free, tracking down Jackie’s cheeks as she squeezes her eyes shut. She looks pained. But she still turns on her heel, stepping through the doorway and moving the door quickly so that Claire can’t follow.
“You have a life to live, Claire,” Jackie says. She directs it towards the wall. “A good life. Go live it, okay?”
The door shuts in Claire’s face.
She stands on the stoop for a long while, blinking the rain out of her eyes. She grips her pearls, twisting and squeezing, but it doesn’t help. The heavy, tangled knot that formed when Jackie left a week ago has grown, swelling and eclipsing everything else.
How could Jackie do this? Just drop Claire like their friendship didn’t matter?
Insist on not seeing her again for no reason at all?
Whatever perceived wrong Jackie thinks she’s committed, Claire wouldn’t care.
She wouldn’t. And if it’s really about what Claire did in the pool, she can make up for that.
She’ll do anything. Perhaps if she knocks on the door, if she begs Jackie to come out—
The pearl necklace snaps in Claire’s hand.
Claire blinks, looking down at her feet as pearls cascade over her shoes. She’s vaguely aware that real pearls shouldn’t scatter like this, but the idea of being hurt by something so inconsequential as Pete’s inability to buy a decent necklace is ludicrous right now.
She should feel something, shouldn’t she?
A gift from her husband lies broken on the concrete.
Pearls are rolling across Jackie’s doorstep, shining and opalescent even in the rainy gloom.
But no sadness manifests. No disappointment.
Nothing. Just a rapid fading of all color from the world.
Everything settles into a bone-deep numbness, and Claire can’t even summon tears.
She doesn’t bother to pick up the pearls. She turns on her heel and walks back home, her feet squelching in the wet grass, and when Pete gets home, he doesn’t even notice that she’s not wearing the necklace.
Jackie’s curtains stay closed.