The Obituary Writer (11 page)

Peter immediately gravitated toward the men, who stood in a smoky corner arguing about whether Nixon would make a good president.

When the doorbell rang, Claire was relieved. Someone was actually arriving even later.

“Can you get that?” Trudy asked Claire. She was filling another tray with celery stuffed with cream cheese. The way Trudy made those, she always put half an olive on some, some tomato on the others, alternating them neatly. “It’s my spare,” she added.

“Spare?”

“I needed a fourth guy, to even things out.” Trudy tilted her chin in the direction of her husband’s sister Polly, who had been widowed recently. Polly had to be invited to every event at Trudy’s, leaving Trudy to always be on the lookout for single men. “He’s married,” Trudy said, “but I was desperate. His wife is in the hospital.”

Claire laughed as she headed to the front door. “I hope she didn’t just have a baby.”

“No. Something silly, like getting her tonsils out. He works with Dick.”

Claire walked through the dining room, already set with Trudy’s china. The pattern was ornate, a busy cluster of pink flowers in various shapes and shades and the plates themselves scalloped along the edges. The water and wine glasses were pink too. Peter would never have let her choose pink china and crystal. But they did catch the candlelight beautifully.

The doorbell chimed again.

“Claire!” Trudy called. “Did you get lost?”

In the front foyer, a large orange tree bloomed from a golden urn. How did Trudy keep that thing producing oranges, Claire wondered.

She pulled open the heavy front door.

A man peeked at her from behind an enormous bouquet of flowers.

“Trudy?” he asked.

“No, I’m just a neighbor. Trudy is serving the hors d’oeuvres.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, until Claire realized she should take the flowers from him and let him inside.

Weeks later, after she’d walked into Kennedy headquarters and took the seat next to him at a bank of telephones, he would tell her that in that awkward moment, he couldn’t catch his breath.
I knew I was in trouble,
he whispered to her. He’d said,
The neighbor,
as she sat down. Claire remembered how he’d listened that night at Trudy’s, the way he cocked his head when she told the story about being stuck in Madrid during a rainstorm when she worked for TWA. The story was a funny one, good for a dinner party what with its matador and flooded hotel lobby and tapas. But it wasn’t that interesting. Yet he’d listened to her as if every detail mattered, and met her gaze and held it just a moment too long. She remembered that dinner had been roast beef, and about his wife’s appendicitis—it wasn’t tonsils, after all—and Polly’s gruesome description of her husband’s slow death. Dessert was chocolate soufflé.

At some point during that first night at Kennedy headquarters, Miles leaned close to her and said,
It’s happening again. I can’t catch my breath.
Claire had ignored him, but her heart was doing funny things. She could practically hear it pumping her blood and sending it through her veins. In fact, she was getting light-headed. Air, she thought. Fresh air.

It was July, and hot. Claire lit a cigarette and took a deep inhale. She smoked Newports, and they tasted almost minty. The air seemed not to move at all. Rather, it hung heavy and wet, sending sweat trickling down Claire’s ribs. She held her light cotton sleeveless blouse out, away from her body, and fanned it, though that did not bring relief.

“Claire.”

She turned toward him. He wore a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The lamplight cast a pale blue glow over everything.

“The old era is ending,” he said. “The old ways will not do.”

“I’m not going to do this,” she said, maybe knowing even then what
this
was.

“We can have faith in the future only if we have faith in ourselves,” he said, moving closer to her.

“Have you memorized the whole speech?” she said. She could smell her own sweat, and his too, a male musk beneath a layer of lime.

“I have,” he said. “But I didn’t realize it would relate to me so personally. My old ways. My faith in the future.”

Now he stood only inches away from her. A thin line of sweat moved down his cheek.

‘You don’t even know me,” she said.

“Tell me who you are then,” he said in a low voice.

“I don’t do things like this,” she said, laughing softly.

“Neither do I,” he said.

“I’m married,” she said.

“I know. I met him. Tall handsome guy who doesn’t appreciate you.”

Claire shivered despite the heat.

“He does,” she said, because a wife always defends her husband. But did Peter appreciate her? Did he even really notice her?

“I’m guessing he married a beautiful woman who would give him beautiful children and keep a beautiful house,” he said, cocking his head. “He just plugged you into his plan.”

“You’re fresh,” Claire said, starting to walk away.

But he grabbed her arm to stop her.

“I see you,” he said softly. “I see something in you.”

“I can’t parallel-park,” Claire told him, unsettled by what he’d said.

“I’ll teach you,” he said. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll learn fast.”

He thought she was smart? A fast learner? She shook away the image of Peter smiling at her as if she were a child.
Don’t even think about that,
he always said,
it’s too complicated.
Or:
Don’t worry your pretty little head
. About bills or hurricanes or politics or anything at all.

“I’m not a very good cook,” Claire continued. “But I try Craig Claiborne’s recipe every week. Sometimes it comes out right.”

“I make a mean chili,” he said. “That and a Craig Claiborne from time to time. The other nights we’ll eat out.”

“You’re out of line,” she said unconvincingly.

“What else?” he asked her.

“I don’t like
The Red Skelton Show
. I don’t think he’s funny.”

“He’s not funny,” he said. “Lenny Bruce is funny.”

Claire smiled. “Lenny Bruce
is
funny,” she said, thinking of how Peter couldn’t stand Lenny Bruce. Too crass, he said.

He stood so close to her that she could smell the coffee on his breath.

“I’m a Hoosier,” she said. “I was an air hostess for TWA.”

“Tell me something that matters.”

“My birthday is in June,” Claire said. The lights of an Esso station across the street blinked off. “That makes me a Gemini. Do you know anything about that?”

“I think I’m a Libra,” he said. “September 28?”

“I think that is a Libra,” she said.

“Are we compatible?” he asked. “Libra and Gemini?”

Claire laughed nervously. “I’m married,” she said again, wondering which of them she was reminding.

“Do you know what’s strange?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her to answer. “I love my wife. I do. But there’s something here.” He waved his hand between them. “I want to stand out here and talk to you all night. I want to, I don’t know. I want to get to know you.”

Claire wondered about his wife. Was she pretty? What did she do if they didn’t have children? What did women without children do all day? Did she work?

“I’ve always been faithful to my wife,” he said quietly. He took her hand then. He pulled her close.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“There was this boy in our neighborhood,” Claire began. “Dougie Daniels.”

He paused. He looked at her in a way that no one had ever looked at her before. Like he was actually seeing her.

“He disappeared. I was in the backyard and the neighborhood boys walked by.” She paused, trying to think of how to explain what had happened that day. “He was an ordinary boy,” she said finally.

“That was when you knew,” he said, his gaze still on her.

“Knew?”

“That no one is safe,” he said.

“You’ll leave him, of course,” he said after the first time they made love.

That was the next week, on an August night so still and hot that the air felt like gauze around them. They were in the parking lot, in his car. Everyone else had gone.

Claire couldn’t think of what to say. Women didn’t leave their husbands. That wasn’t the way it worked. Sometimes a man walked out. He left his wife for his secretary, or an air hostess. Or he lost all his money and went West to look for new opportunities. But women, they stayed.

“I wish I’d met you first,” she whispered.

Claire had walked in her house, her legs still trembling. The TV was on. Red Skelton. Peter was laughing.

“How was it?” he asked without looking up when she came in the den.

“Good,” she managed to say.

Her eyes moved around the room, taking in all of the things that had once been familiar: the green and gold plaid wallpaper, the curtains that matched perfectly. The Zenith with the rabbit ears on top. The TV trays, metal with scenes of the Old West on them, wagon trains and buffalos. She knew all these things. She did. She’d chosen them. She’d hung the painting above the couch, an oil of orange and gold mums blossoming against a white fence. She’d selected the fabric on the sofa, a soft green tweed flecked with gold and gray. She knew these things, yet nothing looked the same.

Peter finally glanced up at her.

“Can you grab me another one of these?” he said, holding up a bottle of Budweiser.

Claire nodded, but didn’t move. Who was this man? Who was this woman? What were they doing here together on this hot summer night, in this room with the suffocating plaid?

“Claire?” he said.

She nodded again, and walked to the kitchen on her shaky legs. She didn’t turn on the light. She just stood there in the darkness, inhaling the smell of the spaghetti sauce she’d made for dinner, and of her own Newports, and of another man on her skin.

“Have we the nerve and the will?” Claire said softly. “Can we carry through in an age where we will witness not only new breakthroughs in weapons of destruction, but also a race for mastery of the sky and the rain, the ocean and the tides, the far side of space and the inside of men’s minds?”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t told him, but she had memorized Kennedy’s acceptance speech too.

Claire did not know how long she’d slept before she felt the weight of Peter sitting on the bed beside her. She opened her eyes.

“You were dreaming,” he said.

“Of JFK,” Claire said.

He studied her face.

“Is she . . . ?”

Peter shook his head. “Hanging in there. She’s medicated, but they said since she pulled through the night, they might be able to ease up on the drugs, so we can talk to her.”

“What time is it?”

“Six. Connie’s here. She’ll take Kathy.”

Claire’s head felt thick and cloudy. All that scotch. She ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles.

She was aware of her sour breath and thick tongue. Her mind drifted to the Kennedys. What were they doing right now? She imagined Jackie in a negligee of French silk. Maybe white. Or ivory. Lace at the throat.

“She doesn’t even look sick,” Peter was saying. “Just still. Asleep.”

Something sour rose in Claire’s throat, reminding her that she was pregnant. She swallowed hard, aware now of her heavy breasts. Instinctively, her hand cradled her stomach.

Peter smiled. “How’s that little guy?” he said.

“Not so little,” Claire said.

In Washington, D.C., at this very moment, bunting was being hung. American flags were being raised. A path to the White House was getting cleared.

“I know what I’m sorry for,” Claire said, holding his gaze. “I’m sorry I was with another man.”

Her husband’s face clouded. The muscles in his arm tightened. For a crazy moment she thought he might hit her.

“I say I’m sorry all the time because I want you to forgive me,” Claire said.

Peter didn’t hesitate. “I can’t,” he said. “How could I?”

“Never?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Claire.”

“Never is a very long time,” Claire said as if she could see the endless years of his anger unfolding right there before her.

“Hello?” Connie called from downstairs.

“Okay,” Peter called back to her.

He looked at Claire.

“We need to go,” he said.

She watched him put on a fresh shirt, rebuckle his belt. She thought about what she was most sorry about: that she’d been caught. If that water main hadn’t broken, if Peter hadn’t come home that day, everything would be different.

As Claire sat up, a wave of dizziness came over her. Once again, she cradled her stomach protectively. She thought it had happened that first time in the parking lot. Miles had claimed her. He had given her this. The baby moved, pushing against her hand as if to tell her that, yes, she was right.

The snow had stopped. With the temperature hovering somewhere around ten below zero, the tree branches and telephone wires hung heavy, encased in ice.

Shivering as she got into the car, Claire paused. The sun, just coming up, glistened on the frozen world.

“Beautiful,” she murmured.

Peter, already in the driver’s seat, leaned toward her open door. “What?” he said.

“It looks like a fairyland, doesn’t it?”

“I have the heat on,” he said. “Come inside and warm up.”

It was the kind of cold that settles deep into the bones. Still, Claire took in the sight of all that snow piled high in front of houses and higher still on street corners where plows had dumped it. A mailbox stood almost completely covered, just its rounded blue top poking out from the snow. When Claire spoke, her breath came out in small puffs.

“Get out of the car,” she said. She reached her hand inside, across the front seat. “Let’s walk in the snow.”

He looked up at her, considering. Without turning the car off, Peter stepped outside. She hurried to meet him, placing her gloved hand in his. They used to do things like this, she thought. Once, they had stood in the rain on Lexington Avenue, kissing under his wide umbrella. A gust of wind had lifted the umbrella and turned it inside out. Peter had tossed it aside, and continued kissing her, the rain soaking their hair and faces. As they walked up the street, Claire splashed deliberately in a puddle, and Peter followed her, the two of them laughing and wet. In her apartment later, they’d taken a hot shower together, wrapping themselves afterwards in the thick white robes she’d brought home from hotels in Paris and Rome. Peter ordered Chinese food, General Tso’s chicken and pork fried rice that they ate as they watched
Gunsmoke
on the small black-and-white television. Claire remembered thinking that she could live with this man forever, that she could be happy with him.