by Sally John
“Claire, when is the first time you remember?”
“I was eight. I was in second grade.”
“Sweetie, look at me.”
“Tandy.” She kept her eyes downcast and didn’t even pretend to disguise her annoyance. “I’m not going there.”
“You’re already there. It’s in those boxes. You lived through that hell once. Why put yourself through it again?”
“I want to find out who she was. You’re right. I want to find out why.”
“She was sick.”
“But why did she take that first drink?”
“Because she had lousy parents too. Just like everybody does to some degree, in some way, shape, or form. We cope; we compensate. If we’re smart, we admit they fell asleep on the job, but then, with God’s help, we forgive them, and we move on.”
Gathering up another stack of junk from the box, Claire said quietly, “I thought I forgave her. Maybe I’m looking for closure in this junk here.” She opened a faded manila envelope and removed what appeared to be a legal document. “Maybe I’m— Oh!” Words and numbers caught her eye. She squinted and skimmed over them again. They refused to cohere.
“What?”
“I need my glasses. Where are my glasses?” She flailed about, scattering papers and books. “What did I do with my—”
“Here.” Tandy handed them to her. “They were on the table.”
Claire slid them on and studied the paper. Her hands shook, and the print bounced.
“Claire?”
“It’s a— Oh! I don’t believe this! It’s my parents’ marriage license. And it says . . .” She read it again, did the math again, doubted her own age. “I’m fifty-three, right?”
“Yeah . . .”
She looked up. “Then they got married four and a half months before I was born.”
Tandy shrugged. “It was the fifties. If you got pregnant, you had to get married. Didn’t you know their anniversary date?”
“Apparently not. I thought they got married a year earlier. That’s what they said. My mother’s obituary gives the year before I was born, because that’s what we all thought it was. Dad never corrected us.”
“People used to be majorly ashamed of such things. They would lie to save face. Even fifty-three years later.”
“No one told me. Not that any of my grandparents were around. Aunt Helen would have thought I was too young to know, and then she died.”
“You can punch that empty box with your fists.”
Claire’s nails cut into her palms. She squeezed them more tightly to stop the tremble in her hands. “I just don’t get this. What were they thinking? What difference on earth would it have made to tell us the truth?”
“Maybe they thought they were protecting you. Saving face for you as well as themselves.”
“Pfft. Like I had any face left to save. My mom showed up plastered at classroom parties, and my dad pretended I didn’t exist.”
She stared at Tandy as understanding suddenly dawned on her. She could see it light her friend’s eyes at the same time. Pain blossomed in her belly. “He didn’t want me to exist,” she whispered hollowly.
Tandy pressed her lips together and tilted her head in silent, agonizing agreement.
“He did not . . .” Claire pulled the truth from some dark closet in her soul that she didn’t even know existed. “He did not want to get married.”
They stared at each other.
“Maybe,” Tandy said, “maybe he felt trapped.”
“Yeah. She could have trapped him on purpose. She used to say she and I were alike, because she couldn’t wait to get away from her family either. Only she didn’t have a scholarship to some fancy school to help her. All she could do was wait tables and hope some available guy would sit down. Guess Dad was it. He was actually engaged to someone else when they met.”
“So he had other plans.”
“Yes. I heard that bit of information exchanged during arguments. Mom seemed jealous of the other woman. Then Dad would bring up the fact that he’d planned to go to trade school and then open his own car repair shop. None of that happened because he got married. And, evidently, had a kid right away. Of course, he blamed Mom.”
“Of course. The woman is always blamed.”
“The wife. The daughter.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Tell that to the little girl whose dad never said a kind word. Whose mom got plastered instead of feeding her little boys. Oh, God.” Claire covered her face with her hands. “I’m not going there. I am not going there.”
Tandy’s arm came around her shoulders. “Shh, Claire. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Thirty-five
Pillow talk always worked best with Kevin, and so Jenna waited through the evening before bringing up the subject.
The bedroom lamp was dim, and his eyes were at half-mast when she finally said, “Kevin, I truly appreciate your gesture by getting my name tattooed on your back. But I don’t like tattoos. Not really.”
He yawned. “Since when?”
Jenna stroked his cheek. “Since always. I’ve told you.”
“I always thought you were joking. I mean, what’s not to like? It’s art. It expresses who I am. This one expresses my love for you.”
“I appreciate the gesture. I really do.”
“Yeah, you already said that. So what’s not to like?”
“Maybe it’s just not my kind of art.”
“Okay. But it’s mine.”
“But your body is mine.”
“Huh?”
“You know. All that stuff about becoming one flesh. The pastor explained it at premarital counseling.”
“Jen, that was about sex, not tattoos.”
“Yeah, well, if I were bald and weighed more than you, would I still turn you on?”
“Of course. You’d still be you. I love you, not your body. Well, I do love your body, but you get my drift.”
“What if both my legs were amputated? What if I were in a wheelchair?”
“Hold on a sec. This isn’t about art.”
“Neither is a tattoo!”
“You’re saying the sight of me doesn’t turn you on just because I got two new pieces of artwork that you can’t even see unless I take off my shirt and turn around?”
“It’s not artwork!”
“Is that what you’re saying? The sight of me turns you off?”
She blinked back tears. “If you get any more, that’s what I’m saying.”
“So what you’re really saying is that appearances are more important than what’s inside a person.”
“No, I’m not. I would love you no matter what you looked like. But I am not attracted to tattoos. That’s all.”
“They embarrass you, don’t they?”
“Probably. They make me think of losers. Gang members and jar-heads.”
His face went hard.
Uh-oh. She’d treaded on sacred ground. “You know what I mean. I don’t think you’re a loser.”
“But I am a jarhead.”
“You were, before we got married.”
“There is no ‘ex-’ in ‘Marine.’ You married a jarhead with a tat.”
She closed her eyes briefly and considered the thought. It was all semantics to her. “Okay, technically, I did.”
“Technically and every which way you did. Get over it. You are such a princess.” He nearly spat the term.
“I am. I admit it. You married a princess who wishes her husband didn’t have new tattoos. Will you please not get any more? Not because I would love you less, but because you love me.”
“I do love you, Jen, even when you’re a royal pain. And I will always love you, even after you’re gray and wrinkly and broad as a barn because giving birth to six kids did a number on you. But I will not promise no more tattoos. I will not be henpecked by someone who can’t promise that same kind of love in return. Good night.”
He kissed her forehead and rolled over.
Stunned, she lay unmoving. Within moments, she heard his soft snores.
In the ashy lamplight she studied the letters between his shoulder blades. J-E-N.
Instead of telling him straight-out her opinion of the tattoo, she had tiptoed around his feelings. If her mom—aka the new Claire—had overheard her, she would have had a cow. The old Claire . . . would have reacted as Jenna had. Maybe the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree.
No. Stinking. Way. She was Jenna Beaumont Mason, an excellent English teacher who had a voice and an opinion. She wasn’t about to make the same mistakes her mom made.
And she wasn’t about to succumb to any coach pressure to give his athletes preferential treatment. If any football player dared use a hackneyed expression like “having cows” or “apples falling from trees” in an essay, she’d bench him faster than Kevin could fall asleep.
Early the next morning, Jenna waited at the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching coffee drip into the carafe. She hadn’t slept well at all.
She heard Kevin walk into the kitchen and approach. She didn’t turn.
He propped his chin on her shoulder. “Hmm. This shoulder feels a little cold.”
She shrugged him off.
“Let’s check this one.” His chin nudged her other shoulder.
Again she shrugged him off.
“Freezing cold.” He stepped around her and leaned on the counter to look at her. “Truce?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s okay to disagree about art. I like Erik, and he thinks that streak of purple paint across a piece of canvas hanging on his wall is nice.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Maybe you should have some coffee first.”
“I don’t need coffee. I need to tell you what I think.”
“Jen, you did. You don’t like the tattoo. You don’t like any tattoos. Message received.”
She grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee into them. “Hardly.” She carried her cup to the table.
He sat with her. “I don’t like us being mad at each other. Tell me what I missed.”
“You should have known.”
He shrugged. “You’re a princess. I’m a dumb jock.”
“Some days I wonder how we ever got together.”
“Me too.”
She met the gaze of his navy blue eyes. “You’re not dumb. And I’m not so much a princess that I expect life to be perfect. I don’t expect that you should do everything my way. We’re different, which is probably why we’re attracted to each other. But that doesn’t give you the right to make fun of my girlfriends or what I teach or how I design my bulletin boards.”
“Huh?” He sat back and blinked. “I don’t do that.”
“You do! You did last night! You told me about the cheerleaders laughing, and you griped about Beowulf as though you have to read it yourself, and you called Emmi a nutcase.”
“But I wasn’t making fun of you.”
“What would you call it?”
“Teasing. Flirting. No big deal.”
“I’m not one of the guys in the locker room.”
“You’re not?”
“Kevin!”
He grinned.
“It hurts when you tear me down like that.”
“My fragile princess.”
“Stop it!”
His smile faded, and he held up a hand. “Okay. Relax.” He leaned across the table. “Jen, listen. I love that you’re my fragile princess. You know, it makes me feel like some kind of macho hero.”
“Well, just walk all over me, if that makes you feel so good.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” His forehead creased until his eyebrows almost touched. “I meant . . .”
“What? I’m listening.”
“I meant . . . I love the way your hand feels so tiny and soft in mine. I love that I could punch out anybody’s lights if he tried to hurt you. I love that you’re the smartest teacher in the school and that the guys think you’re hot. I love that you have the chutzpah to make them read Beowulf.”
All of her indignation took a nosedive.
He picked up her hand and kissed the palm. “Please tell me when I make fun of you. I’m new at this husband thing.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I don’t like tattoos.”
“Even ones that say ‘Jen’?”
“Yeah.”
“At least it doesn’t say ‘Michelle.’”
“Who’s Michelle?”
He sighed dramatically, closed his eyes as though remembering, and thumped his hand against his chest.
“You don’t know any Michelle.”
He sighed again.
“Kevin!” she snapped. “This isn’t funny.”
He opened his eyes. “Gotcha.”
She groaned and laid her head in her arms on the table. That was the problem. Kevin Mason did indeed have her.
Thirty-six
Max spotted Claire across the room and stood. She noticed him and headed his way, sashaying between tables, her mouth a grim line.
Her body language did not bode well for their meeting.
He was at a Starbucks, tucked back in a corner at a table for two. Wavering after nearly six weeks of life without his wife, he’d called her.
Claire didn’t walk like Claire. She didn’t look like Claire. Not that she looked bad, exactly. She wore something Tandy might have had in her closet, an ankle-length skirt and long-sleeved, unbuttoned blouse over a shirt. All she needed to complete the ensemble was one of those little triangle scarves, like in Fiddler on the Roof. A babushka. Totally out of character.
She stopped a couple of feet in front of him, not near enough to touch.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
The moment was awkward, no two ways about it.
He attempted a smile.
She attempted one back. An indecipherable upward nudge of the mouth corners, it probably mirrored his own.
He said, “I’m early.”
“I noticed.” She glanced at the table. “Drinks already?”
“Yeah. Johnny-on-the-spot. Shall we sit?”
They sat.
She touched the clear plastic cup. “What is it?”
“An Americano. You like those, right?”
The outline of the tip of her tongue appeared in her cheek.
“What?”
At last she met his eyes. “What makes you think I like it? I’ve had two in my life.”
He felt the flush start in his neck.
“Once by myself. Once with Neva.”
He had asked Neva what his wife liked at Starbucks because he himself had never been to the place with her. “At least I knew you like Starbucks.”
Claire’s stony expression revealed nothing.
“Give me some credit.”
She glanced away.
“I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry I don’t know what you like here.”
When she looked back at him, something softened in her greenish eyes.
“Let’s start over,” he said. “Hi.”
After a moment, she replied. “Hi.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He heard his own breathing. In and out. “How are you?”
Her eyes unfocused, as if she were carrying on an internal conversation. He sipped his black coffee and noticed her hair. Though clean and shiny as usual, it was longer and tucked behind an ear. At the top, dark roots contrasted with blonde strands.
The change in Claire was slightly unnerving. Clothes and hair he could handle. But when he’d called her the previous day and left a message inviting her to meet him and then waited all afternoon for her to return the call, Phil pointed out his irritability. Max admitted to himself that annoyance was getting an upper hand. It reminded him of the time several years before when another driver ran a red light and slammed into his car, totaling it. Although he hadn’t been hurt, the
shock of that moment had stayed with him—that moment of absolute loss of control.
That’s how Claire made him feel.
On the phone she’d said yes, it was time they talked. There were developments she wanted to discuss. She hesitated at his offer of din-ner, though. He’d scrambled and tossed out the idea of the coffee shop.
Scrambling for Claire was not familiar territory.
At last she said, “I’m well. I got a job.”
“A job!”
“Violinist with the symphony. Substitute, but sort of full-time. Someone took an emergency leave of absence the day I auditioned; they don’t know how long she’ll be gone. My first concert is Saturday. One of the summer outdoor ones, down by the stadium.”
“You don’t need to work. You don’t need money.”
Her throaty chuckle was not an expression of delight. “How high shall I jump, Max?”
“Sorry. It’s just so . . . so . . . so . . .”
“So . . . what? So not according to your plan?”
“I was going to say uncharacteristic of you.”
“I love playing my violin.”
“But you haven’t. Not for years.”
“Life got in the way. I guess it’s not in the way anymore.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out exactly what had changed in her life. “Was I in the way?”
She didn’t respond.
Tired of their separate lives, he’d vowed to make a supreme effort to listen and not go off half-cocked like the last time. He’d almost blown it right off the bat with that Americano thing. Not a smart move, consulting Neva. He figured he had about half a chance left.
“Claire, you can say it. I won’t bite. I promise.”
“Yes, you were in the way.”
Hearing that it was his fault did something to his gut. They’d been there before. Wait. They? No, he’d always been there. Things were always his fault.
“But,” she said, “I’m not totally blaming you. In a sense, I allowed you to be in the way.”
He stilled.
“Let me back up. I found my parents’ marriage license in one of those boxes we brought back from North Carolina. It turns out they had to get married. I was on the way by about four and a half months.”
