Not That I Could Tell: A Novel

by Jessica Strawser

  Clara brightened. “Yes! That’s it.”

  “I thought that was a school project. It was distributed?”

  “To put it mildly.”

  Izzy was frowning now. “But she said it was about good news. You’re saying there was something in there about Kristin and Paul?”

  She took a deep breath. “Good news is her new angle. Let’s just say the original got her into some trouble. I can show—”

  “Did you invite me over just to warn me off of Paul?” Izzy’s voice was sharp.

  “Of course not.”

  Izzy shook her head. “Your life is very full, Clara,” she said softly. “You might have noticed that mine is not. I’m not exactly in a position to turn down offers to help me repair something, or to have someone keep me company for an hour or two. In fact, I think it’s better I’m not left with my own thoughts more than necessary right now.”

  “But Benny and I are here. If you ever—”

  Izzy put up a hand. “I’m not talking about intruding on other people’s lives. I know Benny would be glad to lend a hand, but I also know he has plenty of better things to do. And Paul, you might have noticed, does not.”

  Clara cleared her throat. “But maybe there’s a reason for that…”

  “Sure there’s a reason! His ex ran off with the kids he’d been raising for years. Honestly, if anyone’s behavior here should be chastised, maybe it’s the rest of the neighborhood, turning their backs on him, pretending he’s not still here.”

  He’s not still here, Clara thought. He’s back. “You don’t understand,” she said instead. This was going all wrong. She’d expected Izzy to brush off her concerns, even to deny having more than passing contact with Paul. But why was she being so defensive? Unless …

  “Did something happen between you two?” Clara blurted out. Izzy didn’t answer, and the fear Clara had been trying to swallow came flooding back.

  “Please, Izzy.” She stopped short and glanced over her shoulder, toward the foyer, straining to hear any signs of Benny. The house was quiet. “When I pictured this conversation in my head, we were not standing in a dark kitchen. Let’s sit down. Really talk.”

  Izzy looked at her strangely. “Why are you working through conversations with me in your head?”

  Clara swiped the wine bottle off the counter with one hand, took her glass in the other, and crossed to the couch, where she deposited them on the end table. She switched on a table lamp, pressed the remote to lower the music volume, and curled at the end of the sectional, hoping Izzy would think it rude not to join her. Izzy’s sigh was perceptible as she made her way to the opposite end, but she didn’t sit, only stood there awkwardly, letting her question hang between them.

  “Something happened,” Clara said finally. “To change the way I talk through things with friends.”

  “How did you used to do it?”

  “I didn’t, actually.”

  “But now you do.”

  She sighed. “Not very well, evidently. But I try. If you think it’s none of my business, Benny would agree. He subscribes to the keep-your-eyes-on-your-own-paper theory.”

  That they had walked away from the same tragedy having opposing reactions was one of the curious things about their marriage. But then again, maybe it was just a curious thing about tragedy. About how individual it can be, to everyone it touches.

  “And what theory do you subscribe to?”

  “More like better safe than sorry. Or ask forgiveness, not permission.” The caveat, of course, was that it had not escaped her attention that these particular theories could rationalize good deeds and bad indiscriminately.

  “Hmm. Sure you don’t want to go put the kids down? I’ll hang out with Benny.”

  Clara laughed, grasping at the chance to maintain any trace of levity. “Izzy,” she said, her eyes pleading, “I care about you. Just sit down and let me tell you this one story, okay?”

  Izzy sighed. “I know she’s your friend, but I think I’ve heard enough about Kristin.”

  “It’s not about Kristin,” Clara said, fighting to keep the desperation from her voice. “It’s about me.”

  29

  P.S. Has anyone ever told you that you’d make an amazing wife? I’m serious.

  —Last line of an email from Benny thanking Clara for a wonderful third date, in which she’d attempted to cook for him, burnt the pork chops so badly they seared themselves to the pan, and called out for Chinese delivery

  The ring sparkled so brightly on Clara’s finger she couldn’t stop staring at it. No matter that she was meant to be mingling with her colleagues and their guests rather than admiring her own hand like a mannequin in a Benetton window. Five years after graduation, six years after they’d become inseparable, seven years since she’d first set eyes on him, she was really, finally, and forevermore going to be Mrs. Benny Tiffin. Around the three-year mark her friends had started questioning if it would ever happen at all. But Clara had always known that there could be no better match than her and Benny, and that he would propose when they were both good and ready. The fact that he’d chosen to do so right before the holidays meant she had ample opportunities to show off her platinum-set proof.

  She stole a glance across the hotel lobby, where her company holiday party was assembling before dinner. Benny was in line at one of the bar carts, talking congenially with her boss and looking eloquent as ever in a three-piece suit purchased for the occasion, his red tie and vest a precise match to her new cocktail dress. While they were by no means a large publisher—a collection of fine art imprints that just happened to call the Midwest home—the execs had gone all out this year, compensating for the previous Christmas’s no-budget-is-met-so-no-party-we-get fail by renting out a whole wing of Lakeside Lodge. She’d heard some of her coworkers with kids grumbling about the implication that they were to stay overnight, the complication of finding babysitters this time of year, and on and on. But she was happy to have the chance to drink without worrying about the drive home. She and Benny had even packed swimsuits to make fools of themselves in the indoor water park come morning. Why not? They were giddy in their love, untouchable.

  Her boss, Graham, was a nice man—almost too nice for good management, really. You could tell he had a hard time drawing lines where lines were customarily drawn. But then again, he’d started out as an artist, then worked in academia, and then taken the job overseeing their high-end coffee table books. That wasn’t exactly a trajectory toward toeing the corporate line.

  As she watched Graham clap a congratulatory hand on Benny’s shoulder, she felt a jolt of pride in them both. Graham’s team at the young imprint was composed of fairly green, overeager professionals, and they played right into the “work family” dynamic, both squabbling among themselves and covering for one another like siblings.

  Clara was part of the foursome in editorial, along with Matt, the before-his-time hipster with so many computer monitors in his cubicle they called it Mission Control; Steve, the frat boy–turned–pseudoresponsible adult; and Liv, who always seemed unduly nervous about everything but then again probably should have been, given her penchant for both contributing to and distributing office gossip. They had a standing weekly happy hour, their quartet plus whomever else someone might rope in, and were at ease with one another in a way Clara took for granted. She was too young to know to be self-conscious, too naïve to worry the next morning about that comment she maybe shouldn’t have made after that third beer she maybe shouldn’t have had. She hadn’t yet learned that age and experience had a way of making you guarded, even in aspects of life you didn’t necessarily need to guard. And that when it came to things truly worthy of such protection, they could make you wide-eyed with insatiable worry.

  In that moment, the whole of her thoughts were occupied by her fun work friends and her sparkly diamond ring. Matt and Steve had just reappeared and were scanning the crowd for their dates, and she raised an eyebrow at their telltale glassy eyes betraying their not-en
tirely-legal smoke break.

  “The banquet room’s ready for us,” a voice from behind her said. She turned and caught the teasing glint in Liv’s eye. “And not a moment too soon. If I had to watch you lovingly gaze from Benny to your hand and back again much longer, I’d be sick.”

  Clara bit her lip. Liv was newly unattached—she’d broken up with her boyfriend over Thanksgiving—and still feeling the sting of having no plus-one. Although she had brought a date, Dale, a good-looking gay friend who’d already earned his meal ticket just by drawing looks of envy at Liv from female staffers who didn’t know better. Clara herself had mistaken Dale for a boyfriend when they’d first been introduced, at a pool party last summer. He was the kind of guy who was almost everyone’s type, with an outgoing personality and a quick athletic build that had him carrying their half of the sand volleyball court to easy victories. She’d thought it was sweet how playful and affectionate he was with Liv, though she came to realize he was like that with most all of his friends.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You should probably keep your distance. I can’t seem to help myself tonight.” It was true. She blamed the twinkling lights strung overhead, the garland catching the simulated candlelight from the chandeliers, the drinks flowing on her employer’s dime, the piano player in the corner who was doing a damn good job crooning Bing Crosby–esque Christmas classics.

  Liv smiled at her, only a hint of wistfulness showing through. “I know that look. This is one of those perfect moments for you, isn’t it? When you suddenly look around and just love everyone? When you feel that everything seems so wonderful you just want to freeze-frame it in your brain?”

  Clara gave her hand a squeeze, then dropped it as Dale approached. She was glad he was here for Liv. Clara had been the designated postbreakup sounding board at work, but Liv’s ex-boyfriend had come off as such a creep—always stirring up some sort of on-again-off-again melodrama—that weeks later Clara was having a harder time mustering a sympathetic ear. One of the warmest people she knew—at least, when she wasn’t licking her wounds—Liv so clearly deserved better. But she wasn’t going to reassure her of that for the one hundredth time tonight. No, tonight belonged to her and Benny. She was going to go ahead and be nauseatingly happy, and anyone who didn’t like it could go be nauseated somewhere else.

  “It’s time for Graham to carve the roast beast!” Matt called out, and the crowd around them laughed.

  “Graham the Grinch?” someone called out. “Hardly!”

  “He was the big-hearted version by dinner,” Graham shot back, and a second ripple of laughter followed him.

  Matt and Steve had located their girlfriends and were strolling gallantly toward Liv and Clara, arm in arm, like they belonged in an old-fashioned formal promenade.

  “I will allow the giddiness from you tonight, but these clowns better tone it down,” Liv mumbled, and Clara laughed.

  Then Benny was wrapping his arm around her waist, and Dale started doing a Yellow Brick Road dance toward the ballroom that made Liv laugh harder than she had for weeks, and they all filed in to find their place cards at the circular tables. Their company was not particularly large, but when everyone had a guest, the doubled crowd was impressive. Soon the room was loud with clanging silverware, clinking glasses, chatting, and laughter. Salads were ready at each place setting, warm rolls were passed, and entrees under silver domes were gallantly served. The top managers stood and gave year-end toasts during dinner; Graham went last, speaking over the bustle of the waitstaff’s valiant efforts to unobtrusively clear the plates, beginning with, “A word from our sponsors…” and ending with Clara and Liv teary eyed with gratitude, and Matt and Steve rolling their eyes in a way that only half hid their own emotion.

  “Are you guys hiring?” Benny murmured into her ear. “Because I suddenly realize my company has a way bigger stick up its ass.”

  “We’re creatives. It’s not our fault the stereotypes about accountants are true.”

  “And yet you’re marrying one.”

  “I guess there’s no accounting for taste.” She winked at him. “Get it? Accounting?”

  “I wonder if it’s too late to get my own room?” Benny mused.

  “Where is your room?” Liv asked, leaning across the table so only Clara could hear. “And do you have any clear nail polish in it? I’ve got a run in my nylons, but we’re a hike to the end of the wing.”

  Clara self-consciously crossed her bare ankles beneath her. “Sorry. Can’t stand the feel of those things on my legs! And I’m lazy about my nails.”

  Liv turned to Dale. “I’m just going to slip out now, before the real fun starts.” A band had been setting up in front of the small dance floor, and they looked to be about to get started. Liv shot Clara a smile. “For once, I have a date who can dance! Will you guys get me more wine if they come around? And if they’re taking dessert orders, my order is YES.”

  “I can’t promise not to eat yours,” Dale said, “but I can promise to order it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  As she disappeared into the hallway, the singer took the microphone and introduced the band. “We’re going to start nice and slow while you all enjoy some coffee and cheesecake,” he crooned, “but stick around for the real show.” The opening notes of “Hotel California” filled the room.

  “Is this a Christmas party, a wedding, or a bar mitzvah?” Dale asked. “I’ve lost track.”

  “If the ‘real show’ is ‘Hava Nagila,’ we can rule out Christmas,” Matt said, and the table erupted.

  “If it’s ‘Twist and Shout,’ we’ll assemble a bridal party,” Clara said with a laugh.

  Benny leaned in so only she could hear. “I’d marry you right now,” he said, nuzzling her ear. She felt so full, so warm.

  “Cheesecake?” A server was hovering above them, trying not to look impatient. Clara waved him away. “If I eat another bite, I’ll never get up. But Dale here will have two.”

  “So will I,” Benny said, and Dale let out a whistle of approval.

  Clara folded her cloth napkin neatly on the table. “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room,” she said. “Who wants something from the bar on the way back?” All the hands at the table went up, and she lifted her own in surrender. “Too many! I’ll meet you in line.”

  There was no wait for a stall, and Clara lingered at the sink, perusing the courtesy lotions and sprays and helping herself to a mint. As she meandered back through the lobby, she stopped at a display of a porcelain street scene from It’s a Wonderful Life, nestled in white mounds of soft cotton meant to look like snow. She bent to peer into the lighted windows of the little Victorian on the end, admiring the detail, right down to the miniature “George Lassos the Moon” art print inside. Maybe she and Benny should come here, party or no party, every Christmas. They’d bring their children one day, gather around the communal fireplace to eat sugar cookies, delight in the water park’s mash-up of indoor palm trees strung with white lights. She felt like a child herself. What a magical place her boss had chosen. She should find him and tell him so.

  But she didn’t need to find him. Here he was, rushing into the hall, his eyes wild, as the hotel manager and a pair of uniformed security guards rushed toward him. “A disturbance in your block of rooms,” she heard the manager say, his tone low but brusque. “The police have been called.”

  Clara’s feet were moving now, following them, not stopping to think. Benny filled the doorway of the ballroom, a look of confusion on his face, and wordlessly fell into step next to her. The men were almost running. “What’s going on?” she heard Matt call behind them. But none of them turned to answer. At the end of the hall, a security guard threw open a stairwell door.

  “One flight up,” he barked, as his partner rushed past him. “Us first,” he called over his shoulder to Graham, before charging up the stairs.

  Clara could already hear the screaming. No, wailing. She couldn’t discern if it was male or female. But she saw soon enough. It
was Dale, his hands over his face, just inside the door to the second-floor hallway. He lifted a shaking arm and pointed to the opposite end of the corridor. “It was her ex-boyfriend!” he screamed. “He ran that way! Oh, God, why…”

  The uniformed guards charged off. Clara reached the top step and looked past Dale into the hall. Smears of red on cream flowered wallpaper. A woman standing frozen in the doorway of an open room—somebody’s wife, Clara couldn’t remember whose. “I’m the one who called,” the woman said, her voice far away. “I heard her screaming—I was scared to open the door—but I should have … I should have…” She looked pale enough to faint.

  Midway down the hall, a crumpled form on the floor. One security guard dropped to his knees beside the tangle of arms and legs, and the other kept going, in the direction where Dale had pointed. The manager yelled, “Stay back!” but Graham pushed ahead, and then he was screaming too. The word no. Please no. Over and over.

  There were so very many smears of red on the walls. Both sides, some of the doors too. Benny put out an arm, pressed Clara behind him, just as her toe kicked something hard.

  She sank to the floor, still not understanding, and her fingers closed around something smooth and cold. She knew before looking that it was a bottle of clear nail polish.

  30

  If you knew today might be the last day of your life, would you be less snippy with the slow bagger at the grocery store, even though you were running late? Would you tell your neighbor you didn’t mind the intrusion, rather than showing that you so obviously did? Would you donate money to the person in need who asked for it?

  If, in my absence, people reflect upon my day-to-day and remark that I was kind, this is why. A daily visual of sand slipping through an hourglass can do wonders for your social skills. Try it sometime.

  It was never that I cared what people thought of me. It was that I’d made such a mess of things, I wanted to try to be good in some small, other way. To give the bagger faith that not every customer was rude. To give the neighbor a feeling of living among goodwill. To extend a courtesy to the person in need—because I knew too well that kindness could be in short supply at home. Besides, as they say, you can’t take it with you.