“I guess.”
“Well, then, could you ask Jamie if she’d proofread my cover letters?”
Joan let go of the door and put a mittened hand to her forehead. “You’re telling me you got out of bed at 7:30 on an ice-cold morning after everything that’s happened to come here and ask me to ask Jamie to read cover letters?”
Claude tilted his head to the right, held it a second, and straightened it again. “Close enough,” he said. “Ask her, will you? And let me know what she says, one way or the other.”
Joan reached again for the door. “I have to get to work. Someday I’ll want an explanation for all this.”
“Ask her?”
“Oh all right.”
Claude reached out and pecked Joan’s cheek before she knew it was coming.
“Great,” he said. “Talk to you soon.”
#
Claude drove home, but within an hour one eye closed completely and the inner thump from his nose started to bother him. He cracked a dozen ice cubes from a blue plastic tray into a sandwich bag, went to the recliner, and set the bag so part of it rested on the bridge of his nose and part rested on his swollen-shut eye. It didn’t seem to help. Plus, it was uncomfortable. With his head tilted way back, he couldn’t breathe well. With his head in a more forward position, the ice slid off. At last he sprung from the recliner, slung his coat over his shoulder, and drove to the walk-in clinic up the street.
At the registration desk, Claude told his story, showed his health care card, and filled out half a dozen forms. When the check-in nurse asked him to take a seat in the waiting room, Claude was happy, because things were moving much faster than he’d expected. Maybe he’d be in and out.
Two hours later, he hadn’t talked to a soul. He’d watched morning talk shows and held the ice bag to his face. Claude asked the check-in nurse how much longer it would be, and she told him just a few more minutes. A half-hour later he asked again, and received the same smiling lie in reply. He went to the car, grabbed the newspapers and the red pen, and returned to the waiting room.
Over the next half hour, he circled and crossed his way through seventeen pages of want ads. The airport needed fuelers and aircraft cleaners. Bartender sounded interesting; he could learn to mix drinks easy enough. Cleaning, no, construction, no, dump truck diver, no—make that a maybe. Education, engineers, environmental, all no. Factory maybe, but not at $8.50 an hour. Gutter installer, yes. Human resources? Couldn’t be that hard; circle it. Inside sales, no problem. Plastics manufacturers looking for shift supervisors and blowmold operators. Hmmm, shift supervisor yes, blowmold operator, no, don’t like the sound of it.
At one o’clock he was taken to an examination room, but the pace didn’t quicken much. A nurse took his vitals, and after she left a doctor came in to prod, push, and pinch various segments of Claude’s face and listen to him try to breathe.
“My guess is a broken nose,” the doctor said. “We’ll get an x-ray to be sure, but I think it’ll show I’m right. Go back to the waiting room, and I’ll have the x-ray technician come to get you.”
“How long will that be?”
“Just a few minutes,” the doctor said with a smile.
When x-rays verified the diagnosis, the doctor set the nose. He wrote prescriptions for two types of pills and a plastic nose protector. Claude waited in line at the pharmacy across the street, which had the pills but not the nose protector. He went home, took the pills, and climbed into bed.
#
Joan nearly screwed up her drawer at Home & Yard a dozen times, but the customers caught every error, even the ones in their favor. Because she dreaded the paperwork that came with an unbalanced cash drawer—paperwork with which she was well familiar—Joan pumped a fist when her end-of-the-shift count came out to the penny.
On the whole ride to the beach she barely noticed the traffic around her. What happened to Claude? she wondered. Why no apology? What was he trying to pull with this job stuff?
As Joan turned into driveway she noticed Connie’s car was gone. She walked to the window near the corner of the house, reached behind the shutter, and slid the key to the front door from a small nail. After unlocking the door, she trudged back to the shutter to replace the key.
Once inside, she stood and looked at the empty cottage. Everything was where it belonged. No newspaper graced the arm of the couch. No slippers peeked from beneath the end table. No mail rested on the kitchen table. Every pot had its spot.
Joan slid her coat off her shoulders. After a quick glance out the window, she tossed the coat over the back of Connie’s easy chair. After a second glance, she smiled, then kicked her shoes up onto the couch. She dropped her purse in front of the door. She reached under her dress, dragged her panty hose over her thighs, and pulled them from her feet.
Quick snack, she thought, then a quick shower.
With her panty hose draped over her shoulders, Joan peered into the depths of the fridge for the right thing to eat. Carrot sticks? Chocolate pudding? Celery? There had been some leftover Chinese food in there last night, still good because it was only two days old, but now she couldn’t find it. It wasn’t behind the orange juice, or the milk, or any of the cans of diet soda. Joan opened the small door beneath the sink and looked over the rim of the trash can. There they were: a half-full box of vegetable fried rice, a tin of beef and broccoli, and a box with three chicken fingers poking through the top. Joan sighed. She opened the next cabinet and perused the pots and pans. Since she’d come to Connie’s, Joan hadn’t cooked once.
She returned to the fridge, but as she reached for the carrot sticks, Joan heard a car pull into the yard.
“Oh my,” she said.
She scurried to the front door to scoop up her purse, dashed to the couch to grab her shoes, and on her way toward the guest bedroom plucked her coat from the easy chair. Outside a car door closed. Joan scanned the area.
Where are the panty hose? Shit! Where did I toss the damn panty hose?
As she heard the gravel of the walkway krinkle, she caught a glimpse of the panty hose against the front of her dress and hustled behind the bedroom door. She placed the purse on the floor next to the dresser. She set the shoes down side by side in the small closet. She fumbled for a hanger, and didn’t immediately find the arm holes of her coat, but by the time the front door opened and closed Joan had hung the coat in the closet and stuffed the panty hose into her purse.
“Joan, dear, are you here?” Connie called.
Joan took her dark green bathrobe from its hook in the closet and laid it over her arm. She slipped her index finger into the string loop of her bag of toiletries—shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant, mouthwash, makeup—and opened the guest room door.
“Just getting ready to take a quick shower,” Joan said. “Where’s Jamie?”
“Still out on her walk, I guess.”
#
Joan closed the bathroom door quietly and leaned against the edge of the shower stall. She looked at the picture of Connie and Lou, which in this room was taken in Mexico and hung near the mirror. In the guest room it was taken in Switzerland and hung near the closet. In the kitchen it was taken right outside on the beach and hung above the sink. In Connie’s room, and in the living room, there was no direction one could face without seeing a picture of the Farleys. Although the photos spanned different decades, all the frames were new.
As she gazed into Lou’s sunglasses, Joan pictured Claude, passed out on his recliner, wearing a dirty shirt, surrounded by empty beer bottles and potato chip bags. She smiled. She closed her eyes and pictured Claude in other poses, laughing, playing with Jamie, helping her put out Santas. She pictured herself laughing, playing with Jamie, and putting out Santas.
A light tap came from the door. “Joan?” Connie said. “Everything all right? You’ve been in there almost ten minutes and I haven’t heard any water yet.”
Joan pulled the door open, and saw right away Connie hadn’t expected it. Joan waved Connie
in, then turned, walked to the toilet, and sat on the already-down cover. Connie stepped in. The door swung halfway closed.
“You all right?” Connie said.
“How long can I stay here?” Joan said, staring more at the hamper than at Connie.
“My word, you can stay here as long as you like. I love having you here, getting to know you again, and if your sessions aren’t getting you where you need to be fast enough, don’t fret at all. We’ve got plenty of time. You’re welcome here as long as you like. Jamie too.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Joan said, looking up to Connie’s eyes at last. “I meant, ‘How long can I stay?’ You’ve been terrific. I think I’ve learned a lot from our midnight chats. My counselor’s been a big help too, because I feel happy. I do. But I can’t stay in my sister’s bedroom forever, having my daughter sleep on a pull-out couch—not that we aren’t grateful for the hospitality, I don’t mean it that way—but it’s just not right, not when I have my own home, my own pots and pans, my own garden that needs tending, a husband who needs me.”
“But doesn’t deserve you.”
Joan pulled her eyes away from Connie’s again, but this time let them wander up instead of down.
“I don’t know,” Joan said. “My marriage to Claude, it isn’t yours to Lou, but it’s okay. We ain’t people who can’t stand the sight of each other.”
“Aren’t.”
“We watch television together, and eat together, and cuddle every now and then, and that doesn’t even count all the things we do with Jamie, and boy sometimes the three of us get laughing, but you know, Claude and me, we laugh together when Jamie isn’t around too. We do. You’ve said all along that he isn’t the only thing in life, and you’re right. I have so much more. It’s just, except for Jamie, all of it’s back home.”
Connie folded her arms. “What about him faking this disability? Are you going to let him get away with it? If you condone this, what’s next? Where does it stop? Can you afford to let him sink lower and lower and lower, however he sees fit?”
Joan stood from the toilet. She took in a full chest of air, let her arms flop to her thighs, and breathed out hard. She breathed in and out again, and started to smile.
“Joan?” Connie said. “Did you hear me?”
“That felt great.”
“Joan?”
“Of course I heard you. Claude’s screwed up before, but he’s always known when he had to toe the line, or at least pretend to. He’s been living on no money for a while now, but hasn’t sold the house or raided Jamie’s accounts or robbed any banks. He’s tried to call. He’s come to see me at work. Maybe he does miss me, and maybe he is sorry. Who knows, maybe he’s ready to toe the line.”
Joan tossed up her shoulders and held them high for an extra count.
“Or pretend to,” Connie said.
“If he admits it and apologizes,” Joan said, “we can go on. There’s nothing separating us except us—I mean, he just needs to show me he cares, that’s all. I’ve got no interest in divorce, and I feel better than I have in a long time, maybe ever, so I figure, hey, let’s get it going. Claude, he doesn’t have to be better than he can be, just better than he’s been.”
Chapter 49
Early the next afternoon, Claude decided to try to find a pig-snout nose protector. He drove downtown, opening the truck windows to take in the unusually warm air. It was 60 degrees in the heart of winter, almost forty degrees warmer than the day before.
The pharmacy he tried had the snout, but once he’d paid for it he couldn’t bring himself to put it on. Instead, he slipped it into his coat pocket and walked down the street to buy a sandwich for lunch. From there, he walked to the city park near the insurance building.
Despite the warm temperature, few people hung around, though five senior citizens sat on benches and gabbed. Claude selected a bench in the sun, opened his drink, and unwrapped his sandwich. Pigeons walked the brick in search of food. Claude devoured the first half of his sub.
Off to his left, a fat woman in a lime green sweatsuit spanked a rubber-booted three-year old with melted chocolate around her mouth. The girl wailed and stomped her feet, but didn’t let go of her mother’s hand.
“Claude! Claude Amognes. Is that you?”
Claude turned to his right. A man in sunglasses and a dark blue windbreaker waved, and Claude squinted through his swollen eyes to identify him as he approached.
“It is you. My god, what happened to your face?”
“Malcolm. Hey, how are you?”
Claude set his beverage on the pavement and stood to shake hands.
“How’s everything going? How are Walt and the guys?”
“Nevermind that. What happened to your face?”
“Little scuffle. Broken nose, but I didn’t get the worst of it. I suppose everyone says that, but they really did take the other guy off in an ambulance.”
“Good going. How’s life at the electric company?”
“Don’t know. Don’t work there any more.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows lurched up and he leaned forward, but a slight smile on Claude’s lips told Malcolm Claude hadn’t been fired. They sat down on the bench.
“Okay, I’m game,” Malcolm said. “What happened?”
“I jigged ‘em.”
“Get out,” Malcolm said. “For real?”
“Yup. Fear of bugs. Right after the hurricane. Sixty percent of my pay, vacation paid in advance, a $5,000 bonus for agreeing not to sue.”
“Terrific,” Malcolm said. “Absolutely terrific. It’s great to know you’re in complete control, isn’t it? To know you have the money you need, the free time to spend with friends, all the things that make life so wonderful. Good show.”
“Actually,” Claude said, “it hasn’t been all shits and giggles. I need to get another job. Sitting home all day ain’t agreeing with me. God, I need another job.”
Malcolm moved to respond, but Claude cut him off.
“How about you?” Claude said. “Keeping busy? Any weddings on the horizon?”
Malcolm smiled. “No, no, having too much fun. I’m dating two women. One I take to the theater, dinner, museums, all that. The other’s more into action. We go skiing, snowmobiling, skating. It’s been great.”
“Do they know about each other?”
“Sure,” Malcolm said. “They get along well. We’ve done lots of things as a threesome.”
“I’ll bet,” Claude said.
Malcolm shook his head. “Not that. I’m lucky though. They’re terrific women. I’m having the time of my life. Did you see that Hal died?”
“Hal died?”
“Yeah. Just before Christmas. The death notice was easy to miss. No obituary, no wake, no funeral. Walt tried everything to find a living relative, but in the end, he told the city to do whatever it does when people die alone. We were all he had.”
“That’s horrible,” Claude said.
“Horrible is right. The first night Hal didn’t show at the bar, we joked about whether we should check to see if he were still alive. The next night, it wasn’t funny any more, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to go to his apartment. The third night, we knew we had to. Hal never skipped three straight nights at the Tavern. Bots couldn’t take it. He went home. Walt and I went up there and got the owner to let us in, and sure enough, there’s Hal, dead in his chair. Liquor bottles everywhere. No curtains. No furniture except a bed, a couch, a chair, and a kitchen table. Clothes just lying in piles around the place. No television, just a tiny radio. And booze. It’s no way to die, but only because it was no way to live.”
“Poor guy.”
Malcolm shrugged. “Shows what happens when you have nothing. Walt couldn’t get over Hal’s material poverty, but what bothered me was the poverty of his soul. He didn’t have end tables and clocks and books and pictures on the walls, but so what? He didn’t need any of that crap. He needed the intangible things. Curiosity. Pride. Confidence. Courage. I
nterest in life and learning. Friends.”
As Claude listened, a tomato fell to the ground, but he didn’t notice. Claude strained his neck to keep the sun behind Malcolm’s head.
“If I had no friends,” Malcolm continued, “I’d make some. If I had no money, I’d earn some. If I were sentenced by God Himself to spend the rest of my days alone, I’d still have high standards; I wouldn’t let myself down, especially if all I had were me, and I certainly wouldn’t drink my life away, because alcohol is no substitute for anything. That’s why it’s hard to think of Hal: drinking didn’t make him happy, but still he did it. He hated his life, but where most people fight, he surrendered. Some might say the world unloaded on a man. I say a man didn’t understand the world is there to grab if you only have the motivation, the courage, and the wherewithal to grab it.”
Claude nodded. “Too bad.”
Malcolm stood up. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to run. I’ll tell Walt and Bots and Greg you said hello. And hey, I know a guy who owns a carpet-cleaning business and is looking for a crew foreman. He’s had one goof-off after another, and he’d really like to stop hiring kids and get someone a little more mature. Whaddya think, do you want his number?”
“Sure,” Claude said. “Sure.”
“I don’t have it on me, so how about I call you tonight to tell you what it is? Are you in the book?”
“Yup. The only Amognes.”
“Great. I’ll call.”
Malcolm laid an arm around Claude’s shoulder, shook his hand, and said good-bye.
“Take care of that face,” Malcolm called as he crossed the street.
#
Claude returned to the bench to finish his lunch, but took only two bites before leaping up and slamming the last bit of sandwich onto the ground.
“Shit,” he yelled. “Shit, shit!”
He scooped the debris from the bench and dropped it in a nearby garbage can. He sprinted from the park, dashed across the street despite the city traffic, and ran four blocks before rounding a corner onto a side street, drawing the wallet from his back pocket as he did. Two buildings later, he buzzed himself into an automatic teller machine and withdrew $160 with his credit card. Although he did not run back to the truck, he scooted in an exaggerated walk.
When he arrived behind the wheel, however, Claude’s frantic activity froze. He checked his watch: ten past two. Claude slumped in the seat as he realized panic had clouded his thinking. Frank wouldn’t be home from Rhode Island Electric for another two hours.
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 37
