In the waiting room—one chair, one end table, and a mini-fridge stocked with juice—Claire flipped through the stack of magazines and here was Jack Huxley again. The cover of Vanity Fair, an article in Forbes (“Hollywood Heavyweights”), and his caricature in the New Yorker. He was ubiquitous. He had a small dimple in his chin; you could see it in close-ups. Charlie had insisted that dimples were a deformity and had often noted how it was fascinating, wasn’t it, which deformities we celebrate and which make us recoil. In the case of the dimple, Charlie said, it’s the symmetry that charms us. “Humans are simpler than they’d like to think, and I don’t exempt myself,” he said. “We like bright colors, uniformity, nice symmetrical shapes.” Jack Huxley was symmetrical.
Claire and the Wyse family’s shrink dispensed with introductions and Claire began.
“Here’s the thing. My husband is dead and I want to get on with my life. But I’m not sure what I want.”
“Let’s pick a place in there to start,” Spence said. “Tell me about your husband.”
“No. I don’t want to. I want to talk about sex.”
Evan Spence raised a brow. “All right, talk about sex. Fire away.”
Claire, to let him know this was serious yet difficult, let out a long, protracted sigh and tugged at her socks. “Well, okay. It’s like an elephant in the room,” she told him. “Or a gorilla, however the saying goes. There’s this very pure expectation, I think. Of widows. I can remarry, but I don’t want to remarry. I’m young and I want to, you know, date. But there’s this expectation that I shouldn’t be sexual because I’m a ‘widow’ and widows are pure, like virgins, and it’s disrespectful to Charlie if I just date, but I was lonely, a little, when I was married and now I’m lonely and not married. And I don’t know what to do about any of that.”
Unlike Judith Lowenstein, Evan Spence was liberal with eye contact. They were blue, his eyes. Claire thought it careless of him not to wear bookish glasses.
“Why aren’t you supposed to have sex?” he asked.
Also unlike Lowenstein, Evan Spence had neither notebook nor pencil, nothing with which to distract his hands or allow Claire time to look around.
“Because my husband died. I’m supposed to only want to have sex with my husband, still. Unless I marry someone. So it’s kind of like I’m still married, in a way, except that he’s dead. My botanomanist felt that, too, when her husband died. She had to screw an Acura salesman in New Jersey.”
“I wasn’t aware of these rules,” said Spence, in a smooth voice a bit too cool for his orthopedic shoes. Claire imagined him undressing.
“Perceptions, yes, but not rules. Will you hand me that violet beside you, on the window.”
Claire took a potted African violet from the windowsill and handed it to Spence, who began to sift through its leaves and—with two very long, strong fingers and scissors—snip off the blemished ones. He motioned Claire to continue.
“Well, the perception, then, is that I’m a threat now. I’m alone and I don’t have divorce baggage, so I’m a bit of a trophy.”
“A trophy?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me to prove it, but my husband was a sex specialist. He knows.”
“Yes. I’ve read his work.”
For no good reason, Claire looked up and there was Charlie’s 723-page Thinker’s Hope on Spence’s top shelf, between The Bell Jar and The Nuremberg Interviews.
“Well. He floated the trophy theory—virginal milestones … pregnancy sex, postpartem sex, divorcée—their first time with a new man. Widows rank high. He spread that one around when Glory Loveland’s husband died and she was driving everyone wild. I mean, I’m sure you’ve thought about, you know, a widow.”
“My thoughts and desires are not at issue here, but go on.”
“Women are suddenly guarded with me, and men are not. It’s adultery kicked up a notch. I’m still someone’s wife, in a way. So it’s naughty and even slightly more brazen than flirting with a divorcée.”
“Are you behaving differently?”
“No. I don’t know. Yes. Differently than what?”
“Are you flirting more with men? Maybe subconsciously you want affection, whether in the form of sex or not, yet consciously you think it’s wrong. It’s not wrong, it’s a natural human urge, but these factors are warring and result in your unconscious prevailing in overt flirtation.”
“I’m not flirting, I don’t even know how to flirt. I went on two dates. Well, three, if you count Brian at Melanie Stark’s. I haven’t dated since college and that hardly counts.”
“Um-hm.”
“The first year of widowhood is specifically set aside for awkwardness—lewd gazes from men and the treacly sympathy of their wives. Friends like Melanie all want to fix me up—they want me married and off the market again. The first year is reserved for clever dinner seating arrangements.”
“An astute observation, if perhaps overly generalized, but go on.”
“The first year, too, is set aside for details. Those, I’m much better with. There are credit cards to change, bank accounts, mail, subscriptions to cancel. New things pop up all the time. You have to transfer the airline miles, for instance. Most people forget that one—and clean closets out, of course, you know, there’s just a lot. I don’t know where I’m going with this.”
Evan Spence maintained his posture and gaze.
“Did you save anything of your husband’s?”
“Well, I kept all of his books, obviously—not the ones he owned but the ones that he wrote. I kept his letters, his papers, his computer with its files. All the wine. He was a collector. I kept all of it, although I don’t really drink wine. I kept his shaving kit—you know, the toiletries, his toothbrush. And I kept his robe.”
“His toiletries. Why is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where do you keep them?”
“In the bathroom.”
“You keep your late husband’s toiletries in the bathroom?”
“I do, I guess. Yes. And his robe on a hook, also in the bathroom.”
Evan Spence put down his violet.
“This is interesting.”
Maybe Sasha was onto something with second-opinion shrinks. Lowenstein had not found this interesting.
“It was brand-new, cashmere. He’d hardly worn it.”
Evan Spence took a pen and pad from his small table and scribbled something down.
17
It was 9:00 a.m. when the phone rang, 8:00 a.m. in Illinois.
Claire was awake but had spent the past hour in a dream state, conjuring future boyfriends, having imaginary conversations.
The Wilkinsons’ dinner is Friday, but let’s not go.
We have to go!
Let’s not, love. Let’s stay in bed the whole damned weekend if we want.
But what will we tell them?
We’ll say we’re away, then we won’t leave the apartment!
Oh, Robert–Nick–Darren, you’re perfectly wicked! We’ll have popcorn and takeout. We’ll watch Casablanca!
Claire had never watched Casablanca but she planned to with future boyfriends. She never cared much for Thai food but it, too, played a part in her imaginary future affairs. As did Elvis Costello’s music, card games, Tom Stoppard, and maybe crochet hooks. Claire thought she might crochet in her next relationship, while Peter watched sports highlights. Or Harry, maybe. Or possibly Joe.
“Claire, I’ll be frank. Your father and I are worried,” Betty said. She’d been calling every morning, for weeks, and Claire hadn’t answered. She figured it was time.
“Hi, Mom,” Claire said into the phone.
“Claire.” Her mother’s tone was slightly scolding.
“Yes?”
“I can tell you’re not up yet, it’s not good. You don’t answer your phone. You’re falling into depression. It’s important you stick to a simple but constant routine. Up at eight, to bed by ten. Do something with your mind, as well as regular physical ac
tivity. Follow small daily rituals.”
“I’m not depressed. I’m tired.”
“Were you out last night? Late?”
“No.”
“Did you stay up late, then?”
“Not really, no.”
A query about food was coming soon. Betty’s answer to everything was sleep and food, but not too much of either.
“You’re not tired, you’re sleeping because you’re depressed. The chemistry of depression stops your sleep chemicals from functioning appropriately.”
Some mothers spend their lives convinced their children will be whisked off by creepy strangers. Betty’s biggest fear was that her children might catch depression, followed closely by a fear that they might lack food.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that non-depressed people wake up. They get eight hours of sleep and then wake up. If people were responsible about their sleep habits—eight hours a night, from nine to five, or ten to six, or whatever—and every night at the same time, we wouldn’t need alarm clocks because your body knows naturally when to stop. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
Betty had retired from her teaching career much too early, Claire thought. It gave her too much time to read, and to worry that the sky was falling down. Claire made a phew sound.
“Don’t make fun. What are you eating?”
Claire’s brother, Howard, had moved to Oregon after high school. He went to college, became an accountant, married and bred and led a nondescript life that hummed along. Claire went to New York and married a Byrne, and that, in her mother’s eyes, was almost as good as landing a senator. Betty had relished her role opposite Grace.
“You’re not calling to find out what I’m eating,” Claire said.
“Well, it’s not the main reason, no. I’m calling because Paula Wingrove’s mother told me that Paula can’t have children.”
“That’s too bad. Did she want any?”
“Claire! She’s only thirty-seven. She and Mark have been trying for three years. Ellen is devastated, as is Paula, of course. And it got me thinking. I think you should harvest your eggs.”
“Mom, please. I don’t even know if I want kids.”
“What are you talking about?” Betty said. “Every woman wants children.”
“And even if I did,” Claire said. “I’d probably get diabetes.”
“Claire Byrne!”
“Pregnancy triggers genetic diseases, that’s all I’m saying. So thank you for wishing that on me.”
“Well, that’s a nice attitude. No one’s saying you have to have children, just harvest your eggs. I’m sending you the name of a doctor.”
“I have a doctor.”
“This one’s very good.”
“I have a good one.”
“Are you eating, sweetheart?”
“No.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes I am, as a matter of fact. I have two shrinks, two seers, two dates, and a griot. I gotta go. Say hi to Dad.”
* * *
“I’M NOT LOVING these blind dates,” Claire said. She’d been summoned to lunch again to consider Number Three.
“He’s not blind.”
“I’m not on a lucky streak.”
“He’s not a gambler.” Claire scrunched up her mouth as though thinking about her response, then broke open a fortune cookie.
They were at Shun Lee on Fifty-Fifth. Sasha had ordered champagne, which meant she had something to talk about over and beyond Claire’s dates. Claire had asked for her fortune before the meal, and the waitress brought her four cookies. It was three in the afternoon and they were the only ones there. Claire sipped the champagne and opened her cookies one by one.
The first two were identical and promising: You’ll have a life full of daring and thrill.
“The thing is, there’s no thrill anymore, with Thom,” Sasha said. Here was the reason for the palliative champagne. “He goes to work, he comes home, Lydia makes dinner, we stare across the table at each other—no, I stare, he eats—and say the same ridiculous things. ‘Is Frank still fucking up the Bankers Trust account?’ ‘No, he’s pulled it together.’ ‘Hey, is Lydia still going to the same butcher on Madison? Something’s off with the steak.’ That’s a Monday. For Tuesday and Wednesday, substitute ‘Frank’ with ‘Lyman,’ and ‘steak’ with ‘salmon.’ Then we get stoned on scotch and he watches CNN in the study and I watch Real Housewives in my room.”
“Which one?”
“New York. Okay, sometimes Jersey. It’s not important.”
Sasha took a drink of champagne and continued.
“Anyway, then I decided, okay. We need kids.” She was twisting her diamond tennis bracelet around on her wrist. She was making Claire nervous. “We agreed, before, early on, you know—no kids—but that’s ridiculous. There’s nothing to do if you don’t have kids.”
Claire thought of her mother’s warnings about Paula Wingrove. “You should freeze your eggs.”
Sasha sighed. “Well, I went to see Dr. Riva. And of course she says I have terrible ovaries, they’re appalling. In fact, her exact words were, ‘Your ovaries are appalling.’ She said I have fifty-year-old ovaries.”
Claire gasped.
“I know,” Sasha said. “Then she told me, ‘You don’t want a baby, no one should have babies.’”
Claire nodded. This was Dr. Riva’s steady refrain. Good God, no babies. If you could see what I see.
She practiced what she preached. Joan Riva had delivered plenty of babies but never had any herself. There were family pictures on her desk, grown children, but Riva had explained it to Claire. They were her husband’s children. Ervin’s sperm, Ervin’s first wife’s ruined womb.
“Did you know that every time you ovulate, after the one egg is released thousands more explode in your ovary?” Sasha exclaimed.
“Wow,” Claire said. “Intrauterine genocide.”
“I’m serious, Claire.” Sasha took a large sip of her beverage. “I don’t think my marriage will survive childless. We’ve run out of conversation. We need something else to talk about at dinner.”
Their waiter appeared with a basin of live seafood, which Sasha scrutinized slowly and carefully, like a wizened old fishmonger.
“This one,” she said, and she jabbed her finger in the bucket. “That one right there in the middle, poached. And we’ll start with the prawns.”
While Sasha gulped champagne, Claire cracked open her third fortune: You are true to your nature.
“I just feel like it’s in my nature, you know?” Sasha said. “I am meant to be a mother. Don’t you think? I’m nurturing. Not every woman is nurturing.”
Claire raised a glass to her lips to avoid responding. The waitress appeared, to fill their water, and Sasha snapped; she was on edge. “Will you please go away? We will tell you when we want water.”
Claire opened the last fortune cookie. This one was ominous: There will be a dark question that has no answer.
“Okay,” Claire said. “Go ahead and set it up.”
“Set what up, honey?”
“My date, the hockey guy. Three’s a charm.”
18
“I’m trying to date. It’s not going so well,” Claire said to Lowenstein.
“All right. Let’s come back to that. You mentioned another dream.”
“It wasn’t really a dream, more like a vision, a hazy sort of vision. How do you remember things?”
“How do I store certain events—is that what you mean?”
“No, not store them. How do you play them back? Do your memories have sound? Are they in color?”
It was a pertinent question, because in memory Claire took liberties. She was thinking of when she first met Charlie in the bar of the St. Regis, an old throwback of a hotel where men stroked rolls of bills and wore heavy watches, and women were busty with tottering hair. Claire had painted and repainted this scene, thousands of times since that night.
&nbs
p; “They do and they don’t have sound and have color,” Lowenstein said. “Our memories are parceled out by sound and color, yes. When you recall them, they retrieve these links and assemble into a sort of multimedia production, if you will. Memories are pliable.”
Claire got out of her chair and paced. She felt agitated. Charlie was everywhere, but not in comforting or nostalgic ways or anything that was mildly reassuring. He raced through her mind like an extra darting out from the crowd, causing the actors to flub their lines.
On weeknights the St. Regis was flush with commuters, in that dreamy period between high-rise offices and Greenwich picket fences. The men stood and the women dangled from stools. Claire had been to the St. Regis just that once, to meet Charles Byrne, yet her memory of it was so vivid, she could tell the grade of jewels on the women’s hands when she replayed it. She could see the worn spots on the fabric that cloaked the walls. She recalled the back table where she waited, the warmed bowl of almonds she’d eaten to seem occupied. The gin and tonic she’d ordered, the bruise on the lime. The memory ran through her memory in black and white, and sérieux, like a Truffaut film.
“Yes, they are,” Claire said. “You’re right. It wasn’t dingy, or black and white, the room was bright. It was full. There were candles on the tables, and the girls were in short skirts.”
“Is this a memory, then? Is it a significant one?” said Lowenstein.
“I’m just thinking of when I met Charlie. What’s the point of memory, though, if we change it to suit ourselves?”
“In some cases it’s quite useful. Memories are a source of comfort, and they are also flawed. They are affected as we take on new information or add life experience. For instance, this memory of your first meeting with Charlie is likely different now than it was five years ago, based on the experiences you’ve had since.”
“I’ve turned it into a movie scene: A room of middle-aged men and saggy chins, call girls in leopard prints circling like sharks. Clenched faces, fake alligator bags, fingernails bright red.”
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