The History of Us

by Leah Stewart

  “I guess you can’t do that. Why the hell would you ask her that?”

  “Right,” he said, relieved. “Even I might have trouble making that plausible.”

  “So what can we do? What’s our first step?” Theo asked. She looked from Josh to Eloise. “I think I should figure out whether the company would even take her back. That’s number one. And what about her apartment? They must have replaced her with another roommate, right?”

  “If this were a Jane Austen novel . . . ” Eloise said, but she didn’t finish the thought.

  “They must have,” Theo said. “It’s New York. They can’t do without the rent. So we’ll have to find her another place. You know people in New York, right?” She looked at Josh.

  “Sure,” he said. “Yeah.” Sure, yeah, he knew people in New York, lots of people he’d met at some drunken party or backstage or over the merch table at one of his gigs. No one he’d call to get his little sister an apartment.

  “Okay.” Theo nodded as if something had been settled. “How hard do you think it will be to convince her to go back? Or go in the first place, I guess. I don’t know if I can do it. I kind of flipped out.” To Josh’s dismay her eyes filled. “I screwed up.”

  There was no resisting the sadness in her voice. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “She did this. It’s not like it would be different if you’d stayed calm.” Did he mean this? Maybe. He wasn’t sure.

  “She can’t marry that man until he’s divorced. How long does it take to get divorced here? How much time do we have?”

  “I have no idea,” Eloise said. She didn’t offer to find out, though you’d think with her research on marriage laws she’d have known how to do so. Maybe it was shock, but Eloise was doing a pretty good job of appearing not to care, and that was agitating Theo, who, if Josh didn’t step in, would feel compelled to care enough for all of them.

  “Would you like me to go find that out?” he asked.

  Theo shook her head. “I can do that. Could you go to talk to her? Things got so ugly between us. She might be more receptive to you now.”

  “Okay.” Josh nodded. “Sure.”

  “Thank you,” Theo said, with more gratitude than necessary. In the last several minutes he and Eloise must have left her feeling very alone. “I know you haven’t always felt like . . . I mean, I know you . . . ”

  She was trying to say something about Sabrina. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it. “I’ll call her right now,” he said, getting up. As he headed for the door Theo called after him, “We’ve got to fix this.”

  It was hard for Josh to see how they could possibly do that. But he didn’t argue with her. He took out his phone and made the call.

  Claire met him after work the next day at the coffee shop in Hyde Park Square. She was reluctant to come into Clifton, Northside, or downtown, and by that reluctance he understood that she’d kept her doings a secret from her friends and her teachers at the ballet as much as from her family. He was standing near the counter, studying the menu board, when she came in, and when she saw him she rushed to him so quickly he barely had time to get his hands out of his pockets to embrace her. “Hey,” he said into her hair, which was suddenly very short after a lifetime of being long.

  Claire stepped back and gave him a grateful smile. Of course she wasn’t just angry and imperiously withdrawn, the way Theo seemed to think. She’d been as upset as Theo by their encounter. She’d always wanted their big sister’s approval. He and Claire had that in common. “Hey,” she said.

  “Until this moment I thought Theo was imagining things,” he said. Then, because she looked so stricken, he added quickly, “I like your hair.”

  “Thanks,” she said, one hand going to the nape of her neck. “I always had to keep it long before.”

  “I guess that’s a benefit of quitting.”

  “I’ve always wanted short hair,” she said, not sounding so sure that was true. “I went to the salon the next day.”

  Why? Josh wanted to ask. So you couldn’t change your mind? “Well, it looks good,” he said.

  They ordered and waited for their drinks and found a table and all the while Josh tried to decide how he felt and couldn’t. Theo seemed to have no such difficulty, so certain that Claire had made a terrible mistake. She was angry and hurt and sick with bewilderment. Josh for his part understood what Claire had done, and not just the parts that rhymed with his own history. He understood why she’d hidden her choices from them. He, too, would have liked the luxury of living alone for a while with the decisions he’d made.

  Claire toyed with the sleeve on her coffee cup. “Are you mad at me, too?”

  “No,” he said. “I was surprised.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to tell you. But I felt like it would upset Theo and Eloise more if they found out you knew. And I didn’t want them mad at you, too.”

  “Theo wondered if I knew,” he said.

  She grimaced. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You should come to me if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Joshy.”

  She looked so relieved, he wanted to give her more. “There’s no law that just because you’re good at something you have to keep doing it.”

  “I knew you’d be the one who understood,” she said.

  “I do,” he said and then willed himself to mean it. If dancing had been a burden, shouldn’t Claire look lighter? Shouldn’t she look free? She looked to him like someone in mourning. She looked so terribly thin, without her art to explain her appearance.

  “Will you help me with them? Will you talk to them for me, make them see?”

  “Sure,” he said, feeling a little sick, because that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Claire relaxed into her chair as if everything was settled. “I’ve been dying to talk to you about Adelaide!” she said. “I’m really glad you’re dating her.”

  “Me, too,” he said.

  “I’m so curious what she’s like up close. You know, behind her teacher-dancer persona.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s sort of cool and remote. You know. She seems very self-contained. Onstage even when she’s surrounded by others you don’t really feel like she needs anyone else.”

  “She’s, well, she’s . . . ” he tried, but Claire’s little speech had left him unable to formulate a thought. He gave her what he could tell was a weak smile. “I’m still figuring her out.”

  “We can double-date!” she said. Was she serious? The question must have shown on his face, because Claire laughed, and then looked solemn. “I mean, after a while,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said again. Ask me anything! he thought. I’ll say sure!

  “But you should meet him now,” she said. “I want you to meet Gary. Do you want to?”

  Just to switch things up he said, “Okay.”

  The house was way too big for two people, three stories and spacious ones at that. Why rent such a big house for two people in the city’s most expensive neighborhood? What did Claire do alone in these giant rooms all day? Josh moved around the living room, looking at the vacation shots in silver frames and the gray, velvety couches so he wouldn’t have to look at Claire. “All this stuff is Gary’s,” she said, and Josh couldn’t tell whether that was meant as praise of the guy or apology for him. The room looked like he’d set out to reproduce a catalog. “I’m sorry he’s not home yet,” she said. “I thought he’d be home.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He works late. Or he might have gone to see his daughter.”

  “His daughter?”

  “She’s three. I haven’t met her yet. We’re waiting.”

  “Wow, Claire. You’re going to be a stepmother?”

  “I know, right?” She smiled. “It’s crazy.”

  Yes, it really is, he wanted to say. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  She made a face. “It’s on the second floor,” sh
e said. “Isn’t that annoying?”

  “Well, most of these old houses . . . ” He trailed off, unsure he wanted to comfort her about her concubine house. Concubine—a word Theo had used. What was Theo’s word doing in his head? “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He didn’t really have to use the bathroom. He wanted a moment away from Claire’s happy belief in his understanding, her relief at his support. And now that he was up here, he wanted to snoop. He took a quick glance in each of the rooms on the second floor. One was a study, furnished in the same inoffensive style as the living room. One had yellow walls and a bunch of IKEA boxes in it—of course, a room for the little girl. Best, for now, not to think about her, her future presence in Claire’s life, the fact that Claire thought she was remotely ready for . . . Best not to think about that. Another room had a bed but little else. The guest bedroom, he assumed. And then the last was the master. The bed wasn’t even made, the sheets and quilt not just disarranged but disarranged chaotically, and he stepped out quickly, feeling a little sick, and decided to look at the third floor. He crept up the stairs on the balls of his feet, trying not to make a sound.

  The third floor was two large rooms divided by a door. In the second, smaller one were two standing full-length mirrors, between them a ballet barre. Josh ran his hand along the barre, watching himself in the mirror. If Claire didn’t want to be a dancer anymore, what was this doing in the house? He wondered if Gary had set this up, trying to please her. He pictured Claire dancing in this little room and thought of Adelaide’s tiny ballerina in a jewelry box. He hoped that wasn’t what his sister was to Gary—an acquisition, a toy, a valuable object made more valuable by being hidden away.

  He jumped at the sound of Claire’s voice, distant and muffled but still unmistakably calling his name. He tried to be both quick and quiet on the stairs, and found her waiting at the bottom of the second flight. “There you are,” she said. “He’s just pulling up.” She said it like Josh was expected to be awaiting the guy the moment he came inside, and perhaps this was why Josh felt like he was standing at attention in the entryway, anticipating inspection by the king.

  Some king. Gary fell a couple inches short of Josh. He was impressively broad-shouldered—he looked like a swimmer—but balding fast, with a briefcase and a very white expanse of forehead. Who carried a briefcase still? Josh himself toted his stuff around in a messenger bag. Maybe a businessman in his midforties would feel self-conscious with a messenger bag, like he was trying too hard, which was exactly how Josh would have felt arriving at the office with a briefcase. I don’t get it, was Josh’s first thought, and his second, and also his third. Gary put the briefcase down to shake Josh’s hand, looking him right in the eye, and for a moment Josh expected to be sold insurance, or real estate, or a car. But though the man had a salesman’s grip and gaze, he lacked the easy, direct manner of one. In fact he sounded pained and awkward as he said how glad he was they’d finally met. Well, like a salesman, he was totally full of shit.

  “Me, too,” Josh said, and then, exerting himself in the face of Gary’s silence and Claire’s hopeful eyes, he said, “So, you’re a developer.”

  “Yes,” Gary said.

  Josh had no follow-up. “I don’t know much about that,” he said. “Except what I’ve seen on The Wire. But that’s not very pro-development, of course. I’m sure it’s, you know, got a particular political . . . thing.”

  “What’s The Wire?”

  “Oh, it was a TV show,” Josh said. “A really good TV show.”

  “Ah,” Gary said. “The glass teat.”

  “Huh?” Josh said.

  “TV.”

  “Gary doesn’t like TV,” Claire said. “Not even the good stuff.”

  “There is no good stuff,” Gary said.

  Claire rolled her eyes indulgently. “Everybody but you agrees there’s good stuff. Even snobs liked The Sopranos.”

  “People just believe what they’re told,” Gary said. “Everything’s advertising. Without advertising you probably couldn’t even tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke.”

  “Sure I could,” Claire said.

  “Me, too,” Josh said.

  “If I blindfolded you and gave you a taste of each you think you could tell?”

  Bring it on, Josh wanted to say, but he swallowed his irritation and held up his hands. “We just met,” he said. “We’ll get to the blindfolding later.”

  Gary checked his watch, as if to say this meeting was over. “Anyone want a drink?” he asked and then headed for the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

  “Sorry, he was being obnoxious,” Claire said. “I’ve noticed he does that when he’s nervous. I’m still figuring him out, too.” She smiled as if figuring out this self-important asshole were a delightful prospect. She seemed so young—not just nineteen but thirteen. Twelve. And Josh wanted to tell her what he knew: that love might look like a shore but turn out to be a desert island, where you roamed alone, talking to yourself, trying to crack open coconuts with your shoe. So thirsty you drank the salt water. So hungry you ate the sand.

  He wanted to sail up in a boat and rescue her, and he had a sudden, painful understanding of all that Theo had felt about him. Once, Sabrina had said in front of Theo that she’d leave him as soon as she had enough money to pay for a place on her own. He’d insisted to Theo that Sabrina had been joking, growing angry when Theo didn’t seem to believe it. He’d never considered how hard it must have been for his sister to see him treated that way. She must have wanted to knock Sabrina to the ground like she had that neighbor boy, rub Sabrina’s face in the snow, take her baby brother home to wipe the blood away, set the world right again.

  But Josh refused to make Theo’s mistakes. He wouldn’t judge. He wouldn’t urge. He wouldn’t harangue. He’d let Claire see for herself how wrong this was. He’d wait it out. Hadn’t it been, in part, Theo’s insistence on Sabrina’s faults that had made him so determinedly blind to them?

  “So,” he called after Gary, “how about that drink?”

  14

  The first day of classes at Wyett College was a week away, and Eloise needed to write a new lecture and change the dates on her syllabus and have a meeting with the two older professors who were refusing to do committee work. She also needed to make a decision about the offer from Jason Bamber, who’d all but promised her the job. She wasn’t doing any of that. She was leaning against her kitchen counter with a glass of wine in her hand and watching Heather mince garlic for bruschetta. Watching Heather cook was one of the pleasures of Eloise’s life—the clean, brisk confidence of Heather’s movements, the rhythmic tapping of the knife against the cutting board. But tonight even that simple joy was denied her.

  Things were a mess. The house still wasn’t hers. Theo would barely speak to her. Josh wore a constant crease line of worry in his forehead. Eloise hadn’t told Heather about the job offer, even as she considered it, which was tantamount to lying. She had a confused sense that she needed something definitive to happen with the house before she could decide about Chicago, or even talk about it. If she could sell the house, she could move in with Heather and be content. But if she had to walk away with nothing, if her kids and her mother did that to her, she could endure her own anger and disappointment only if she could consign them and the house to a completed life, and start living a new one.

  Old-country societies had it right when they said you owed something to the people who’d taken care of you. All the things they’d done for you should give them a say in your destiny. I labor for you, you labor for me. I house you, you house me. I choose the person you marry. I get something in return. But contemporary Western types had to go and decide children were not ours to keep and make use of, but rather a gift we offer the universe. Here you go, universe, here’s a child I gave up my life for. Let her do what she wants. I’ll just sit over here and die. In America people were surprised over and over when their years of effort were met with ingratitude, when their chil
dren drove around in brand-new cars failing to visit them in the moldering nursing home. But that was what happened if you didn’t raise them to believe it was their duty to return the favors you’d done, remind them all the time of what they owed you.

  For nearly a week after Claire’s secret emerged, Eloise had waited to see if the girl would call. When she finally did, and Eloise answered, Claire said, “Aunt Eloise?” though none of the kids had used that title in years.

  “Yes,” Eloise said. “It’s me.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “I’m so sorry you found out the way you did,” Claire said. “I know I shouldn’t have handled things like this.”

  “Okay,” Eloise said.

  “I thought maybe everybody could get used to the idea. With a little time.”

  “You have to live your life,” she said. And because that was all she could think of to say she said it again.

  “I want to come see you,” Claire said. “Can I come see you?”

  “Oh. Now?”

  “Whenever,” Claire said. “Whenever I can.”

  Eloise was in the kitchen, then, too, well into a bottle of wine. She looked around in a panic: dishes in the sink, newspapers strewn across the counter, a toppling stack of unsorted mail on the table. She couldn’t have said why it mattered whether Claire saw the house messy after years of living blithely in the mess. She only knew that it did. “Let’s do it in a few days,” she said. “We’ll have a family dinner.”

  “At home, you mean?” Claire said.

  “Here, yes,” Eloise said.

  “There,” Claire said. “Right. When?”

  “Let’s see,” Eloise said. She walked over to the calendar and stared at it blindly. “How about Friday?”

  “Okay,” Claire said. “Friday.”

  “Great! We’ll have a family dinner.” She stressed the word family, and then just in case Claire still didn’t get it, she said, “You, me, Josh, and Theo.” You, me, Josh, and Theo, she repeated in her head. “Seven-thirty,” she said, and then as fast as she could she got off the phone.