Heart-Shaped Box (Claire Montrose Series) (7 page)

Jim was now looking down at his open hands. “Did my hands feel rough to you?” He stretched out his arms and spread his fingers. “I’ve been trying to remember to put cream on them every night. I figured I’d be shaking hands a lot this weekend, and I didn’t want to scare anyone. After heaving boxes all day and pushing around a handtruck - well, my hands are always pretty banged up. And don’t get me started on the broken bottles.” His hands were bundles of tendons and muscles, laced with ridges of scars. Claire couldn’t help noticing the lack of a wedding ring.

He seemed to follow her thoughts. “So was that your husband? Do you guys have the two-point-two kids?” The soft voice was the same. Listening to it, Claire had to suppress the urge to scoot closer to him, as if he were drawing her into the same magic circle they had shared more than twenty years ago.
Claire shook her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to all that yet. How about you? I remember hearing you got married.” She refrained from using the phrase “had to.”

Jim shrugged and looked away. “That didn’t last long. For the moment, I’m single.”

She changed the subject. “Do you still pay music?”

“
I’m in a band.” He tilted his beer to his lips and took a long swallow. “If you can call it that. We mostly do weddings. I spend a lot of my time singing
Louie, Louie
. I’m one of only thirty-seven people in the United States who actually knows all the words.” He looked past Claire. “Here comes your boyfriend or whoever he is.”

Claire turned. Dante was walking toward them, his eyes on the two glasses he was trying to keep safe from jostling elbows. “My boyfriend. Here, let me introduce you.”

“
That’s okay. I need to go out and get a smoke.” Jim gave her a nod, and was gone before Claire could urge him to stay.

Dante put a glass into her hand. “Who was that?”

“
Jim Prentiss. We used to be pretty close, a long time ago. Talking to him made me realize how lucky I am not to be a waitress at the Apple Tree Truck Stop, wearing the thickest support hose they make.” Claire couldn’t help thinking that Jim made quite a contrast to Dante’s old conquests. Dante’s former girlfriends tended to have trust funds, degrees from Harvard and wear ugly, abbreviated clothes from designers so hip that Claire had never heard of them. “I’m afraid Minor is going to seem a long way from New York City.”

In answer, Dante put his arm around her shoulder and gave a squeeze. “Hey, I wanted to come, remember?” He changed the subject. “So do you think he’s the one who gave you that heart-shaped box? After all, he came right over to the table as soon as I was gone.”

For a moment, Claire had forgotten about the box. “Jim? I don’t think so. He asked me about his hands, whether they felt rough. I think he was worried about impressing some other woman. Or women. Not me.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping their drinks and watching the crowd swirl and eddy about them. There were glad cries of reunion as people re-discovered each other, exchanged photos of their children, teased each other about lost hair and gained weight. A few conversations seemed more serious. Claire saw Sawyer Fairchild, the gubernatorial candidate, talking to Richard Crane, their heads close together. Nearby, a woman waited patiently. She had the kind of prettiness particular to Miss America contestants, with teeth like Chicklets and straight brown hair worn shoulder-length with the ends curled under. Sawyer and Richard’s conversation ended with the two men nodding and shaking hands.

Cindy was still going from table to table, acting more the politician than Sawyer ever would. But Claire noticed that Cindy stayed away from her area of the room, as if Claire were emitting some kind of invisible force field. A few months before, they had met each other unexpectedly. Cindy had bragged about the wonders of her new maid, an illegal immigrant who, according to Cindy, was happy to work for two dollars an hour, paid under the table. Claire had done her one better, though. When Cindy had paused long enough to ask what Claire was doing these days, Claire couldn’t resist saying that she now worked for the IRS.

Claire spotted Wade Merz standing just a few feet from them, scanning the room. His eyes glossed right over Claire and then came back again, his expression puzzled and a little wary. Claire realized that without her rubber highlighting cap and silver cape, Wade wasn’t too sure who she was. She hazarded a guess that he was probably under the impression he had sold her a car (and judging by his wary expression, a lemon) at some point. While Claire watched, the waitress walked between them with her now empty tray. Wade stopped her by laying a hand on her upper arm.

“
Excuse me, but I’d sure like a heapum big vodka tonic.” He gave the waitress a smile that made his crooked nose more prominent. “Say, you don’t look like an Indian. Or should I saw squaw?”

“
Squaw is an old white word for pussy,” the waitress said. “So don’t use it. And, for your information, I
am
half Tequamish
and
was raised on the reservation.” Her utterly mirthless smile lent credence to the tale that the Tequamish used to celebrate victories over their enemies by eating their hearts - yanked, still beating, from their chests. Although anything, Claire supposed, started sounding better than ground acorn pancakes, which had been the staple item in the Tequamish diet.

Wade ducked his head so he wouldn’t have to meet the waitress’s gaze. “I’ll be sure to remember that, miss.”

Claire had been so busy eavesdropping that she didn’t notice a man approaching from the other side of the room.

“
Hello, Claire. Long time no see.”

She turned, but didn’t recognize the speaker. She and Dante both stood up. He was a tall man, two or three inches over six feet, but pudgy, his hair a faded gingery-gray. In a room filled with denim, he wore a snug gray suit and a wrinkled red tie. Behind thick glasses, his eyes regarded her, blinking slowly. Claire tried to be subtle, but finally she had to glance at the high school picture on his nametag. The bony pale face, shock of hair and square-framed glasses were instantly familiar in ways this plump stranger wasn’t. Could this really be her old friend, the skinny redheaded boy who had always been in motion, going faster and faster even as he went crazy?

“
Logan?”

“
I know. You’re surprised.” His voice was flat, but she thought she detected the hidden trace of a smile. Logan smacked his lips. “You probably didn’t think we’d ever run into each other again, did you?”

“
I didn’t think that,” Claire lied. Although that was exactly what she had thought, that surely Logan must be dead or permanently disappeared by now, crushed in the endless cycle between the streets and hospital stays. Her joy at seeing him was tempered by the thought that he looked as if he had barely made it out alive.

Finally, she remembered her manners. “This is my friend Dante. Dante Bonner, Logan West. Logan and I go way back. We’ve known each other since we were five.”

“
And we went way forward, too,” Logan added. “Claire was the only person from high school who visited me at Dammasch. The state loony bin,” he added for Dante’s benefit. Claire started as Logan grimaced, throwing his head back, his jaw thrusting upward. He continued talking as if nothing had happened. “Dammasch was the model for the hospital in Ken Kesey’s
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.”

Dammasch was closed now, for good reason. There had been stories of attendants who preyed on the people they were supposed to care for, of inmates left tied to their own beds for days. With a twinge of guilt that it had only been a few times, Claire remembered her visits to Logan. They had talked - or rather she had talked - while Logan had shuffled down the hall beside her, restless with no release. Occasionally he turned to look at her, his glazed eyes without recognition. Even though he wasn’t talking, he chewed the air, smacking his lips. The corridors of the hospital stank sharply of urine and vomit and bleach, and Claire tried to breathe through her mouth. The other inmates had been no better off than Logan, shouting, screaming, staring silently at the TV bolted on the wall or at the dust motes flickering in the air. Each of the three times she visited, Claire had thought how could Logan not be crazy, in a place like this? Each visit there had come a moment when words failed her, and she had simply walked beside him, holding his trembling hand. Later she had learned that the restlessness and the terrible repetitive movements were all side effects of the drugs meant to keep the visions at bay. No wonder that Logan’s mother had told her that each time he was discharged, he threw his meds away.

Now Claire found that all the things that one normally said to an old friend seemed too much like prying.
So what are you doing these days? What have you been up to? Did you finally settle down?
And yet, Claire really wanted to know. She tried a neutral tack.

“
How are things going for you, Logan?” She found herself taking his hand between her palms.

His mind was still in the past. “You know, you coming to visit is about the only thing I remember about Dammasch. At least, I think it is. I’ve been hospitalized all up and down the West Coast. After a while, it all runs together. Gurneys. Being pinned down by restraints like a bug. One-on-one suicide watches. Being so zoned out you drool on yourself. If you don’t like the Haldol, try the Mellaril or the Stelazine or the Prolixin. Do you know what kind of memories I have? I remember what hospital I was in when Ronald Regan got shot. The hospital I was in when Princess Di got married. I remember what hospital I was in when the Challenger exploded.” His voice was bitter.

“
But things are different now?” Claire prompted.

“
About a year ago I got a doctor who put me on this new drug. Risperdol. I didn’t think it would work, but five months later, the voices stopped.” He spoke gingerly, as if talking about the voices in too much detail might somehow bring them back.

“
That must have been a relief, after all those years,” Claire said softly.

“
Are you kidding? When I realized they had stopped, I curled up in the bathtub. I stayed there for four days. It’s like you drive a car for years and it’s got a rock caught in the wheel well. Then one day you take the rock out and something’s missing. It doesn’t feel like your car any more. It’s the same way about the voices. Sometimes I think, ‘This isn’t my head. My head has voices in it.’ I just tell myself that if it gets too bad I can always stop taking the medicine.” He ran his hand across his mouth, hard, as if he were wiping off his expression, then attempted a smile. “Now I live on my own in a real apartment. Not even any roommates. Do you know - I’ve never lived alone this long before. I’ve got a job. I even have a cat.”

“
Where do you work?” Dante asked. Claire wondered if he was glad to be able to ask a normal question.

“
Arby’s. The same place I worked in high school. I think they even have some of the same meat in the back of the cooler.” Logan said it with a sardonic smile, the corner of his mouth lifted as if he were laughing at his own joke. It was Logan’s old smile, pasted on a stranger’s overweight face. Then even the smile was gone, and he smacked his lips again.

“
Why don’t you sit with us?” Claire asked, gesturing to the two empty chairs at their table.

Logan shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I see somebody over there I want to catch.” He took off through the crowd before Claire could stop him.

Dante took a long sip of his drink, his expression thoughtful. “Sometimes you get reminded how lucky you are.”

“
You should have seen him back then, Dante. He was smart and skinny and funny and shy. And really good at basketball, which is kind of hard to believe, looking at him now. I think we were about sixteen when everything started. I remember we were in his living room, watching TV and talking, when all of a sudden he said, ‘I’m not stupid. I’m not.’ And I said, ‘Of course you’re not.’ Because nobody would even think to call him that. But then I realized he wasn’t talking to me.” Claire sighed. She felt like crying for what had been and what was never to be.

“
Claire! Claire Montrose!” Rachel Munroe, the doctor’s daughter, waved at them, then came over to where they were standing.

“
This is Rachel.” Claire turned to Rachel. “ I guess I don’t know your last name. Is it still Munroe?”

“
Yes.” She extended her hand to Dante. “Rachel Munroe. I’m married, but I kept my name. Seemed easier all the way around.”

“
Dante Bonner.”

Claire said, “I heard you’re a doctor now, like your dad.”

“
Yep.” Claire noticed that Rachel already had a lot of lines on her face, but they were all from smiling. “A pediatrician.”

“
I’m doing some volunteer work. And Dante works at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“
The Met?” Rachel looked interested. “What do you do there?”

“
I’m a curator, primarily specializing in Old Masters.”

Rachel tilted her head to one side. “That must be fascinating,” she began, but then another woman ran up to Rachel, screaming her name in excitement. With a wave in their direction, Rachel let herself be led off.

Next, Jessica came up to their table. She wore a denim skirt and a white cotton shirt topped with a fringed and beaded buckskin vest. “Is this chair free?” She didn’t wait for an answer before sitting down. She leaned close to Claire. “What did you do to your chin?” Flushing, Claire put her hand to her face. Here she was, thirty-seven years old - old enough to know better than to pick at her face in an effort to improve it. She imagined the pimple blinking redly, a beacon on her chin, emerging from the seven layers of foundation she had put on it.