Somebody Else's Daughter (40 page)

Now that she thought about it, she couldn't imagine Jack being comfortable in a jewelry store, trying to pick something out for his lover, whoever she was. It dawned on her that being who he was in a very small town, he wasn't about to purchase a necklace in one of the local shops, as he would run the risk of being judged for the purchase. Tongues were always wagging about one thing or another, and it stood to reason that tongues might wag over the Head of Pioneer School, whose parents paid close to twenty grand a year per student, purchasing a less than spectacular necklace for his incredibly selfless, hardworking wife. Maggie closed her eyes, picturing Greer Harding's tongue wagging about it all over the place and laughed out loud.

The fact that he'd given her a blender confused her. It was an insulting gift, really, a hefty piece of machinery, bulky, painfully domestic. But the necklace was just the opposite. The necklace had been delicate,
feminine.
She could almost imagine the tiny pearl between her fingertips.

He'd purchased the blender at Sears. If she knew Jack, he'd purchased the necklace there as well.

He was, after all, a very practical fellow.

It had begun to snow and the roads were slippery. The parking lot was crowded and the mall was bustling with people returning unwanted Christmas gifts. Maggie entered Sears on the lower level, and wandered through the balmy serenity of the furniture department, tempted to lie down on one of the mattresses for a little nap. The jewelry department was upstairs, on the main floor. She took the escalator. The jewelry cases were lit from inside and her hands felt warm on the glass surfaces. It didn't take her long to find the necklace, and her heart began to beat very fast. A saleswoman came over to see if she needed help. “That one,” she tapped the glass impatiently. “I'd like to see it, please.”

The woman took it out, handling it the way one might maneuver a small slippery snake, and gave it to her.

“Is it a real pearl?”

“Yes, it's real.”

“How much is it?”

“I believe it's eighty-nine dollars.” The woman reached back into the case and turned over the little ticket pinned to the pink velvet to check. “Yes, that's right. Would you like to try it on?”

Maggie fastened the chain around her neck and looked at herself in the oval mirror. The chain felt light, the small pearl hit her at the throat. “I'll take it.”

On the way home, she stopped at Loeb's and bought lamb chops and mint jelly and cauliflower. To start, she would make soup. In her sparkling new blender, she would beat her famous vichyssoise till it had the consistency of milk.

That night, her husband and daughter ate hungrily. He was so busy eating that it took him nearly an hour to notice the necklace around her throat.

He did a marvelous double take, then his face turned all sorts of interesting colors. He excused himself, as she knew he would, and went into his office and shut the door and did not come out for the rest of the night. He was so quiet, in fact, that you could almost believe he wasn't even there.

She took her time cleaning up. Standing at the sink washing the dishes, she could hear the snow coming down like a hundred people whispering the same two words:
Everyone knows.

“I'll be at Monica's,” Ada said, going out the door with her overnight bag.

“Have a good time,” Maggie called. She glanced out the window and watched her daughter get into Greta Travers's car. The car pulled away.

She could feel her old strength returning, the same courage she'd summoned during that terrible week at Remington Pond, after they'd found the girl.

She dried her hands on a towel. The kitchen was neat and quiet and a small lamp glowed in the living room. For a moment she lingered with expectation outside his door, like an acrobat about to do a life-threatening trick. Then she knocked.

“Yes?” came his voice.

She pushed open the door. “I want to ask you something.”

He took off his glasses and looked at her, waiting.

“Who is she?”

A flush rose to his cheeks, as if he'd been slapped. He turned back to his desk.

“I'm losing my patience, Jack.”

“She's just a girl I met,” he said finally. It was a simple sentence, she thought, with an ordinary noun and verb, yet to her it was as esoteric as some obscure poem. “She's a prostitute, actually,” he said almost casually, as if that made it all right. “Since you want the facts.”

“Yes, I do. I want the facts.”

“Look, Maggie.”

“Don't you
look Maggie
me.”

“I'm sorry, I know it's unforgivable.”

“You promised me, Jack,” she said. Her voice sounded whiny. “You said never again.”

He looked down at his guilty hands.

“Liar!” The word shot up from someplace deep and she said it again and again.

“Maggie, please. Keep it down.”

“What's the matter, Jack? You worried somebody's going to hear? Huh? You worried somebody's going to find out? Everyone knows, Jack. Everyone knows about you.”

He glanced up warily, as if the very sound of her voice caused him pain.

“The notes,” she reminded him.

“You're paranoid.” He got up and walked past her, nearly pushing her out of his way, and went into the kitchen. “Nobody knows.” He took out a glass and poured himself some gin. He drank it warm.

“Someone does. Someone out there knows.”

He shook his head, he didn't believe her. He drank the gin.

“Fix it, Jack.”

“I can't. It's too late.”

“This school is our life,” she said. “This was our chance to have a life. And look what you've done.”

“I know.”

“How is it possible that a smart man like you could be so stupid?”

He took his drink into the living room and sat on the couch. She stood in the darkness, watching him. “I don't know what to say, Maggie. I made a mistake.”

“This is just the sort of thing that could ruin you,
us.
”

“She's pregnant.”

It wasn't something she expected to hear and it took her several minutes to process the admission.

“She's just a girl, really,” he said, gently.

“Just a girl,” she repeated, breathlessly.

“I'm not quite sure what to do about it.” He looked at her. “It's been on my mind for some time now. It's always on my mind. She is,” his voice faltered, “on my mind. I've been distracted. I can't seem to concentrate.”

He set his drink down soundlessly. He began to cry. She went to him.

“You are not going to ruin our lives over some stupid girl, do you understand? I didn't marry you for this. I didn't bring our child into the world for
this.
”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He began to whimper.

“We are going to have to think about this very carefully,” she said.

“I know,” he muttered. “You're right, Mags.” Then he took her hand and sank to his knees. “Please forgive me. I'm a fool. I can't seem to help myself.”

She ran her hands through his thick hair and raised his chin so that he would look at her. Tears of guilt ran down his face.

“We'll figure it out, won't we, Mags? Just like the last time?”

“Yes,” she spoke in a whisper. “Yes, Jack, yes. Just like the last time.”

Panic Disorder

[sculpture]

Claire Squire, Hunger Strike, 2007. Wax, pigment, papier-mâché, horsehair, 5 x 14 x 14 ft. Collection of the artist.

Five female figures on their hands and knees in a circle, licking Splenda off the floor, their faces feral in their determination to feed on the sugar substitute as though it will sustain them. Their bodies are nearly emaciated, their ribs exposed, the hip bones and shoulder bones exaggerated.

Hunger Strike addresses a woman's lifelong obsession with her weight—depriving herself of nurturing in both the literal and figurative sense of the word.

40

He had come to a point with Claire. It was a kind of ache he had for her, a kind of pain in his gut. He had begun to tell her that he loved her. He would look at her. He would say, “I'm in love with you.”

It began to snow late in the afternoon and they'd made a fire and opened some wine. He'd stopped at Guido's earlier for groceries and she'd spread all the ingredients out on the counter, wild salmon, a baguette, red potatoes, tomatoes. She was good with the knife, chopping the salad, preparing the potatoes. He watched her as she worked, sipping the wine. “Claire,” he said, because he loved to say her name.

She looked at him and smiled. “Yes, Nathan.”

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “I've wanted to tell you for a long time.”

“So tell me.”

“I'm afraid to. It's something from my past, from another time.”

“Don't be afraid. It won't change anything.” She put down the knife and waited.

“When I was a much younger man, I lived in San Francisco with a woman. I was just a few years older than Teddy. Her name was Catherine. She was someone I loved. We did a lot of drugs, mostly heroin. She was—we were both addicts. It was a lifetime ago.” He stole a look at her. She was watching him, listening intently. “Anyway, she was sick; she had AIDS. I loved her. It was a difficult time.”

Claire's face went gray. In a matter of seconds she looked fifty years older. He could see the fear in her eyes.

“I was spared,” he said. “I used to get tested every month—I'm fine, you don't have to worry—and I'd never put you at risk, I hope you know that about me.”

The color came back into her cheeks. She nodded, she kissed him.

“But being spared only added to my guilt.”

“I'm sorry, Nate.” She took his hand.

“We had a child,” he admitted. “A daughter.”

Claire flushed, surprised. “What happened?”

“We gave her up.”

“For adoption?”

“We had to.” He looked away, guilty. “I was in no position at the time to be anyone's father.”

“That must have been so hard,” she said. “It must have been awful.”

“It was.”

“Was the baby all right?”

“She was perfect,” he said simply. “It was miraculous.”

He told her about that day, how Cat had died in the car, and then, abruptly, he stopped himself. He had planned to tell her everything, but he suddenly realized that Claire didn't need to know it was Willa. It would change everything—the way she looked at the girl—the way she thought about Joe and Candace—it wasn't fair to any of them—it wasn't fair to him.

“I just couldn't do it alone,” he said finally. “I wasn't ready to be a father. For a long time, I felt terrible about it, miserable. I felt so guilty, like I was the worst sort of person. But I don't anymore.”

“I'm glad.” She kissed him. “You'll have another baby one day.”

He took her in his arms and whispered in her ear. “Let's go up and try making one right now.”

Later, in bed, he stayed up for a long time watching her sleep. The wind howled outside. The whole house seemed to be moving, creaking, and he could feel the wind coming through the cracks in the walls. After dinner they'd gone outside with Teddy and made snow angels. They'd laid in the snow catching snowflakes the size of pigeon feathers in their mouths. It had been the most fun he'd had in years. Later, in the shower, she'd tugged on his beard and dared him to shave it off and in the heady blur of passion he'd told her he would. They'd made love in the half-dark room and he'd watched her as she rode his hips, her mouth open, her breasts swaying like heavy summer fruit, her loose hair spilling down her back. He finally fell asleep, conscious of the world outside, the fury of the weather.

He woke early, before her. The sky was empty and white, quiet now, as if it had exhausted itself. He looked over at his lover, her sleeping face, her lips pale as clay. Oh, how he loved this time with her. She'd had a lot of wine last night, he thought. Maybe she'd forget about his beard. He could understand Claire wanting him to shave it off, as though his true self might be revealed. It would draw attention to his face, he realized. And, even though it had been many years, there was still a chance that the Goldings might recognize him. If it was what Claire wanted, though, he decided, it was a chance he was willing to take.

He got dressed and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. Teddy was sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. “Living in sin,” Teddy said, shaking his head.

“The snow,” Nate tried to explain. He and Claire had been careful not to be too intimate around Teddy, unsure how he'd react to their relationship. “Your mom didn't want me to drive.”

“Yeah, right.”

Nate looked at the boy. “Are you okay with this?”

“What if I'm not?”

Nate stood there, trying to come up with something to say to make the boy feel better about the situation, but Teddy smiled, shaking his head. “Relax, Gallagher. It's okay, man. I'm glad it's you.”

He got up and put his bowl in the sink and Nate said, “Hey,” and pulled him over and bear-hugged him. “Thanks for your blessing.”

“I love you too, Gallagher.” Shaking his head, Teddy went out.

Nate made coffee and sat there for a moment, drinking it, imagining Claire as a young girl in this crazy house full of stuff. Claire came down a little later, smiling in that mysterious way of hers, that grin, and she took his cup and set it down and kissed him, a long slow wonderful kiss, then led him back upstairs, ignoring his complaints. She took him into the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet seat and put a little towel around his shoulders. “Welcome to my leetle shop,” she said in an Eastern bloc accent. “Ve give you a shave, ya?”