In A Country Of Mothers Page 27

  Now Claire was really crying — over Sam, the house, Jody, everything. She wished there was no one and nothing.

  “Is it unlocked?” Sam asked, opening the car door. “Do you want to come with me?”

  Claire shook her head no, and he got out of the car and walked down the long driveway. She watched him try the front door, then pull a credit card from his wallet and pop the lock open. Once inside, he turned and waved at Claire, giving her the thumbs-up sign, and then disappeared. Claire was still strapped in — the seat belt cutting against her neck — thinking of ways she could gain control over her life. Get rid of Sam, the kids, and the apartment. Drop Jody. Get her own place uptown — or even out of town, it didn’t matter.

  After Sam had been gone for twenty minutes, Claire started to worry. An escapee might have camped out in the empty house, or Sam could’ve fallen down the stairs that led to the unfinished basement, slamming his head against the cement floor at the bottom. She got out of the car, went to the front door, and rang the bell. “Sam?” she called. Hearing no answer, she pushed the door open and stepped inside the house for the first time. “Sam, are you here?”

  “Upstairs,” he hollered.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.”

  Relieved, she went through the dining room into the kitchen. It was aqua all right, but pretty — the sort of look a decorator in Manhattan might charge a fortune to accomplish.

  “Come upstairs!” Sam yelled.

  Claire slowly went up the dark stairs. “Where are you?”

  “In our bedroom,” he said.

  Claire started down the hall toward the back of the house.

  “Wrong way,” he said, suddenly behind her. “I like this one better. It looks out onto the front yard.” She turned back toward him, stopping to stick her head into the bathroom; the tub was cracked in half.

  In the small front bedroom, Sam pulled Claire toward him. “Is this what you want? Is this your fantasy?”

  She nodded.

  “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t have whatever you want?”

  Claire didn’t answer.

  He ran his hand up Claire’s leg, under her skirt. “I think we should try it out,” he said, curling his fingers inside the elastic band of her underwear.

  “Sam, I don’t know,” she said, pushing him away.

  “Are you having second thoughts?” he asked, unzipping his pants.

  “There’s no furniture.” Claire crossed her arms and stood awkwardly in the center of the room, her underwear caught halfway down her thighs, the lining of her skirt rubbing against her bare ass.

  When Sam reached out, uncrossed her arms, and began unbuttoning her blouse, she didn’t resist.

  “The bathroom tub’s cracked in half,” she said. “We’d probably need a new one.”

  “Big enough to fuck in,” Sam said, unhooking her bra and rubbing his face against her breasts, sliding his hand under her skirt and pulling her underwear the rest of the way down. “And a lock on our door.”

  Naked, their flesh stuck to the varnished floorboards. As they flip-flopped from top to bottom, positioning and repositioning themselves, their skin made thick peeling sounds. Later, in the car on the way home, it would be red and raw, their hips and buttocks covered with abrasions not unlike burns; they would shift uncomfortably in their seats. But at the time, in the moment, they hadn’t noticed.

  When they walked into the apartment at five, Frecia was furious. “I don’t know where you’ve been,” she said, her accent heavy with anger. “But as much as I love these children, I got a life of my own.”

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “An emergency came up.”

  “Emergency my eye,” Frecia said, looking at their satisfied faces.

  “Here’s cab money,” Claire said, pulling out all the cash in her wallet and handing it over without bothering to count. “Did anyone call?” she asked.

  “A girl called Jody. She said she was checking on your big emergency.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Your friend Naomi,” she said. “She wanted to know if selling her husband and children was illegal.” Frecia turned to Sam. “And your office, mister.”

  Claire went into the bedroom to call Jody. The answering machine clicked on; she hung up without leaving a message.

  Sam came up behind her and tickled her neck. “I suppose I should call the office,” he said.

  Claire handed him the phone. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Why don’t you order some Chinese for dinner. Adam likes lemon chicken.”

  Sam nodded as he spoke to his secretary.

  “See you,” Claire said, putting on her coat and sliding her tote bag over her shoulder — in it was her purse, the camera, all kinds of stuff. In the elevator going down, she decided it was too heavy. She pulled out her purse and the camera and left the rest with the doorman.

  Buttoning her coat, she walked west across Eighth Street, crossing Sixth Avenue, heading down Christopher and West Fourth, then turned left onto Perry Street. She pulled her scarf close. Checking the numbers on the brownstones, she made her way to 63. She had it memorized: Jody Goodman, 63 Perry Street, Apartment 4B, New York, New York 10014. The building was an old brick-and-limestone fortress; the entrance was a wooden double door, three steps up, columns on either side. The door swung open and a young woman stepped out, startling her.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “No,” Claire said, stepping back.

  The woman walked off, and Claire caught the door just before it closed. She stepped into the anteroom, checking the names and numbers on the mailboxes. 4B GOODMAN. The lock was broken, the flap hanging open, the mail nearly falling out. What was she doing there? Did she want to show Jody the pictures of the house, to explain that now, finally, they would be a family. Someone came out the inside door and Claire slipped in. Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, she stood outside the apartment as though she expected Jody to open the door and ask why it had taken her so long to get there. The hallway was deserted. Claire reached into her pocket and comforted herself by rubbing her fingers back and forth across the smooth gloss of the photographs. She stood outside the apartment far longer than anyone should just stand anywhere; was that how burglars and rapists worked? She pressed her ear to the wall, heard nothing, then rang the bell. Claire thought that perhaps Jody was inside, knew Claire was there, and was purposely ignoring her. “Jody,” she called, knocking on the door. “It’s me, Claire. Open up.” She thought of hurling herself against the door over and over again, screaming, demanding to be let in. Do you know who I am? And if she huffed and puffed and knocked her way in, what would she do then?

  She took the elevator back down and stopped at the mailboxes again before going out into the street, feeling tired and vaguely confused.

  33

  It was a bright afternoon near the end of March, a day filled with the strange and fragile sense that at any moment all that was clear might be taken away and replaced with a dark and heavy rain. Jody moved down the street, aiming the video camera at whatever looked interesting — a cat crossing the road as a cab barreled down the street, the age-old game of beat the clock.

  On the corner of Perry and West Fourth, near home, she saw something that caused her to instinctively duck behind the iron rail of a brownstone. Coming out the door and down the steps of Jody’s building was Claire Roth. Jody used the zoom, pulled in close, and pressed Record, locking in on Claire, trailing her from what seemed like a safe distance. She pulled open the door to Patisserie Lanciani — Jody’s cafe — slipped off her coat, and took one of the window seats. The waitress came and went. A cup of coffee arrived. Claire added sugar, no milk, and looked innocently out the window. The tape ran; Jody was getting the goods on Claire, video proof like the kind they showed on television: “Video Trial,” “True Stories,” “New York’s Weirdest.” Claire reached into her pocket and pulled out a stack of something
that Jody couldn’t quite make out. Cards? The zoom was fully extended; she needed to get closer to pick up more detail. Creeping down the block until she was directly across the street, Jody situated herself so that she was shielded by a delivery van. Photographs. Claire had reached into the pocket of her coat and taken out a stack of snapshots. She’d laid them out across the cafe table and arranged them in a specific order, as if she were fitting the pieces of a puzzle together. Jody was sure the pictures were of her apartment. Claire had broken in, gone through her drawers, her closet, the boxes under her bed, taking Polaroids of everything. She’d rounded up all Jody’s secrets and stolen them. Claire would take whatever she could get from Jody; that much was suddenly and surprisingly clear.

  Video still running, her eye fixed on Claire, Jody came closer to the cafe, stepping into the street, hoping for a better position. Once she was out in the street, exposed, Claire looked up, saw Jody, and registered the expression of having been caught. A nearly lethal rush of confusion and guilt coursed through Jody. She couldn’t move. A car horn blared. “Outta the street, retard!” someone yelled. Like lifting lead, Jody raised one foot, then another, and made her way to the curb, camera still fixed to her eye. Claire tapped on the glass and gestured that Jody should come in. Jody stood at the window, blank. Claire tapped on the glass again, but Jody was unable to respond. Claire went around to the door and said, “It’s getting cold out. Come on in, have a cup of cocoa or something.”

  Jody sat down. The photographs were gone, as though they’d existed only in Jody’s viewfinder.

  “How are you?” Claire asked. “You look a little pale.”

  Had Claire slipped them into the deep pockets of her coat? Jody shifted from side to side, looking at the dark wool draped over the chair, hoping to see the white edge of a photo poking out of the pocket. Nothing. The camera was there, hanging off the side of the chair, but where were the pictures? She must have slipped them into her purse. The purse was on the table in front of Claire, screaming to be opened.

  “Have you eaten anything today?” Claire said. “Maybe you should have a croissant and some cocoa.”

  “Double espresso,” Jody said to the waitress.

  “Have something with it,” Claire said. “Espresso isn’t very nourishing.”

  Jody didn’t answer.

  “So, tell me about your day. You’ve been out making movies? It occurred to me just last week that you and I should make a movie together — write a screenplay about therapy. You’d write the girl and I’d write the therapist.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jody said.

  “It could be so funny, and there’s so much to say.” Claire acted as if she hadn’t heard Jody’s answer. “I always wanted to be a writer.”

  “Strange,” Jody said, “I would’ve thought you wanted to be a photographer.”

  Claire didn’t respond except to look vaguely puzzled. “I’m not very visual,” she said. “I’m much more mental.” She tapped her temple.

  Jody tipped her head in the direction of the camera dangling off the chair.

  “Oh,” Claire said. “That’s Sam’s. I didn’t want to leave it with the doorman.”

  The espresso arrived, and Jody poured sugar into it until it was the consistency of granular mud.

  “You need to take better care of yourself. No wonder you’re not well.” Claire called the waitress over. “Could we have a croissant, please.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “Do you want it or not?” the waitress asked.

  “No,” Jody said.

  “Then I’ll have it and maybe you’ll eat some.” The waitress went off and Claire leaned toward Jody. “That sweater’s my favorite color. Do you know what it means to me to see you wearing that color?”

  Jody shrugged.

  “It means we have a lot in common. Two peas in a pod. I’d like you to come over for dinner sometime this week, and on Wednesday there’s a play at Adam’s school. You’d love it.”

  If Claire had been anywhere near normal, she would have explained what she’d been doing. She would have said, Oh, there you are, what a coincidence. I just stopped by your building. But there was nothing — not a word, not a gesture.

  “You know,” Claire said, “I’ve been thinking that if I can talk Sam into taking charge of the boys for a weekend, we could go away together. Just the two of us. Out to the beach, or maybe up to the Berkshires. It’d be great if we could have some real time together.”

  Jody finished her coffee, picked up the video camera, and turned it on Claire. “Why don’t you tell me about your day,” she said, pushing the Record button. “It’s a documentary. The scene is Claire Roth at Patisserie Lanciani. Tell me where you’ve been today. Were you seeing patients?” Jody paused. “And why do you call them patients? You’re not a doctor. What can you tell me about your background, your training? Your philosophy, your approach to therapy? Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Put down the camera,” Claire whispered. “People are watching.”

  “Yes, we’re here in Patisserie Lanciani with a live audience, a roomful of real people.” Jody panned the room and then returned to Claire, closing in so that Claire’s face filled the entire frame. “They, too, crave the answers. The myth of the therapeutic process, the great wide unknown; doesn’t touch the truth, does it? No, it all goes on in here.” Jody tapped her temple just as Claire had done minutes before. “What you see, how you perceive, what drives you. Perhaps you could illuminate the process for us.”

  “Stop.” Claire looked at her as if to say, How can you be so mean. Jody met her glance, evenly and head-on.

  “Me? Why? You just said you wanted to make movies — well, this is how it’s done. Come on, loosen up. So, what’d you do today?”

  Claire jumped up and ran for the bathroom.

  Jody sat alone at the table. Perhaps she’d been wrong. It was possible that what she’d witnessed — Claire descending the steps at 63 Perry — wasn’t the clear and heartbreaking twist of betrayal she’d first thought it was. She was distorting Claire’s interest, turning it into something darker and more dangerous than it really was. Claire had probably left a package outside her door, a little present, or a sweet note on beautiful paper. Jody would find it there and, humiliated, would have to call Claire immediately to beg her forgiveness. Time and time again, Claire would say, I’ve asked you to trust me, but you won’t. And Jody would end up apologizing not only for the afternoon’s awkwardness but for a lifetime of doubt.

  Claire’s purse was on the table, begging the question. Jody scanned the room. All the people who’d just been looking at her had gone back to their cappuccinos, their éclairs, their own pathetic conversations. She reached for Claire’s purse and pulled the zipper back, expecting to find the photos tucked neatly between her wallet and cosmetic case. There was nothing except mail — so much, in fact, that various envelopes stuck out, and Jody had trouble closing the purse. Worried that Claire would come out of the bathroom and catch her rummaging, she was trying to push them back in when on the left corner of one she noticed, familiar handwriting — the return address of someone she knew in L. A. She pulled the envelope all the way out of the purse and checked; it was addressed to Jody Goodman, 63 Perry Street 4-B, NY NY 10014. She pulled out another — her phone bill. A bank statement … a postcard from Carol Heberton … a schedule of screenings at the Museum of Modern Art. Claire had stolen her mail. She had reached into the mailbox and walked off with everything. A federal crime. In all the months that the lock had been broken, none of the multitude of strangers that came in and out of the building had ever taken anything. Then Jody heard the click of the bathroom door unlocking and jammed everything except the postcard back into the purse and zipped it closed. The purse was back in position on the table before the bathroom door opened. Jody tucked Heberton’s card into her back pocket, picked up her video camera, and looked out the window, pretending to be shooting something in the distance.

 
; “I didn’t realize what time it was,” Claire said, standing over the table. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” She squeezed Jody’s arm. Jody glanced up. Her eyes were red. “It’s all right,” Claire added. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry.” Then she took some money from her purse, put it on the table, and went out the door. Jody ordered a second espresso, poured in the sugar, and spooned the thick brown syrup into her mouth as though it were a prescription product. Trying to figure, trying to figure. She was trapped. Whatever it was that existed between her and Claire, she couldn’t stand it; all the same, she’d been living on it and couldn’t go without. Even now she didn’t hate Claire — she hated herself for buying in, craving it, getting hooked. She finished the espresso and paid the bill, thinking that crawling out of a well was harder than falling in.

  A losing streak. Coked up on espresso, paranoia, and guilt, she raced home and found Peter Sears waiting in the vestibule. “Hi,” he said. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  Jody’s mailbox was empty, and the metal door was hanging open. Three other boxes also had broken locks, but the mail was there, waiting.

  “How long have you been here?” Jody asked.

  “Only a minute,” Peter said. “But I was about to give up.”

  “My lucky day.”

  “How’re you feeling — better?”

  Jody shrugged. According to Esterhaus’s estimate, she would get better eventually, though maybe not for two years. According to what Jody’s mother read, it was a systemic yeast infection from eating too much sugar, and according to her father it was environmental poisoning. Jody herself had read reports calling it a B-cell virus, chronic immune dysfunction syndrome, a new herpes — a rare combination, a grenade-type virus with an unidentified trigger pin. If it didn’t kill you, it could last forever, waxing and waning.

  “Frankly,” she said, “I feel like shit.”

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Sure, why not.” Jody figured she had nothing to lose.