Ruth sighed. “I always wanted three.”
Ruth had a way of recasting her old ideas, making them more ambitious rather than less as they got more unattainable. “Sweetie,” said Claire firmly, “it can still happen.”
Ruth’s eyebrows dipped, and she put her fingers over her mouth.
Brad got onto his knees and set the remains of his muffin on his plate, then gazed at the orange slice. Claire picked it up, tasted it, put it back on the plate, and said, “You can eat it. It’s a sweet one.”
Brad shook his head.
Ruth said, “Does he like French toast? I haven’t touched this piece.” She turned her plate toward Claire, and Claire picked up the yellow triangle with Brad’s fork, set it on his plate, then cut it into pieces. She handed the fork to Brad. He said, “Wile Ting.”
Claire said, “The book is in the car. We’ll read it later. In the car is where the wild things are.” Brad grinned.
But it was she who was the wild thing, wasn’t it? thought Claire. There were four stages of wildness: Stage one was being married and falling silently in love with a young and charming man, but doing nothing. Stage two was doing something in the hope of trading your bossy, dissatisfied husband for the beloved young charmer; stage three was allowing the lithe physique and the merry nature of the charmer to occupy your every thought. Stage four was not caring, just acting. She was at stage three. If her analysis was correct, then she was a wild thing, but she didn’t feel wild, only that she was sitting inside the cage with the door open, and that was enough for now.
Brad successfully forked the first bit of French toast into his mouth, and Ruth said, “Good boy. Yummy.” He stabbed at the second.
“You are a good boy,” said Claire. She glanced at her watch. “Time to pick up Gray at nursery school. I’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“The streets are pretty clear. But it’s only a few blocks from here. Why don’t I stay with Brad, and you can bring Gray back here?”
Claire guided Brad’s fork just a bit, and he got the third piece. He seemed to be enjoying it. She said, “I’ll do that. Do you mind?”
Ruth shook her head. Her look was so sad, though, that Claire felt tears coming when she stood up from the booth. Yes, thought Claire, I deserve to have it all blow up, because obviously I do not value what I should. Why this was, she did not know. It was right out of Madame Bovary.
1970
IT WAS ONE THING to break your foot when you were expecting things to continue to disintegrate, as she did in her own house, where she now held both stair railings when she went up and down, but how could you stumble on a single step at Younkers when you were returning a tablecloth your daughter-in-law had given you for Christmas, and fall down so that they practically carried you out, and you went to the hospital, and your foot was broken? So Rosanna was staying with Claire until she could get around.
Her room was off the kitchen. She was stuck there, either in her bed (very comfortable) or in the easy chair Claire moved in for her. It took her three days to start covering her ears every time Paul talked. If she could have gotten up and closed the door, she would have.
“These eggs are overdone. Did you boil them by the timer? Are you sure? Oh, I’ll eat them anyway. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I’ll just have toast. The underside of the toast is too dark. Just one more piece, and watch it this time. Only a little butter. Yes, that’s enough. Well, just a smidgen more. I guess I’m not hungry after all.” How Paul could have possibly reminded Claire of Walter, Rosanna could not imagine.
Then: “What’s the temperature again? No, the outside temperature. Sixteen! Okay, I think Brad needs both the hat and the scarf, and be sure his mittens are pulled up under his sleeves, and then his sleeves pulled down. There was a child Herb Barker saw last week, his feet were frostbitten. Grayson, is your sweater buttoned? Show me! That’s a good boy. Sixteen degrees is sixteen below freezing. Can you count to sixteen? No, don’t use your fingers. Good boy.”
Rosanna could have ascended on billows of rage at the sound of his voice, so she scrunched down under the covers and put her fingers in her ears; she must have dozed off, because, the next thing she knew, Claire was standing over her, saying, “Are you hungry, Mama? I have your breakfast.”
Claire looked neat and clean, and she stood there like one of those maids no one in Iowa had, ready to obey orders.
It was as bad at supper — dinner, Paul called it. Claire was sent to get this and that: Gray dropped his fork, he needed a clean one; Brad’s bib was dirty from lunch; could she heat up the green beans, they were cold; this was butter; really, margarine was better. Chew each bite twenty times, Gray; don’t talk while eating, you could choke; you know what “choke” means? Get something caught in your throat and not be able to breathe — very dangerous. Brad, this is a bean. Say “bean”! A bean is very nutritious. Gray, say “nutritious”! That means “good for you.” Sit straight up in your chair. If you loll back, you are more likely to choke. That’s a good boy.
Claire said nothing. Rosanna imagined her sitting at her end of the table, eating between trips to the kitchen (Rosanna could hear her footsteps), smiling like she didn’t have a thought in her head, and so, the next day, Rosanna called Minnie and said, “Anything is better than this.” Minnie came and picked her up and took her home, where Joe set a bed up in the living room right across from the television. But she didn’t turn it on — she was grateful for every single moment of silence.
—
ANDY THOUGHT she had had a good session with Dr. Smith — just talking, very calm, a few fake dreams. They hadn’t practiced any Kama therapy in several weeks, because Dr. Smith was too busy with what he was writing to concentrate. And then the drive home was quite pleasant. When she pulled into the garage, she saw that both Frank’s and Nedra’s cars were gone, and she would be alone — also something to look forward to. She went up to her room, changed into shorts (it was quite warm for May), and entered the kitchen as the phone rang.
Normally, she would not have picked up, but she wasn’t thinking, and she was all the more sorry that she had when she heard Janet’s breathless voice. “I wanted to tell you before you heard on the news.”
“Heard what on the news?”
“We’re striking,” said Janet. “We’re not going to any classes, and I’m taking incompletes in all my courses. But also we’re marching on Washington. That’s the part you might see on the news. I could end up in jail. You don’t have to bail me out. I would rather stay.”
Andy felt her good mood slip away. She almost hung up right there, but then she said, sharply, “I don’t understand this at all. What are you protesting, Janet?”
“The murders at Kent State. Those kids were nowhere near the National Guard, and they were completely unarmed.”
Andy never watched the news, and she had tossed the morning paper on the hall table without looking at it. It wasn’t the first time she was maybe the last person in the United States to know about something — Dr. Smith never discussed “ephemeralities.” But Frank and Janet found her ignorance annoying, so Andy said, “Such a sad thing.”