11
claire
I walk into Elisa’s house on the Fourth of July and find her in the kitchen talking on the phone. She motions toward the refrigerator. There’s a pitcher of iced tea, so I grab a glass from the cupboard and help myself. I take a drink. It’s icy cold with a hint of lemon, just the way I like it.
When Elisa hangs up she says, “Claire! You look so pretty.” She takes in my white sleeveless top and knee-length, flowing white skirt and sandals. As soon as I’m reunited with my children I’ll be wearing parade dirt and sticky handprints, but for now I’m pristine. I got my hair blown out this afternoon when I went in for a trim, and it lays shiny and straight to the middle of my back. A floppy, wide-brimmed sun hat and an armful of silver bangles complete my outfit.
“Thanks,” I say. “I felt like mixing it up a bit.” What will probably happen is that I’ll be back in shorts and a tank top by tomorrow, but it’s been a long time since I was even remotely dressed up, so here I am.
I take another sip of tea and sit down on a bar stool. The kids are marching in our town’s yearly Fourth of July parade, Josh and Travis with their Cub Scout troop, and Jordan with her dance studio. Chris is home for the holiday and he and Skip volunteered to drop off the kids and will follow the parade on foot and meet up with us when it’s over. A carnival has been set up in the park directly across from the end of the parade route, and the kids are beyond excited about riding the Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl.
Elisa grabs a glass from the cupboard, pours some wine from an open bottle of sauvignon blanc that she pulls out of the fridge, and takes a drink.
“Did you take a test?” I ask when she plunks herself down on a stool next to me.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to. I got my period a day early.”
There’s no medical reason Elisa can’t get pregnant, so every month she holds out hope. Determined to have another child, she’s tried everything from in vitro to acupuncture to meditation. Skip tries to convince her not to stress about it and has suggested more than once that maybe this is God’s way of saying their family is complete. His words fall on deaf ears. If she’s lucky enough to get pregnant, she says she won’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, only that the baby is healthy, but her desire for a daughter is almost tangible, like you could reach out and touch it if you wanted. Feel the solid weight of it in your palm.
After we finish our drinks we drive to the park, setting up our chairs in the front row at the end of the parade route so we can collect the kids when they’re done marching. It’s hot, but not unbearably so, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Perfect parade weather.
Not much is happening, at least not yet. Two toddlers waving flags sit with their mothers on a blanket and a group of preteen girls walk by, their cheeks displaying temporary tattoos of red, white, and blue stars. The thumping music from the nearby carnival rides reach my ears, as does the smell of freshly popped popcorn.
Two police officers are leaning up against a squad car, talking. The tall, dark-haired one looks familiar. “Remember the police officer that pulled me over for that taillight last month?” I ask.
“The ridiculously good-looking one?” Elisa says.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s him over there. The one with the dark hair.”
She shields her eyes from the late afternoon sun and looks in their direction. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s easy on the eyes.”
“I know. I can’t even imagine how many propositions he must field during a normal workday,” I say.
“I’m sure he’s heard it all.”
Maybe I’m mistaken, but the dark-haired officer appears to be looking over at us, squinting slightly as though he’s trying to place our faces.
“Who did you talk to at the police station when you called about the speed limit sign?” Elisa asks.
“I don’t know. The dispatcher, maybe?”
I’d called the police department about getting a speed limit sign after Bridget and I encountered a speeding car while we were on one of our walks. We’d barely made it onto the sidewalk when a car roared down the street, startling us both.
“Jesus,” Bridget yelled at the driver. “Slow down!”
The teenage boy behind the wheel flipped her off and we returned the salute, each of us jabbing the air with both of our middle fingers for emphasis.
“Well,” Bridget said, chuckling, “we showed him.” Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity and ineffectiveness of our actions, she said, “One of the kids is going to get hit crossing the street and then no one will be laughing.”
It was a sobering thought. “I told Elisa that we need one of those speed limit signs,” I replied. “I’ll make a few calls and see what we need to do.”
“They have one in my sister’s neighborhood,” Bridget said. “She says it helps.”
When I called the police department I found out that we weren’t the only ones who wanted one. Apparently there’s a bigger demand than they’re able to supply and we have to wait our turn. Who knows how long it will be before we get one?
“Do you think it would help if we talked to someone directly?” Elisa asks, motioning toward the officers. “Explain how bad the speeding is? Maybe they could bump us up a few spots on the list.”
“Maybe,” I say. “It can’t hurt to ask.”
I follow Elisa over to where they’re standing, and they stop talking as we approach. The dark-haired one smiles; he’s definitely the officer who pulled me over.
Elisa thrusts her hand out. “Hi. I’m Elisa Sager.”
He shakes it. “Daniel Rush.”
Elisa introduces me. “This is my neighbor Claire Canton.”
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The officer standing with Daniel looks near retirement age, with nondescript features and strawberry-blond hair that’s thinning all over. Freckles—or maybe they’re age spots—dot his skin. “This is Officer Eric Spinner,” Daniel says.
“It’s a pleasure,” he says, shaking our hands. The sound of shouting reaches us and both officers look toward a group of rowdy teenage boys. Two of them are trading insults and their language is enough to make me wince. Daniel pauses, listening, and takes a step forward. “I’ve got it,” Officer Spinner says, and I watch as he walks toward them.
“You probably don’t remember me, but you pulled me over for a burned-out taillight about a month ago,” I say.
He nods. “I do remember you. Did you get it taken care of?”
“Yes.”
Smiling at me, he says, “Good.”
“We had a question we were wondering if you could answer.”
“Sure,” he says. “What is it?”
“We live in Rockland Hills and the speed limit on our street is virtually ignored. I called and we’re on the waiting list to get a speed limit sign. Do you know how long it usually takes?”
“How long have you been waiting?” he asks.
“Not long,” I admit. “Maybe two weeks? I’m just curious about how long it usually takes.”
“It depends,” he says. He opens the door of the police car, leans in, and emerges with a business card and a pen. “What’s your address? I’ll see what I can do.”
“Really? That would be great. Thank you.” I give him my address and after he writes it down he slips the card into his pocket.
“No problem,” he says. He scans the crowd, his eyes roaming left to right, but his body language seems relaxed as he leans back against the car.
Elisa’s phone rings and she pulls it out of her pocket. “It’s Skip. I’ll be right back,” she says, walking away to take the call.
Now it’s just the two of us. Feeling awkward, I start to say good-bye at the same time that he says, “Are you from around here?”
“Yes,” I say. “What about you?”
“Overland Park.”
“Shawnee Mission district?”
He nods. “I went to West.”
“I went to East.”
“When did you graduate?”
“Ninety-four,” I say.
“I was ninety-one.”
That makes him thirty-seven. There’s another awkward lull. Neither of us say anything but when he smiles and looks at me, all the nerve endings in my body start vibrating, as if he can generate an electric current by virtue of his expression and his proximity. Strange, because until now I’ve never been one to swoon over a man in uniform. My feet move, seemingly of their own volition, and I take two steps toward him.
“I like your hat,” he says.
“Thanks.” I realize I’m staring and finally break eye contact. “Do you like working the parade?” I ask. Maybe this is a welcome change from his usual police responsibilities.
“Sure. It’s fairly tame. Later is when it gets ugly,” he says. “Holidays and hot weather bring out the worst in people. Lots of alcohol abuse. We’ll see a spike in domestic assaults.”
“That’s horrible,” I say, thinking of the fights that will break out later and the fact that there will be children in many of those households. The sound of the marching band draws nearer. “I hope I’m not in your way,” I say to Daniel, embarrassed that maybe I’m keeping him from doing his job.
He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re not.”
Elisa returns. “Skip said they’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Do you have kids marching in the parade?” Daniel asks.
“Yes. Our sons are with the Cub Scouts, and my daughter is with her dance studio,” I say. “They were really excited.”
“How old are they?” he asks.
“Jordan is seven and Josh is nine. Elisa’s son, Travis, is ten.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the marchers approaching. I hear the sound of the band, including the loud crash of the cymbals and the distant roar created by a large number of cheering children. Elisa gives Daniel a quick wave and says, “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” he says.
“I better go,” I say.
“It was nice to meet you, Claire.”
“It was nice to meet you, too. Thanks for checking on the sign.”
“Sure,” he says. “Have a good day.”
Elisa and I make our way back to our chairs. A few minutes later, Chris and Skip and the kids walk up to us and soon three enthusiastic voices are telling me about the parade, and I switch gears and give Josh, Jordan, and Travis my full attention. They want to go to the carnival now; it’s all they can talk about. We tell them to be patient and that we’ll head over in a minute. Chris gathers up my chair and the one I brought for him and we prepare to relocate. I grab the blanket and a small cooler that contains beer, water, and pop.
“Let me carry that,” he says, taking the cooler from me.
“How did the kids do?” I ask.
“They got tired near the end, but they had a great time.”
“Good.”
He studies me for a second. “You’re dressed up,” he says.
I glance down at my outfit and notice that one of the kids has already slimed me with a smear of something sticky and blue. I rub at it with my finger, which only makes it worse. “A little bit,” I say.
Chris loves skirts. When we were first dating I wore them all the time, especially after he told me how good he thought I looked in them. “You look nice,” he says, smiling at me.
“Thanks,” I say, and smile back at him. I can’t remember the last time he paid me a compliment. He sets off toward the park, hurrying to catch up with the kids, who are trying to sprint ahead, and I follow him.
We buy wristbands and the kids stand in line for each ride, despite my observation that they all look a bit rickety. Sandwiched between Josh and Travis, Jordan waves frantically at me as the Ferris wheel begins to move, transporting them high in the sky. I smile at the joy on her face. When the ride ends we follow them as they rush to the next one. After they’ve ridden everything at least once, Jordan gets her face painted like a tiger while Josh and Travis eat corndogs and drink fresh-squeezed lemonade. When Jordan is done I buy her a cone of pink cotton candy and laugh when some of it sticks to her whiskers. “Don’t wipe it off,” she says, worried that I will smudge the paint. The kids jump in the biggest bounce house I’ve ever seen and, miraculously, no one throws up. Shortly before 9:00 P.M. we choose a grassy spot and settle into our chairs, the four adults sitting side by side and the kids on the blanket in front of us to watch the display. The crowd cheers when the first round of fireworks explodes in the night sky.
Daniel is out there somewhere, I imagine. Leaning against his patrol car, watching the fireworks.
Keeping everyone safe.
When we return home I hustle the kids off to bed. They’re hot and dirty, and need showers, but they’re so tired I decide the world won’t stop turning if we wait until morning. Besides, there’s no way Jordan will part with the tiger makeup just yet. Despite the late hour, Chris sits down on the couch and powers up his laptop. “You’re going to work?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “I need to get a head start on these reports.” His desire to prove himself to his new boss is all-encompassing, and I know he’s eager to prove his worth, to make himself indispensable to the company. I’ve had years to adapt to his workaholic nature, and I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. When we were younger and newly married it didn’t bother me as much. He wasn’t out at the bars like the husbands of some of my friends (or, God forbid, the strip clubs), and I took pride in the fact that Chris had his head on straight and I never had to worry about where he’d been.
I didn’t miss him as much back then because we still spent plenty of time together, preferring each other’s company over anyone else’s. I’d wait up for him and he’d come home at eight or nine, or sometimes even ten, and loosen his tie and I’d heat up whatever I’d made for dinner. He’d eat and we’d make love and if we didn’t get to sleep until after midnight, it didn’t matter. I had the boundless energy of a woman in her early twenties, and sleep was a commodity I hadn’t yet learned to cherish the way I would after the kids came along.
We’d only been married for six months when we decided to start a family. When I got pregnant I spent some of the hours that Chris was at work turning one of the three bedrooms in our cozy little starter home into the perfect nursery. I agonized over what color to paint the walls, choosing a gender-neutral shade of light green since we didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby. We picked out the furniture and Chris put the crib together one night while I hung up all the clothes that I’d prewashed, holding the outfits up to my nose and inhaling the fresh, clean smell. The dresser held tiny pairs of socks and sleepers, and the bookcase in the corner contained all my childhood favorites as well as the entire Dr. Seuss collection.
When Josh was born I took to mothering with a vigor that surprised me, blocking everything but the baby out of my life. When my maternity leave was almost over I gave my employer my two weeks’ notice and decided to go the freelance route so I could work from home. I breast-fed, so Chris didn’t have much to do except make sure the car seat was installed properly and make diaper runs. For months, Josh and I cuddled in the rocking chair in the nursery, with the middle-of-the-night feedings quickly becoming my favorite. I was exhausted at first, but the glow of the night-light and the absolute stillness of the house—and Josh’s contented sigh—satisfied me more than anything in my life ever had.
Chris stood in the doorway one evening when he got home from work, watching as I fed Josh. “Do you need anything?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, barely taking the time to look up. “I don’t need anything at all.”
There was no reason for Chris not to work as many hours as he wanted. I was the kind of wife—the kind of mother—who had everything under control at home. And when Jordan came along I attended to her with the same devotion I’d given her brother, working twice as hard to make sure I had enough time and attention for both of them. If Chris ever felt left out, he didn’t show it.
Once Jordan was sleeping through the night, I’d awaken periodically, listening from our quiet bedroom convinced I’d heard a cry or a sound. When I realized everyone was still sleeping I’d wake up Chris and we’d come together quickly. He was always receptive, and making love in the middle of the night was my way of compensating for my absence during those early years of parenting. It had nothing to do with obligation, though; I needed the closeness, the connection, as much as he did. Maybe more.
When I come back downstairs after making sure the kids are tucked in I find Chris rifling through a stack of paper, a pen clenched between his teeth. Even though Chris hasn’t slept in our bed in a long, long time, I make a request. “Come up when you’re done.” I can’t handle a blatant rejection, so I clarify. “I just want you to lie down with me,” I say. “Please.” I hate that I sound as if I’m begging.
He looks up at me and takes the pen out of his mouth. His desire to get back to his spreadsheets is almost palpable, but his expression softens and he nods and says, “Okay. Give me a half hour.”
But in the morning I wake up alone, and when I walk downstairs to start the coffee I find Chris asleep on the couch, spreadsheets and laptop on the floor in front of him.