Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [22]
The three of them stayed late into the night, took field trips to look at pioneering buildings, studied other architects’ models, sought inspiration in museums and theaters around the world. The design Ben submitted three months later was original but not radical: huge panes of glass sloping toward the water, creating the illusion of a continuous liquid surface, joining in a series of connected cubes, the largest of which contained a magnificent concert hall. When the design was picked as one of the four finalists, a Boston Globe headline asked, “Sloane Who?”
The other finalists were suitably pedigreed: the best-known Boston firm, a major New York powerhouse, and a New Haven group fronted by a big-name guru. But to the surprise of virtually everyone, including Ben, the Sloane Howard design was chosen. “This structure will be a beacon of light and beauty,” declared Philippa Boyd, the eighty-three-year-old philanthropist whose name would be on the building, in her reedy, wavering voice at the press conference: “a clear symbol of hope on the harbor for the noblest aims of humanity.” A little overwrought, Ben reflected, standing behind her at the podium—but certainly preferable to “stylish.” He’d taken a huge risk on his vision, his dream—and now it looked like that risk was actually paying off.
In the meantime he hadn’t been home much. He felt as if he were back in grad school, working on a term paper—the hours spent focusing on a single topic, trying to understand it, to create a thesis that would hold up under scrutiny from experts in the field. He didn’t think of eating until he was ravenous, and then he grabbed whatever was close by; he didn’t go to bed until his bones ached with fatigue, or until he realized he was reading the same sentence over and over because he was drifting in and out of sleep.
Claire had been understanding—incredibly so, he thought. She’d always called herself “high maintenance,” though he wouldn’t have said that, necessarily. Anyway, he liked to take care of her; he took deep pleasure in it, a pleasure that only intensified as he got older without children. He needed some object for his paternal feelings, and they both agreed they didn’t have the lifestyle for a dog (though he would have liked a dog—he’d always wanted one, even as a kid, a Boston Terrier, maybe, or a beagle—a scrappy, energetic little beast). But lately he hadn’t had time to care for himself, much less anyone else, and though he’d expected Claire to complain about his late hours and inconsistent schedule and semipermanent state of distraction, she hadn’t said a word. In fact, lately she’d been surprisingly nurturing herself. She left notes on the counter about soup or a roasted chicken she’d picked up at Fairway for him and put in the fridge; he’d find PowerBars in his briefcase. When he called to say he’d be working late she always said she understood; she knew what a huge project it was. He showed her his designs, and she responded thoughtfully. She rubbed his shoulders in bed at night, brought him green tea to clear his head, retrieved his shirts from the dry cleaner without complaint.
When Ben really thought about it—which, frankly, he didn’t often; he just didn’t have the time—there were things that gave him pause. The forced cheer in Claire’s voice, flight-attendant polite; the restless tapping of her fingers as they sat together late at night watching TV; the times he’d wake up at 3 a.m. to find her side of the bed empty, and would hear her out in the living room, pacing around. But surely these were normal responses to having a miscarriage. When Claire had gotten pregnant, Ben had envisioned a whole new life stretching ahead for them. Wasn’t this the reason for existence