Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [28]
Chapter Five
Early December
When Alison called to invite Claire and Ben to dinner in Rockwell, Claire recognized it for what it was: a peace offering, of sorts. Things had been strained between the two women for some time. It was hard to pinpoint what had happened, exactly; it was a matter of slipped confidences and injured egos, Claire thought, that reinforced the sense that they had little in common anymore. Alison always seemed so busy, in a breathless sort of way. Claire couldn’t fathom what she did all day at home with the kids, but whatever it was made it impossible for her to have a sustained conversation. After several maddening phone calls (with children yowling in the background or tugging on Alison’s sleeve, and Alison repeating questions she’d already asked), Claire gave up. Alison hadn’t called her, either.
And there were other things. When Claire had called—as a courtesy to Alison—to let her know that there were certain places and events from their childhood that Alison might recognize in her novel, though they were camouflaged—Alison had been irritatingly literal-minded about the whole thing. She’d paused for a moment and then asked, pointedly, “Am I in it?” Not, “How interesting, what are you learning about yourself?” or even “Good for you, what an ambitious project.” Claire had explained patiently that nobody was “in” it exactly; like any creative work, the book incorporated bits and pieces of memories and impressions and events and transformed them into something else.
“So I’m not in it, then,” Alison said stolidly.
“No. Not really. I mean, parts of you might be. My main character has a friend named Jill that might seem familiar to you. But it’s not really ‘you,’ if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” Alison said.
Claire sighed. “The friend has blond hair, for one thing,” she said. “And other details have been altered.”
“But what you’re saying, basically, is that she is me.”
“Alison,” Claire said, “come on. You know what a novel is.”
“Of course I do. But this doesn’t sound like a novel to me, Claire.”
“Look, we’re arguing semantics. The essence of it is true,” Claire said. “The emotional reality. My emotional reality. But places and names have been changed and some events combined and rearranged beyond recognition.”
“Uh-huh,” Alison said.
And then, apparently in retaliation, Alison had rejected an article, without warning, that Claire had written—as a favor to her—for the women’s magazine she worked for. Claire was paid a kill fee, but she was annoyed by Alison’s insinuation that the piece was slapdash and ill-conceived.
So they hadn’t spoken in ages. Until now.
At first, when Claire and Ben arrived, all of them behaved a little awkwardly, as if they didn’t know one another well. But within a few minutes, merlot and candlelight and soft music had smoothed their conversational edges. The kids were upstairs, apparently with a babysitter, and Alison had actually set the dining room table in advance and prepared hors d’oeuvres in the living room. (They weren’t always so formal; on several occasions Claire and Ben had trekked out to Rockwell for take-out Chinese or empty-the-fridge pasta medleys at the island in the kitchen.) Claire was surprised to find herself a little nervous; as they made small talk before dinner she drank one glass of wine quickly, and Charlie rose to get the bottle. When he came over to refill her glass, he mouthed, “I miss you.”
Startled, she looked into his eyes.
He held her gaze.
She felt herself flush.
They were all sitting at the dining room table eating baby lettuce with blue cheese and pears when Claire turned toward Charlie—she was next to him, diagonally across from Ben, in their customary foursquare configuration—and inadvertently knocked her wineglass into his lap. Red wine seeped through his khakis, dark like a period stain, and both of them sat there stunned for a moment before the other two figured out what was