Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [83]
“That’s sweet,” she murmured. Something about her tone made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. She was talking to him the way you might talk to a sick child or a very old person, with a mixture of condescension and something else—pity?
“I thought they’d brighten up the place,” he said briskly, depositing the bags in a heap on the bedroom floor.
“Umm,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. She went to the window and looked out.
There it was again—that awkwardness. He didn’t know what to say, and she didn’t seem particularly concerned about filling the silence.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Well, maybe some water,” she said, still facing the window.
He went into the kitchen, got down two glasses, took a liter of Poland Spring out of the fridge, considered slicing a lemon: no. Too fussy. He filled the glasses, splashing water across the counter and onto the floor. Christ. His hands were shaking. What the fuck? He mopped up the mess, wiped the bottoms of the glasses, and brought them out to the living room, offering her one. She took a long sip.
“The place looks good.”
“Maria came yesterday. She said she wanted it to look extra nice for you, ‘mi bella señora,’” he said, imitating Maria’s melodious voice.
Claire smiled. “How sweet.” That word again! “Any mail worth bothering with?”
“I put a pile on your desk. Some invitations. A letter from some southern writers’ conference, asking you to be on a panel. I threw out the junk. Paid the bills.”
“Kept the engine running.”
“I guess. Luckily it’s not a very big engine.”
“Well. Thank you.”
He nodded, shrugged. What else would he have done?
“How’s the Boston project?”
“It’s going pretty well. Of course there are a million complications.”
“Of course.”
Small talk, chatter chatter. Why did it feel like such an effort? Claire stood at the window with her water glass, tapping the side with a finger. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Ben could feel the tapping on his spine, hear it inside his head. TAP TAP TAP. He thought he might go crazy with the tapping.
He couldn’t stand it anymore. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said suddenly.
She turned around. He could see that she wasn’t sure she’d heard what she thought she’d heard—what he had implied. That something was going on, and he knew enough about it—how much?—to ask. A range of responses flickered across her features. “What do you mean?” she said.
“You seem uncomfortable.”
She smiled. He could see the veins in her neck, visible from the effort. “I’m just really tired. I need a good long rest. Then I’ll be right as rain.”
It was tempting to let it go. That was all she needed: a good long rest, and she’d be right as rain. (What did that mean, anyway, “right as rain”? It wasn’t like her to invoke a cliché. If nothing else, it was an indication of the falseness of the sentiment.) All he wanted was for things to be the way they were—two well-meaning and rational adults living their lives together, devoted to each other. She did love him; he was sure of it. She’d written dozens of cards and letters and e-mails over the years attesting to the depth of her feeling. (Here he was, he thought ruefully, invoking those long-ago letters, as if they proved something!)
He didn’t want his fears confirmed. He didn’t want to know. But he couldn’t live this way (or could he? he wondered in a late, desperate negotiation with himself; maybe he could). It would be better, as with a loose tooth, to yank it out quickly, rather than endure the torture of slow detachment. Right?
“Claire—”
“Not now, Ben,” she said, as if sensing what he was thinking. “I’m so tired. Can we do this later?”
“Do what?”
“This. This—” She moved her hands in an angry flurry in the air.
Stirring things up, Ben understood. Agitating. Opening Pandora’s box, allowing the Furies to escape. Once they were out, they could never be put back. Did he want that? Did he really want to do this now?
“Are you sleeping with Charlie?” he asked abruptly.
“What?” she said, her voice rising in a strangled laugh. Her eyes grew bright.
He waited.
“Why do