The Submission - Amy Waldman [14]
An aquarium sea lion that no one bothered to watch: that’s what she was. She had assumed she would keep working once she had children; Cal had assumed she wouldn’t. It astonished her, in retrospect, that they had never discussed it before they married, but maybe they couldn’t have discussed it. In theory, no one ever liked to give in, but in practice—in marriage, if it were to last—someone had to.
“I just can’t imagine finding a nanny as smart as you,” Cal had said with a smile, when, five months into her pregnancy with William, she raised the issue.
“I didn’t go to Dartmouth and Harvard Law to be a nanny.”
“And I didn’t marry you so our kids would have a good lawyer, although it could come in handy if they punch anyone at school.” He turned serious: “I’m not saying I’m right on the merits, I’m saying maybe I’m more traditional than I realized.”
Telling him that she needed the independence her lawyer’s income guaranteed would have implied some lack of faith in the marriage, which wasn’t the case. There was only the fear of having to depend on anyone at all. At sixteen she had seen her father die and her mother inherit his previously hidden mountain of debt. In response Claire had driven herself harder than ever, becoming class valedictorian, tennis team captain, debating champion. She put away every dollar, schemed for every scholarship and loan, and made it to Dartmouth. Marrying Cal, the scion of a family whose wealth dated to the Industrial Revolution and had multiplied through every turn of the American economy since, ought to have eased her worries about failing to climb as high as she believed she deserved. But the money was his, not theirs. The unspoken power this gave him kept her from asking: Why don’t you stay home?
They agreed to interview nannies. Cal was right: they weren’t as smart as she was, or so she rationalized her decision to stay home. She was only a week shy of her due date on the first day he went into the city without her. She dropped him at the Chappaqua train station, turtling through the line with the other wives, and when she turned the car to face home couldn’t shake the sense she was facing backward.
Four years had passed since then, passed at toddlers’ soccer practice and at ladies’ lunches; passed in music groups and on playdates, shopping trips, and philanthropic committees. Claire pretended this was the life she wanted. But when Cal, dressing for work, had asked for the second time whether she had found a tennis coach for William, she snapped at him, “Why don’t you try being social secretary for a four-year-old?”
With calm, infuriating sympathy he said, “Would you like me to call? I’m happy to,” which only made her feel worse. Calling would take two minutes, far less than it would take to convey her feelings about her life narrowing to phoning pro shops. It was easier to apologize for her mood, to cite Penelope’s poor sleeping habits, and when she dropped him at the train station they made a kissing peace, but perhaps a false peace, for she had come to the pool to splash out the lingering anger that, as much as the exercise, warmed her against the air’s faint chill.
After forty-five minutes she emerged calmed and stretched out to sun herself and let her pounding heart slow. There was no sound beyond her daughter’s waking babblings through the monitor, the dog’s tags clinking as he scratched himself, the water’s faint lapping, a relentless woodpecker somewhere within the shirred line of spruces and maples at the edge of the lawn. Walking back to the house, she broke into a barefoot jog as she heard the phone ringing, an ordinary ring.
“Mommy, you smell like