The Submission - Amy Waldman [43]
That had been the end of any actual physical contact, but only the beginning of the pretend kind. Over the succeeding months he projected Claire like a movie onto the ceiling of his bedroom, where he’d once tacked posters of Victoria’s Secret models on the fifty-fifty bet his mother wouldn’t look up. He undressed her like his nieces’ paper dolls, took her every way he could think of. Her flirting when she did see him couldn’t keep up with this fantasy life and so always read like a rebuff. This history—real, imagined—rumbled beneath her failure to call.
“I’m here.” A voice sailed from the back of the room. “It’s me, Claire Burwell.” He located her at the entrance to the auditorium. Another woman stealing his thunder. Claire, clearly maneuvering for the advantage of surprise, hadn’t replied to the message he left about the meeting. With resentment he watched her move down the aisle at a deliberate pace.
“Tell us it’s not true!” caromed a voice from the dark. Then dozens, shrapnel shredding her: “Is it true? Is it true? Tell us!”
“What happened, Claire?”
“Tell us you’ll stop it!”
Half of what she heard had nothing to do with the memorial, as if two years of frustration and grief and anger had found their proper vent.
“Three weeks, the Red Cross said—”
“What they did to us—”
“A Muslim—”
“Protect the airlines who didn’t protect us—”
“Counseling every goddamn Friday—”
“They hate us—”
“A big phony—”
“A violent religion—”
Claire, trying to speak, kept getting shouted down and so stopped trying. Her underarms prickled, but she worked at projecting serenity. Sean was prowling the stage with the bounding walk that always made her think of a young man trying to look older, a short one trying to look taller, maybe a poor one trying to look richer. From a distance his eyes looked sleepy, as if they had bedded down on the pillowy pouches beneath, but up close they were quick. Quick to suspect. Which was why, ever since she was picked for the jury, she had tried to be kind to him, if only to appease him. The solicitous phone updates. The regretfully flirtatious smiles (too flirtatious, per that uninvited kiss), suggesting that, if things had been different, if they hadn’t met under these circumstances, if, if, if … It had been a mistake not to call him once the news broke. She saw that now. She shot him a baiting look as she ascended the stage, suggesting he couldn’t control the crowd. As she had hoped, it provoked him into proving he could.
“All right, all right,” he said, holding up a hand until he heard silence. “Claire’s here, we need to let her talk.”
“Thank you, Sean; I’m sorry to be late—I didn’t have much notice,” she said. I’d just returned home from laying a trail for my dead husband; I had to leave my children, get into decent clothes, drive like a madwoman all the way back down through the city, only to be screamed at by all of you: this she didn’t say. “Thank you all for coming today. Your concern for this memorial is very powerful and reinforces what a sacred trust we, as the jury, have. I can’t go into much detail, but let me ask: How many of you like gardens?”
Perplexed looks skittered across the audience. “Don’t worry, it’s not a trick question. Raise your hand if you like gardens. And yes, men, too. My husband wasn’t afraid to admit that he loved them.”
Slowly hands rose, from the women first, then a good number of the men. When Claire was satisfied by the show of hands, she said, “That’s what the memorial is going to be. A garden. It’s perfect. A garden.”
“What about the Muslim?” Sean said belligerently.
“I can’t discuss rumors, and to be honest, I know almost nothing about the designer, since this competition was anonymous. What I do know is the beauty, the power of this design,