finally let the architect go until they had time to spare.
Looking around the room now, it’s obvious to Claire that the most prudent decision would be to tear the whole house down and start over. Still, it’s disquieting to think about condemning so much history to a landfill; an insult to the family that slaved to build it—the Blackstocks, whoever they were. Almost funny to realize that several generations of living, all the birthing and loving and arguing, even the dying, could be fully played out in one spot, yet the only lasting memory seemed to be their name.
Her cell phone rings—a riff from Eric Clapton’s “Layla” that Addison had plugged in to signal his calls. His voice sounds bright, and combined with her current magical optimism she opens with a retelling of the day that makes it all fun, the way she knows they will look back on it in a year or two. “I’m thinking I should put some shredded newspaper in the Havahart traps so the mice can stay warm till we dump them out in the woods.” He laughs at this. Claire ducks behind the kitchen wall so Jory won’t figure out they find humor in her compassion. She can see his full mouth lift his already boyish features into the uninhibited hilarity of a kid. He has always been able to make her laugh before any dispute grew too hot to control, at least until these last few months. But since the night he told her the truth, all of it, about the drug study data and the money, a few of their arguments have been caustic enough to leave scars. “So how’s the Drake? Is the bathtub nice and deep?”
“Built for two!” he answers. “Wish you were with me. How did you like the hospital?”
“Well, that’s quite a segue!” Claire jokes. “I don’t know. Nice enough. The doctors I met seemed nice. If we stay here long enough to get sick I’d feel okay going to some of them.” She pauses, expecting a comeback. “I was glad nobody asked to see my résumé, though. It’s hard to even introduce myself as a doctor, you know?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then answers, “Yeah. I know.”
Claire had expected him to contest her insecurity, bolster her. She laughs anyway, unwilling to let the conversation turn negative. “Sure you know! You have to carry your résumé in a two-inch binder.” She opens the refrigerator while she talks and studies the fresh contents—there is something deeply reassuring in knowing they could survive a week or more in a blizzard now. She pours milk into a mug and dumps in two tablespoons of chocolate, adds a third and sticks it in the microwave. Addison seems to be waiting, as if he could see all of this. “I should have been a pediatrician. Maybe the board would give me credit for raising Jory and I could get certified.” She expects a chuckle at least, and wonders for a minute if they’re still connected.
“Yeah,” he answers at last, in a resigned tone, and even though she knows he does not mean it, she hears it as a stinging reminder of how far she’s fallen from medicine.
Her mood darkens. She takes a gulp of hot chocolate and tries to start over. “It must be freezing up there. Have you seen the list of who’s coming to the meeting? Stock market went up today—a little. Maybe you should treat everybody to a hot buttered rum or two and then just slip a blank check in front of them.”
“There’s an idea.”
“Oh, I have a better one. I thought of this in the car today—start talking about all the symptoms of colon cancer and pick out the guy who looks the most nervous. You’d get both an investor and a customer—just like that guy with the cure for baldness.” She waits through another minute of silence and shakes the phone, looks at the handset as if his face might appear in the shining black plastic. “Addison? Are you still there? I’m just trying to cheer you up.”
She waits again, and finally hears him say, “I don’t know how I’m going to pay our health insurance bill this month.”
Now
Looking around the room now, it’s obvious to Claire that the most prudent decision would be to tear the whole house down and start over. Still, it’s disquieting to think about condemning so much history to a landfill; an insult to the family that slaved to build it—the Blackstocks, whoever they were. Almost funny to realize that several generations of living, all the birthing and loving and arguing, even the dying, could be fully played out in one spot, yet the only lasting memory seemed to be their name.
Her cell phone rings—a riff from Eric Clapton’s “Layla” that Addison had plugged in to signal his calls. His voice sounds bright, and combined with her current magical optimism she opens with a retelling of the day that makes it all fun, the way she knows they will look back on it in a year or two. “I’m thinking I should put some shredded newspaper in the Havahart traps so the mice can stay warm till we dump them out in the woods.” He laughs at this. Claire ducks behind the kitchen wall so Jory won’t figure out they find humor in her compassion. She can see his full mouth lift his already boyish features into the uninhibited hilarity of a kid. He has always been able to make her laugh before any dispute grew too hot to control, at least until these last few months. But since the night he told her the truth, all of it, about the drug study data and the money, a few of their arguments have been caustic enough to leave scars. “So how’s the Drake? Is the bathtub nice and deep?”
“Built for two!” he answers. “Wish you were with me. How did you like the hospital?”
“Well, that’s quite a segue!” Claire jokes. “I don’t know. Nice enough. The doctors I met seemed nice. If we stay here long enough to get sick I’d feel okay going to some of them.” She pauses, expecting a comeback. “I was glad nobody asked to see my résumé, though. It’s hard to even introduce myself as a doctor, you know?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then answers, “Yeah. I know.”
Claire had expected him to contest her insecurity, bolster her. She laughs anyway, unwilling to let the conversation turn negative. “Sure you know! You have to carry your résumé in a two-inch binder.” She opens the refrigerator while she talks and studies the fresh contents—there is something deeply reassuring in knowing they could survive a week or more in a blizzard now. She pours milk into a mug and dumps in two tablespoons of chocolate, adds a third and sticks it in the microwave. Addison seems to be waiting, as if he could see all of this. “I should have been a pediatrician. Maybe the board would give me credit for raising Jory and I could get certified.” She expects a chuckle at least, and wonders for a minute if they’re still connected.
“Yeah,” he answers at last, in a resigned tone, and even though she knows he does not mean it, she hears it as a stinging reminder of how far she’s fallen from medicine.
Her mood darkens. She takes a gulp of hot chocolate and tries to start over. “It must be freezing up there. Have you seen the list of who’s coming to the meeting? Stock market went up today—a little. Maybe you should treat everybody to a hot buttered rum or two and then just slip a blank check in front of them.”
“There’s an idea.”
“Oh, I have a better one. I thought of this in the car today—start talking about all the symptoms of colon cancer and pick out the guy who looks the most nervous. You’d get both an investor and a customer—just like that guy with the cure for baldness.” She waits through another minute of silence and shakes the phone, looks at the handset as if his face might appear in the shining black plastic. “Addison? Are you still there? I’m just trying to cheer you up.”
She waits again, and finally hears him say, “I don’t know how I’m going to pay our health insurance bill this month.”
Now
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