of the chop chop chop of his knife whittling onions and carrots into a studied mirepoix. She was avoiding any reference to his noises, his movements, his smells. Had you asked Claire, the week before Charlie died, she might have admitted she found some of their life dull—the problem is, though, she put a lot of stock in routine. Without it, she floundered.
Sasha, standing behind Claire suddenly, startled her. “Oh my God, don’t do that. Make noise!” Sasha smiled and held out a bag. “Start with clothes, sweetie. They’re easiest.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Margorie Dermott. She threw Alfred’s clothes out before the death certificate was even signed and she slept like a baby.”
Walking from room to room, images skipped through Claire’s head like a slide show. She and Charlie dancing at a wedding. Charlie making omelets. A close-up of both of them smiling, then Charlie kissing Claire’s cheek. A candid glimpse at Sasha’s for Christmas, everyone drinking pink champagne. In this one Charlie’s feet are perched solidly on the ottoman and his free hand is circling the air. Then, unexpectedly, Walter White popped into her head—the photo from the papers. He was balding.
Charlie’s toiletries cluttered the bathroom, a towel he’d used still hung wrinkled on a hook. Claire was no Margorie Dermott. She left the bathroom as it was, walked into their bedroom, and began filling a garbage bag with her husband’s shoes and shirts. When the bag was full, she carried it out to a chute at the other end of her floor. Her singular small sounds overwhelmed the quiet hall. Claire’s heavy apartment door creaked open, then closed, the latch clicked; her rubber soles narrated her march to the chute. When she heard the thump as each bag landed three floors down, she felt a surprising sense of relief.
Claire didn’t dispose of everything. She saved Charlie’s robe. She kept a carton of letters from strangers who liked his work and a box of notes he’d written to her the year she moved in. She kept his belts. She buckled them at the well-worn notches, conjuring up the exact circumference of Charlie’s waist. A physical memory shivered through her; was there anything as intimate as unbuckling a man’s belt? She left one coat to hang in the hall and one pair of tennis shoes beneath his side of the bed. There was unopened mail; mail had continued to arrive, and she left it stacked on his unused desk. Ethan could deal with that. She left Charlie’s office untouched.
“That’s better,” Sasha said, scanning the apartment with approval. “But we’re not done. We need food. I’m starved. And then, I hate to do this to you, honey, but photos. Let’s walk through.”
The high, narrow dresser in the bedroom housed a number of awkward decisions, which Sasha insisted they address. There was their wedding photo, for one, the picture Richard took just after they were pronounced Byrne and wife. Charlie looked uncomfortable; the city hall ceremony had been rushed. It had been late August, unbearably hot, and the air-conditioning was out.
“Yes? No?” Sasha asked.
It was not a good picture. It didn’t flatter Claire at all; the lighting was poor. Claire shook her head. Sasha put it in a drawer.
There was a double frame with a photo from a trip to Peru and an ill-lit pose in Paris. Sasha held them up one at a time.
Claire nodded yes to Peru, no to Paris. “I feel like I’m two different people,” Claire said.
Sasha put three more frames in the drawer.
“I’m this new person I didn’t ask to be, a widow with all the trappings, whether I want them or not. But then I’m this other thing, too—a hermit crab groping around, blind, for a new shell.”
“That’s lofty, honey. And melodramatic, don’t you think?” Sasha grabbed her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You’re rich and gorgeous and you get to start over again, do whatever the hell you want. It’s not like divorce, where
Sasha, standing behind Claire suddenly, startled her. “Oh my God, don’t do that. Make noise!” Sasha smiled and held out a bag. “Start with clothes, sweetie. They’re easiest.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Margorie Dermott. She threw Alfred’s clothes out before the death certificate was even signed and she slept like a baby.”
Walking from room to room, images skipped through Claire’s head like a slide show. She and Charlie dancing at a wedding. Charlie making omelets. A close-up of both of them smiling, then Charlie kissing Claire’s cheek. A candid glimpse at Sasha’s for Christmas, everyone drinking pink champagne. In this one Charlie’s feet are perched solidly on the ottoman and his free hand is circling the air. Then, unexpectedly, Walter White popped into her head—the photo from the papers. He was balding.
Charlie’s toiletries cluttered the bathroom, a towel he’d used still hung wrinkled on a hook. Claire was no Margorie Dermott. She left the bathroom as it was, walked into their bedroom, and began filling a garbage bag with her husband’s shoes and shirts. When the bag was full, she carried it out to a chute at the other end of her floor. Her singular small sounds overwhelmed the quiet hall. Claire’s heavy apartment door creaked open, then closed, the latch clicked; her rubber soles narrated her march to the chute. When she heard the thump as each bag landed three floors down, she felt a surprising sense of relief.
Claire didn’t dispose of everything. She saved Charlie’s robe. She kept a carton of letters from strangers who liked his work and a box of notes he’d written to her the year she moved in. She kept his belts. She buckled them at the well-worn notches, conjuring up the exact circumference of Charlie’s waist. A physical memory shivered through her; was there anything as intimate as unbuckling a man’s belt? She left one coat to hang in the hall and one pair of tennis shoes beneath his side of the bed. There was unopened mail; mail had continued to arrive, and she left it stacked on his unused desk. Ethan could deal with that. She left Charlie’s office untouched.
“That’s better,” Sasha said, scanning the apartment with approval. “But we’re not done. We need food. I’m starved. And then, I hate to do this to you, honey, but photos. Let’s walk through.”
The high, narrow dresser in the bedroom housed a number of awkward decisions, which Sasha insisted they address. There was their wedding photo, for one, the picture Richard took just after they were pronounced Byrne and wife. Charlie looked uncomfortable; the city hall ceremony had been rushed. It had been late August, unbearably hot, and the air-conditioning was out.
“Yes? No?” Sasha asked.
It was not a good picture. It didn’t flatter Claire at all; the lighting was poor. Claire shook her head. Sasha put it in a drawer.
There was a double frame with a photo from a trip to Peru and an ill-lit pose in Paris. Sasha held them up one at a time.
Claire nodded yes to Peru, no to Paris. “I feel like I’m two different people,” Claire said.
Sasha put three more frames in the drawer.
“I’m this new person I didn’t ask to be, a widow with all the trappings, whether I want them or not. But then I’m this other thing, too—a hermit crab groping around, blind, for a new shell.”
“That’s lofty, honey. And melodramatic, don’t you think?” Sasha grabbed her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You’re rich and gorgeous and you get to start over again, do whatever the hell you want. It’s not like divorce, where
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