Clara fills the silence. “It’s too much.”
“What are you saying?” Kubovy asks.
She waits him out.
“Clara, Clara,” he finally says. He has chosen his tack, adopting the weary, admonishing tone that Ruth already tried on her. “There’s another way to look at this, you know.”
“Oh, really? And what is that?”
“You’ve had a remarkable life. An interesting life. And part of the reason for that remarkable, interesting life is—”
“My life hasn’t been so goddamned interesting,” Clara interrupts.
Ruth shifts her weight on the bed, sinks lower into her pillows.
“Well. I can’t speak to your current life in…where is it again—”
“Maine,” Clara bites off.
“Ah, yes. I would agree. Perhaps not so fascinating. But your childhood, my dear—you were a star!”
Clara closes her eyes. Squeezes them tight so there is nothing but darkness. No images of flashbulbs popping outside the Kubovy Weiss Gallery. No frank stares, no sideways inquisitive glances from strangers on the street. None of that—but still, it all seeps in around the edges. Poison finding its mark.
“I just wanted to be a kid.” Clara’s voice drops to a whisper. She can’t seem to stop crying. The images blur beneath her lids.
“And you would have wanted your mother to be…what…baking cookies?”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, my dear, it’s you who don’t get it. You’ve been in such a privileged position. It’s sad that you can’t see it for yourself.”
“Stop it, Kubovy. You don’t know me anymore. You don’t know anything about me.” She is breathless, unaccustomed to saying what she thinks. “Don’t you dare treat me like a child.”
“But you are acting like one.”
Clara slams down the phone. She has momentarily forgotten about Ruth. Ruth stares up at her from the bed, seemingly unfazed by her behavior—or maybe she really is stoned on morphine.
“I really do need that woman—what’s-her-name—to come in here,” says Ruth. “I’m sure she’s trying to give us some privacy, but—”
“I’ll go get her.” Clara jumps to her feet. Glad to get away for a moment. Afraid of what she might say next.
The phone rings again. Ruth doesn’t even try to reach for it. It rings and rings. Clara pictures Kubovy on the other end, pacing the floor of his gallery, cursing her under his breath in his native Turkish.
“Clara.” There is an unfamiliar tone in Ruth’s voice. “I really don’t want to hurt you.” She seems almost to be pleading.
Clara stops, one hand on the doorknob. She waits for more. She waits for her mother to say she’s made a mistake. That she understands. That she’ll leave ancient history where it belongs, locked up in the dusty archives of the past.
“Did you hear what I said, Clara?” Ruth’s voice is weakening. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you—”
“Then don’t,” Clara says. And walks out of the room.
“R AIN!” Ruth looks out the fogged-up window of the Checker cab. “Why does it have to be pouring on this night—of all nights?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Clara’s father soothes her. He’s sitting on a folding metal jump seat, facing Ruth, Clara, and Robin. He reaches over and pats Ruth on her knee. Clara recognizes the expression on his face, though she’s used to seeing it directed at her or Robin. Pride. Nathan Dunne is proud of his young, beautiful wife who is about to have her first gallery show. He hasn’t seen any of the photographs; Ruth has kept them under wraps. She wants him to be surprised—to see her work hung on a gallery wall for the first time, the way the rest of the world will see it.
That is, if anyone shows up. A rumble of thunder. Lightning flashes across the sky like a strobe. Clara loves these Checker cabs, with their rounded hoods and roomy insides where you can sit across from someone while you bounce along. And she loves to be able to look at her father, who has put on his downtown best
“What are you saying?” Kubovy asks.
She waits him out.
“Clara, Clara,” he finally says. He has chosen his tack, adopting the weary, admonishing tone that Ruth already tried on her. “There’s another way to look at this, you know.”
“Oh, really? And what is that?”
“You’ve had a remarkable life. An interesting life. And part of the reason for that remarkable, interesting life is—”
“My life hasn’t been so goddamned interesting,” Clara interrupts.
Ruth shifts her weight on the bed, sinks lower into her pillows.
“Well. I can’t speak to your current life in…where is it again—”
“Maine,” Clara bites off.
“Ah, yes. I would agree. Perhaps not so fascinating. But your childhood, my dear—you were a star!”
Clara closes her eyes. Squeezes them tight so there is nothing but darkness. No images of flashbulbs popping outside the Kubovy Weiss Gallery. No frank stares, no sideways inquisitive glances from strangers on the street. None of that—but still, it all seeps in around the edges. Poison finding its mark.
“I just wanted to be a kid.” Clara’s voice drops to a whisper. She can’t seem to stop crying. The images blur beneath her lids.
“And you would have wanted your mother to be…what…baking cookies?”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, my dear, it’s you who don’t get it. You’ve been in such a privileged position. It’s sad that you can’t see it for yourself.”
“Stop it, Kubovy. You don’t know me anymore. You don’t know anything about me.” She is breathless, unaccustomed to saying what she thinks. “Don’t you dare treat me like a child.”
“But you are acting like one.”
Clara slams down the phone. She has momentarily forgotten about Ruth. Ruth stares up at her from the bed, seemingly unfazed by her behavior—or maybe she really is stoned on morphine.
“I really do need that woman—what’s-her-name—to come in here,” says Ruth. “I’m sure she’s trying to give us some privacy, but—”
“I’ll go get her.” Clara jumps to her feet. Glad to get away for a moment. Afraid of what she might say next.
The phone rings again. Ruth doesn’t even try to reach for it. It rings and rings. Clara pictures Kubovy on the other end, pacing the floor of his gallery, cursing her under his breath in his native Turkish.
“Clara.” There is an unfamiliar tone in Ruth’s voice. “I really don’t want to hurt you.” She seems almost to be pleading.
Clara stops, one hand on the doorknob. She waits for more. She waits for her mother to say she’s made a mistake. That she understands. That she’ll leave ancient history where it belongs, locked up in the dusty archives of the past.
“Did you hear what I said, Clara?” Ruth’s voice is weakening. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you—”
“Then don’t,” Clara says. And walks out of the room.
“R AIN!” Ruth looks out the fogged-up window of the Checker cab. “Why does it have to be pouring on this night—of all nights?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Clara’s father soothes her. He’s sitting on a folding metal jump seat, facing Ruth, Clara, and Robin. He reaches over and pats Ruth on her knee. Clara recognizes the expression on his face, though she’s used to seeing it directed at her or Robin. Pride. Nathan Dunne is proud of his young, beautiful wife who is about to have her first gallery show. He hasn’t seen any of the photographs; Ruth has kept them under wraps. She wants him to be surprised—to see her work hung on a gallery wall for the first time, the way the rest of the world will see it.
That is, if anyone shows up. A rumble of thunder. Lightning flashes across the sky like a strobe. Clara loves these Checker cabs, with their rounded hoods and roomy insides where you can sit across from someone while you bounce along. And she loves to be able to look at her father, who has put on his downtown best
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