being watched and judged as a mother. She can’t ever afford to let her guard down. She has to be perfect or it could all happen again.
Claire doesn’t weep, telling Tim about her marriage and divorce, but Tim’s eyes become moist as he listens. Though she knows there are people—Sam for instance—who would look with disdain at a grown man sitting across from her in the diner brushing the tears from his eyes with his napkin, for Claire there’s something wonderfully comforting and tender about him.
“He’s very big,” she will tell Mickey tomorrow when she calls him. “He looks like he just came in off the football field.” But there is also something almost feminine about him. Once she had supposed there was safety in attaching herself to a strong, tough-seeming man. Now she knows there’s more safety in softness .
• • •
“Partly I hate your husband for doing these things,” Tim says. “But I also feel sorry for him, that he has to live the rest of his life knowing he’s lost you.”
“If he had ever treasured me that way he wouldn’t have lost me in the first place,” she tells him. “That was the point.”
“How could he let you go?” Tim says. “If it was me that had had you and lost you, I don’t think I’d ever get over it.”
U p Until this moment Tim hasn’t touched her. Mostly because if he started he could never stop. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her though. He has missed nothing. Not the way she runs her hand over her eyebrows sometimes as if she were smoothing a sheet, or the way she runs her fingers down her neck as she talks about this man, Mickey, she tells him about—as if she’s feeling his touch at that moment in just that spot. He loves her Hopalong Cassidy watch and the surprising heartiness of her laughter. He notices a small scar under her chin and knows he will ask her about it later. He sees that she has a few gray hairs, and when she looks up to see the Special Coffee of the Day he can tell from the very slight narrowing of her eyes that she must be nearsighted. Some dentists would probably tell her to fix that gap between her front teeth, but he would like to put his tongue there. There, and on her neck, and in her ear, and all over her.
Partly he knows it’s the way she looks that has such an effect on him, but it’s something else, too. Although she has told him she’ll be forty on her next birthday, there is this startlingly playful, girlish quality about her. But there is this other thing about Claire: It’s so clear to Tim what a good mother she is, and he loves that. Same thing Mickey hated about her.
She’s stroking the handle on her mug and looking into the bottom of it as if there were tea leaves with a message there. “I can’t believe we’ve been here three and a half hours,” she says. “My children will think I’ve been murdered and thrown in the basement of some madman. Either that or they will have rented a video.”
Mine will be in bed, he knows. It’s been over a year since he’s hired a sitter for his daughter, and until now the thought of her hasn’t crossed his mind all evening. Ursula. For a moment there it was as if he’d forgotten her name.
He reaches his hand across the table and touches her palm. Just that.
“I could look at you for a long time,” he says.
O n the steps to the museum where he drops her off, because this is where her car is parked, he tells Claire he wants her to write a letter. It turns out they both have fax machines. Claire’s is in the little attic office she’s set up at home for her fund-raising work and grant proposals.
“Sometimes it’s easier for me to say what I’m really thinking on paper,” he says. “Talk is cheap.”
To Claire—who has been spending at least an hour a day on the telephone with a man she’s still in love with, who lives a hundred and twenty miles away, that she hasn’t seen in over three years—this is not necessarily so. Although it occurs to
Claire doesn’t weep, telling Tim about her marriage and divorce, but Tim’s eyes become moist as he listens. Though she knows there are people—Sam for instance—who would look with disdain at a grown man sitting across from her in the diner brushing the tears from his eyes with his napkin, for Claire there’s something wonderfully comforting and tender about him.
“He’s very big,” she will tell Mickey tomorrow when she calls him. “He looks like he just came in off the football field.” But there is also something almost feminine about him. Once she had supposed there was safety in attaching herself to a strong, tough-seeming man. Now she knows there’s more safety in softness .
• • •
“Partly I hate your husband for doing these things,” Tim says. “But I also feel sorry for him, that he has to live the rest of his life knowing he’s lost you.”
“If he had ever treasured me that way he wouldn’t have lost me in the first place,” she tells him. “That was the point.”
“How could he let you go?” Tim says. “If it was me that had had you and lost you, I don’t think I’d ever get over it.”
U p Until this moment Tim hasn’t touched her. Mostly because if he started he could never stop. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her though. He has missed nothing. Not the way she runs her hand over her eyebrows sometimes as if she were smoothing a sheet, or the way she runs her fingers down her neck as she talks about this man, Mickey, she tells him about—as if she’s feeling his touch at that moment in just that spot. He loves her Hopalong Cassidy watch and the surprising heartiness of her laughter. He notices a small scar under her chin and knows he will ask her about it later. He sees that she has a few gray hairs, and when she looks up to see the Special Coffee of the Day he can tell from the very slight narrowing of her eyes that she must be nearsighted. Some dentists would probably tell her to fix that gap between her front teeth, but he would like to put his tongue there. There, and on her neck, and in her ear, and all over her.
Partly he knows it’s the way she looks that has such an effect on him, but it’s something else, too. Although she has told him she’ll be forty on her next birthday, there is this startlingly playful, girlish quality about her. But there is this other thing about Claire: It’s so clear to Tim what a good mother she is, and he loves that. Same thing Mickey hated about her.
She’s stroking the handle on her mug and looking into the bottom of it as if there were tea leaves with a message there. “I can’t believe we’ve been here three and a half hours,” she says. “My children will think I’ve been murdered and thrown in the basement of some madman. Either that or they will have rented a video.”
Mine will be in bed, he knows. It’s been over a year since he’s hired a sitter for his daughter, and until now the thought of her hasn’t crossed his mind all evening. Ursula. For a moment there it was as if he’d forgotten her name.
He reaches his hand across the table and touches her palm. Just that.
“I could look at you for a long time,” he says.
O n the steps to the museum where he drops her off, because this is where her car is parked, he tells Claire he wants her to write a letter. It turns out they both have fax machines. Claire’s is in the little attic office she’s set up at home for her fund-raising work and grant proposals.
“Sometimes it’s easier for me to say what I’m really thinking on paper,” he says. “Talk is cheap.”
To Claire—who has been spending at least an hour a day on the telephone with a man she’s still in love with, who lives a hundred and twenty miles away, that she hasn’t seen in over three years—this is not necessarily so. Although it occurs to
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