The Forgiving Hour (6 page)

Patti seemed to consider everything she’d been told before she asked, “Ever been married? He
is
over thirty, after all.”

“Yes. He’s got a little boy named Mikey whom he doesn’t get to see much because of his ex-wife. She must be an awful person, keeping a son and father apart. He doesn’t like to talk about it — I could tell by the look in his eyes when I asked him if he’d been married before.”

Her roommate frowned. “How long has he been on his own? You don’t want to get mixed up with some guy on the rebound.”

“I’m not sure.” What exactly had Dave said about that? His reply eluded her. “I got the feeling it’s been a long time. Years.”

“Sara … be careful.”

She remembered the way he’d kissed her. “Don’t worry, Patti. I know what I’m doing.”

Lying on the bed in the darkened bedroom, Claire heard the truck pull up next to the house.

Dave was home.

She opened her eyes and looked at the clock radio. The red glow of digital numbers stared back at her: eleven o’clock. Should she get up and go to meet him? Would it be better if she simply pretended to be asleep? But if he was hurt, if something was wrong …

She tossed aside the sheet and comforter, sat up, and reached for her robe at the same time she slid her feet into her slippers. She cinched the belt of the robe tight as she left the bedroom. She was nearly to the kitchen before she heard the back door click shut.

He was trying so hard not to make a sound.

She flipped the light switch.

In that first burst of light, Dave turned toward her, eyes wide with surprise. Then the surprise was gone, replaced by irritation.

“I didn’t expect you to still be up,” he said.

“I was worried when you didn’t call.”

“I’m not going to report in like some kid to his mommy.” He cursed. “I don’t need you mothering me. Mikey needs mothering. Not me.”

Beer and smoke. He reeked of both. She wanted to ask him where he’d been. She wanted to ask him whom he’d been with. She wanted to demand an explanation. She wanted him to hold her and tell her he loved her. What she didn’t want was to burst into tears, the very thing she felt close to doing.

He pointed at her. “Don’t start in on me, Claire. I mean it. A working man deserves a few hours of pleasure without being nagged.”

She couldn’t think of any reason for him to be acting this way. Hadn’t she been thinking, just last week, how perfect her life was? What had gone wrong? She felt as if a train had broadsided her.

“And don’t tell me we need to talk either,” he added, his voice dripping with disdain. “Talking’s the last thing I want to do.”

If he’d struck her, it couldn’t have hurt worse.

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” With that, he strode past her, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the kitchen.

It was just like a few years ago when she’d wondered if he —

No, she wouldn’t think about that. All marriages went through difficult periods. Whatever was bothering him would pass if she was patient. She merely had to let him know she loved him. She mustn’t nag or cry. She just had to wait it out.

They would be fine.

She turned off the kitchen light and made her way down the darkened hallway. A pale sliver of moonlight spilled across the bed, and she could see that Dave was already beneath the covers. He was lying with his back toward Claire. After dropping her robe onto a nearby chair, she slipped between the sheets, trying not to cause so much as a ripple in the mattress.

Hold me, Dave.

She turned her head on her pillow, gazing over at him. She wanted to speak her request aloud, but she couldn’t. He wanted her to leave him alone. She had to honor that request. She didn’t want to give him any more reason to be angry with her.

We’re going to be fine.

She rolled to her right side, feeling as if an ocean separated them instead of the intervening space on the queen-size mattress.

Sleep didn’t come for hours.

SIX

Friday was Claire’s day to volunteer at Mike’s school, her favorite part of every week. She’d first volunteered when her son started kindergarten and had continued through each grade of elementary school. Next year he would be in junior high, and she would no longer be needed.

But she tried not to think about that. She wasn’t ready for her son not to need her, not to want her around when he was with his friends. Thankfully, it hadn’t happened yet.

This afternoon, Mrs. Blackwell’s sixth-grade class was visiting the Boise Public Library, and Claire was trying to help keep track of thirty eleven-and twelve-year-old students. It was no simple task.

“Mrs. Porter?”

She glanced down at the freckled face of Teresa Dawson. “Yes, Teresa. What is it?”

“Would you show me again where to look for stuff in the card files?”

“Of course.” She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and the two of them walked to the bank of small file drawers filled with index cards. “What is it you need to find?”

“My report’s on how the pilgrims came to America.”

“Well, then, let’s start with the letter
S
for ships.”

Ten minutes later, Teresa had a list of books and their numbers written on a slip of scrap paper. Happily, she trundled off to find them.

“You have a way with children,” Mrs. Blackwell said as she stepped up beside Claire. “Have you ever considered becoming a teacher?”

“Me?” Claire laughed at the idea. “Heavens, no.”

“Maybe you should.”

She shook her head. “There’s no time for me to go to college. I work three mornings a week, and the rest of the time I’m busy taking care of my husband and son. Besides, I’m happy with things as they are.”

Happy with things as they are …

She frowned. Was that true?

Dave had been moody all week. One moment he seemed himself, but the next he was surly and out of sorts. He’d made it clear they weren’t going to discuss why he came home late on Monday, so Claire had let it drop. She didn’t want to add tension to the situation. She’d told herself it wasn’t important. And she must have been right—Dave had wanted to make love to her last night. If something were truly wrong between them, he wouldn’t have wanted to make love.

Would he?

“Mrs. Porter?” Teresa’s voice intruded on her unsettling thoughts. “I can’t find this one.” She handed the slip of paper to Claire. “Can you help me?”

She smiled at the child, glad for a reason to think of something else. “Let’s look together, shall we?” She took hold of the child’s hand.

“So what d’ya think, Mike?” John whispered. “D’ya think you could go?”

“I don’t know. My dad’s always sayin’ we don’t have the money to do stuff like this.”

“Yeah, but two weeks in Montana!”

Mike opened the glossy brochure again. Pine trees and lakes and horses made the camp look like paradise.

“Maybe you could get some jobs mowing lawns this summer to help pay for it. We wouldn’t go till August.” John punched him in the arm. “At least ask.”

If he went, that would leave his mom all alone. He hated to do that to her right now. She tried not to show it, but she was sad a lot of the time. She would miss him real bad if he was gone for a whole two weeks.

My dad wouldn’t miss me. That’s for sure.
He didn’t like the way that thought made him feel.

“You gotta at least ask,” John persisted.

“Okay. When the time’s right, I’ll ask my mom. Just don’t count on me gettin’ to go, that’s all.”

Two hours later, with Mrs. Blackwell’s class safely returned to the school, Claire walked the half mile to her home. The brief cold snap that had blown in from the northwest earlier in the week had disappeared, and the weather was once again delightful.

Claire loved springtime, loved the budding of new life, the lawns turning from brown to green, the tulips pushing up to reveal the first bright colors of the year, the birds nesting in leafy trees, the calves and colts frolicking in pastures.

It had been a day much like this when Mike was born. Two weeks ago, the Porter family had celebrated Mike’s twelfth birthday, but the memory of the first time she’d held her son in her arms, all eight-pounds-four-ounces of him, was as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday.

In her mind’s eye, she saw her husband standing in the hospital room near her bed. Mike was no more than six hours old at the time. Dave looked surprised and a little dazed, like many new fathers. Her parents, George and Lisa Conway, were there, too, along with her younger brother, Harold. Her dad declared the baby the spitting image of Claire when she was born. Her mother merely smiled and tried to blink away tears of joy and relief. Fifteen-year-old Harold, bored and impatient with all the fuss and falderal about a baby, just wanted to get out of there.

How happy Claire had been on that day. How perfect her life had seemed. Just like one of those television families from her childhood in the fifties and sixties. Like the Cleavers or the Stones. It hadn’t seemed possible that anything could go wrong. Not ever.

But, of course, things hadn’t been perfect. Six weeks after her son’s birth, she’d learned she would never have another child, and before Mike’s third birthday, her parents had been killed in an automobile accident, the driver of the other car drunk behind the wheel. As for her brother, Harold had gone to college back East the same year as their parents’ deaths and never returned to Idaho. She hadn’t seen him in over eight years, although she wrote to him semiregularly and he called her a few times a year.

She was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of aloneness. She felt abandoned, cut adrift by those she’d depended upon most. She longed to be able to hug her mother and ask for advice. Lisa Conway would have known how to fix what was wrong with Claire’s marriage. Her parents had been married over twenty-five years, and her dad had never been unhappy or discontent in all those years. She was positive he hadn’t.

She thought of Dave again, of his dark moods, of his frowns and his tempers. She’d tried to convince herself that nothing was amiss, that it was all related to stress from long hours at work and that it had nothing to do with their home life. But in her more honest moments, she knew better. Not even their lovemaking last night could have made everything all right.

With those heavy thoughts on her mind, Claire made her way up the sidewalk and let herself in the back door.

She paused on the threshold, staring at the signs of this morning’s hasty departure. Breakfast dishes stained with dried egg yolks were stacked in the sink. A skillet with bacon grease turned white and solid in its center sat on the old electric stove. Bread crumbs surrounded the toaster. Chunks of dry dog food were strewn in front of the washer and dryer. Dave had kicked the dog’s dish this morning as he was leaving, spilling the contents, but he hadn’t bothered to clean up the mess he’d made.

He never did pick up after himself, Claire thought with a spark of irritation. He always left everything to her. Sometimes she felt more like his maid than like his wife.

She was immediately ashamed. This was what she wanted, what she’d always wanted, to be a wife and mother and homemaker. She wouldn’t even work those three mornings a week in Jack Moncur’s office if she and Dave didn’t need the money to see them through the leaner times that came with the construction business.