Still Life

Their friends came, and it was a comfortable, easy night. A couple of good bottles of wine, an outstanding Thanksgiving meal, and warm and thoughtful company. Gamache was reminded of the beginning of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. Orlando, through the ages, wasn’t looking for wealth or fame, or honors. No, all Orlando wanted was company.

Clara rocked back and forth, back and forth, cradling her loss. Earlier in the day she’d felt someone had scooped her heart and her brain right out of her body. Now they were back, but they were broken. Her brain jumped madly about the place, but always back to that one scorched spot.

Peter crept to the bedroom door and looked in. God help him, part of him was jealous. Jealous of the hold Jane had over Clara. He wondered whether Clara would have been like this had he died. And he realised that, had he died in the woods, Clara would have had Jane to comfort her. And Jane would have known what to do. In that instant a door opened for Peter. For the first time in his life he asked what someone else would do. What would Jane do if she was here and he was dead? And he had his answer. Silently he lay down beside Clara and wrapped himself around her. And for the first time since getting the news, her heart and mind calmed. They settled, just for one blessed instant, on a place that held love, not loss.

FOUR

‘Toast?’ Peter ventured next morning to Clara’s blubbering back.

‘High doan whan doast,’ she sobbed and slobbered, a fine thread of spittle descending to the floor to pool, glistening, at her feet. They were standing barefoot in the kitchen where they’d begun to make breakfast. Normally they’d have already showered and if not dressed at least put on slippers and a dressing gown over their flannel pajamas. But this morning wasn’t normal. Peter simply hadn’t appreciated how far from normal it was until this moment.

Lying all night, holding Clara, he’d dared to hope that the worst was over. That maybe the grief, while still there, would today allow some of his wife to be present. But the woman he knew and loved had been swallowed up. Like Jonah. Her white whale of sorrow and loss in an ocean of body fluid.

‘Clara? We need to talk. Can we talk?’ Peter yearned to crawl back into their warm bed with a pot of coffee, some toast and jam, and the latest Lee Valley catalogue. Instead, he stood barefoot in the middle of their cold kitchen floor wielding a baguette like a wand at Clara’s back. He didn’t like the wand image. Maybe a sword. But was that appropriate? To wield a sword at your wife? He gave it a couple of swishes through the air and the crisp bread broke. Just as well, he thought. The imagery was getting too confusing.

‘We need to talk about Jane.’ He remembered where he really. was, placed the tragically broken sword on the counter and put his hand on her shoulder. He felt the soft flannel for an instant before her shoulder jerked away from his hand. ‘Remember when you and Jane would talk and I’d make some rude comment and leave?’ Clara stared ahead, snorting every now and then as a fresh drip left her nose. ‘I’d go into my studio to paint. But I left the door open. You didn’t know that, did you?’

For the first time in twenty-four hours he saw a flicker of interest. She turned to face him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Peter resisted the urge to get a Kleenex.

‘Every week while you and Jane talked I’d listen and paint. For years, and years. Did my best work in there, listening to you two. It was a little like when I was a kid lying in bed, listening to Mom and Dad downstairs, talking. It was comforting. But it was more than that. You and Jane talked about everything. Gardening, books, relationships, cooking. And you talked about your beliefs. Remember?’

Clara looked down at her hands.

‘You both believed in God. Clara, you have to figure out what you believe.’

‘What do you mean? I know what I believe.’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘Screw off. Leave me alone!’ Now she rounded on him. ‘Where’re your tears? Eh? You’re more dead than she is. You can’t even cry. And now what? You want me to stop? It hasn’t even been a day yet, and you’re what? Bored with it? Not the center of the universe anymore? You want everything to go back to the way it was, like that.’ Clara snapped her fingers in his face. ‘You disgust me.’

Peter leaned away from the assault, wounded, and wanting to say all the things he knew would hurt her the way she’d just hurt him.

‘Go away!’ she screamed through hiccups and gasps. And he wanted to. He’d wanted to go away since this time yesterday. But he’d stayed. And now, more than ever, he wanted to flee. Just for a little while. A walk around the Commons, a coffee with Ben. A shower. It sounded so reasonable, so justified. Instead, he leaned toward her again, and took her snot-smeared hands in his and kissed them. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly.