A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“Would it be helpful if I went with you?” Claire asked, once Polly stopped sniffling. She’d said it before she realized what she was saying. This was the part of Claire that her patients thought made her a great therapist: she was a real person. This was also the part of Claire that was dangerous. As much as she tried to act like Mount Rushmore, they could always see the living flesh in the background.

Polly looked surprised.

“If you need me to go with you, I will.” Claire had done something like this only once before. She’d taken a completely petrified woman to the dentist and sat in the waiting room while the woman had her teeth cleaned and two fillings done.

How can I do this? Claire asked herself while Polly was talking. How can I not? Together they called the clinic, made a time, a date, and a plan.

Claire’s next patient, Bea, was a fifty-five-year-old woman without a life. Unhappily married to someone who was perfectly nice, she’d raised two children, one married, the other at Brown. And now, with no orthodontist appointments, piano lessons, or family dinners to prepare, Bea had nothing to do. She felt as if she were dying. She’d been referred to Claire after spending three weeks in Payne Whitney being treated for depression. The psychiatrists had recommended antidepressants and reeducation via Claire, with the idea being that if Bea developed some interests of her own, her boring marriage would no longer be the focus of her life.

“My classes at Marymount started last night. Herbert was annoyed that I got home late, but I think I enjoyed myself. I’m not really sure. I haven’t been to school in more than thirty years.”

“Did you talk to anyone?” Claire asked.

Bea shook her head.

“Next time, you should try. Ask one of the other women to have coffee with you afterwards and you can talk about the class.”

“Herbert wouldn’t be happy.”

“It’s all right,” Claire said. “Tell him ahead of time that you’ll be out late. A new show opened at the Guggenheim; maybe you could take a walk over there.”

“I still don’t like going places by myself.”

“It takes practice, but it’s near your apartment and should be something you can manage. Have you made any arrangements about doing volunteer work?”

“I decided I don’t want to be around sick people.”

“Plenty of places use volunteers — Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Museum, the Whitney.”

“I don’t want to make a commitment. What if Herbert wants to go away for a few days?”

“Then you tell them you’ll be away. You’re doing them a favor. It’s not a problem if you have to leave.”

Bea’s life was not in crisis, it never was. Twenty years of absolute passivity had claimed this woman, and Claire was trying to wake her, gently. There were times when Claire felt she was expected to be the leader of all women. She was the one who had to nourish them with hidden supplies, goods brought in from the other side, behind enemy lines. She had to give them what they never got. She had to make them strong and teach them to kill.

It was almost noon when Bea left. They’d gone a few minutes over, planning Bea’s activities for the next few days. Claire checked her book and realized that she had a parent/teacher conference at Jake’s school that was supposed to start at eleven-forty-five. She threw her book into her bag and, not waiting for the elevator, ran down the steps and race-walked east across Houston to Lafayette.

The Lang School was the hippest school downtown. Its students were the sons and daughters of gallery owners, actors, name-brand heirs, and rock stars. The twin daughters of Jake’s heavy-metal hero were in his class; every afternoon a cocaine-white limo carried them the seven blocks home to their soundproofed triplex apartment around the corner from Tower Records. Jake swore he was in love.

Claire gave the guard at the front door her name, flashed her Parents of Lang photo ID card, and hurried toward the sixth-grade classroom. The hallways were lined with floor-to-ceiling bulletin boards, plastered with thumbtacks and art that looked exactly like the stuff Claire used to see when she worked with inpatients at Bellevue.

“It really is very nice. You should go sometime,” Sam was saying when Claire burst into the room, panting.

She squeezed herself into a kid-sized desk and tried to catch her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I was with someone. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Il Cantinori,” Sam said. “Tenth, between University and Broadway.” He picked up Claire’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s our favorite.”

“I’ll go this weekend.”

Get a grant first, Claire thought, wondering why Sam had talked the teacher into trying a restaurant she obviously couldn’t afford.

“Sally’s getting married,” he explained.

Sally was the teacher. According to Lang educational philosophy, students called everyone from the principal to the janitor by his or her first name. This was to inspire self-confidence. Claire could never remember Sally’s last name, and it drove her crazy.

“Congratulations,” Claire said.

It was recess. Claire could hear two hundred and fifty kids screaming as they ran up and down the barricaded street outside.

“About Jake …” Sally said.

Claire could feel the other shoe about to fall. Her stomach sank. She leaned forward, subtly tilting her head down, trying to keep from fainting.

“I get the feeling he needs more structure at home,” Sally said. “He needs a clearer idea of what’s expected of him and how he can achieve those goals.”

Sam and Claire nodded vigorously. If Jake were bumped out of this school, they’d have big problems. It would be hard, if not impossible, to get him into another good school; even if they did, one of them would have to drag him uptown every morning and someone would have to pick him up every afternoon. And if he didn’t get in, he’d end up in public school — something to be avoided at all costs.

“What do you suggest?” Sam asked.

“Are his afternoons planned? Does he have any specific activities?”

There was no way to present Frecia as a strong, stimulating role model, or to explain that her job was simply to keep the children alive until Claire or Sam got home. Structure and planned activities were out of the question.

“What I’m thinking of,” Sally said, “is an after-school program. Sports and music — nothing specifically academic.” She paused. “Jake could stand to run around a little. He’s at that age. And he’s not doing nearly as well as he should be or as we’d hoped.”

She didn’t continue. Claire knew “that age” was one where boys were either frenzied or like bumps on a log. Jake was a bump. Perhaps the damage was reversible.

“We do have a program here. I’ve checked and there is space. He could start right away.”

Of course they had a program. And of course the program cost an extra thirty-five hundred dollars a year — on top of the nine thousand they were already paying — and of course Sam and Claire signed him up. Claire imagined that if they said no, the next time Sally would skip the friendly little chat and call the Department of Social Services. She’s a shrink, he’s a lawyer, and their kid’s a little shit. The father’s kind of cute, so obviously it’s all her fault. Arrest her.

Claire and Sam went out the door arm in arm, smiling, whispering. As soon as they were on the sidewalk, Claire pulled away. “What a little bitch,” she said. “It’s hush money. Give us thirty-five hundred and we’ll keep him.”

“It might be good for him.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Sam shrugged. “You want an ice cream?”