A. Homes: In A Country Of Mothers

“Look at this,” Claire had said, holding it up on its hanger. The shirt was softer, more fitted than what Jody usually wore; she would have looked beautiful in it.

Jody wrinkled her nose. “Not for me.”

“Go ahead, try it on.”

“No,” Jody said.

Claire still held the shirt out, swinging it back and forth to entice her; annoyed, Jody had grabbed it and stuffed it back onto the rack. A woman passing by smiled, put her hands on Claire’s shoulder, and said, “My daughter and I argue like this all the time.”

“She’s not my mother,” Jody announced. “She’s my shrink. ”

The woman averted her eyes and quickly slipped away.

And that afternoon, Claire had come in late and Sam was standing in the front hall, furious.

“Why are you home?” she asked.

“Your son had a doctor’s appointment!” he bellowed.

Claire didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Jake was supposed to go to the pediatrician at three-thirty. They called me at the office. You forgot. Don’t even try and tell me where you were. You were with her. I know, Claire. I’m not an idiot. This has gone too far. It’s out of control. Why are you letting her—”

“She’s not doing it, Sam — I am.” Claire paused. “I must have forgotten about Jake’s appointment. It was probably just for shots. I’ll take him tomorrow, I’ll call over there right now and make a time.”

When she reached for the phone, Sam blocked her. “It was for shots,” he said, pressing his face close into hers. “I took him. They said he might have a reaction, run a fever, to give him Tylenol. I looked and there’s none in the house. There’s not even any fucking Tylenol in this house, Claire! We’re falling apart. You’re ignoring us. I won’t let you do it to this family. I won’t let you.”

Adam, Jake, and Frecia stood there gaping. Jake’s sleeve was rolled up, and Claire watched him run his fingers back and forth unconsciously over the injection spot.

The phone rang, and both Sam and Claire grabbed for the receiver.

“Hello,” Sam said, snatching it away from Claire.

Claire pushed the speakerphone button.

“Hi, this is Tom Miller, the architect. I came to look at your apartment several weeks ago.”

“Yes,” Sam said.

“It turns out that my sister is moving to New York, and I’d like to have her see the place, if you’re still interested in selling.”

“We’re considering the possibility,” Sam said.

“She’ll be in from Boston first thing in the morning, so could I bring her by at eight? I realize it’s early, but she’s only in for the day and has meetings straight through.”

“Eight’s fine. See you then,” Sam said, hanging up.

“This is ridiculous,” Claire said.

“No it’s not,” Sam said, “but these are. They came today, for you.” He picked two boxes — one big, one small — up off the living room table and hurled them toward her. Mugs flew out of each; SAM, JAKE, ADAM, and JODY, all printed in bold red letters on white ceramic. Lillian Vernon had screwed up and sent everything directly to Claire. Sam’s broke in half, Adam’s lost the handle, Jody’s split into three, and only Jake’s was intact. “What the hell are you buying her a monogrammed mug for?”

“Belated Christmas,” Claire said.

Frecia pushed the children out of the room and then moved in to clean up the mess.

“We’re going to the beach this weekend,” Sam said. “You, me, and the boys. No girls. No one else. Us, that’s it. We rented the fucking house and we’ll fucking use it. It’s been almost a month since we were there.”

“Fine,” Claire said.

“Tomorrow morning I’ll meet that guy at eight,” Sam said, picking up his briefcase. “I’ll sell this place so fucking fast you won’t know what hit you.” Then he turned and stormed out of the apartment.

A few minutes later Gloria Owens called. “Sorry to bother you at home,” she said, “but I didn’t think you’d mind. Jim and I are in trouble. We’re fighting constantly. I was hoping we could come in for an extra session this week.”

“Hold on,” Claire said. “Let me check my book.” She put the receiver on the table, rustled the newspaper around, and picked up the phone again. “I’m looking,” she said, flipping through the Home section of the Times. “But I’m booked up until Wednesday, which is your regular time anyway.”

“Oh, well, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

“I’m glad you called,” Claire said. “If something opens up, I’ll let you know. Or if it’s an emergency you can always leave a message on the machine and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” Gloria said.

“Anytime,” Claire said, hanging up and dialing Bea’s number.

Claire hadn’t told anyone, but last week — after having told Claire how happy she was — Bea swallowed all of Herbert’s sleeping pills, then took a cab over to St. Luke’s and confessed. They’d pumped out her stomach, kept her for a couple of days, and, in conjunction with Claire, arranged for a psychiatrist to prescribe antidepressants. Claire felt guilty as hell.

“Bea?” she said when Bea’s answering machine picked up. “It’s Claire Roth, just calling to see how you’re doing. I’ll be home all evening if you want to call, otherwise I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

“You’re in trouble,” Sam had said later that night when he slipped into the bed. “Big trouble.”

As if she didn’t already know. Once Sam had said he liked the house, the second he’d rolled off of her after making love in their would-be bedroom and said: “I want it,” Claire had started hoping it wouldn’t work out. She couldn’t move, not now. Too much was happening. Everything she’d worked so hard for seemed on the verge of being destroyed. She’d made a mess of her career, her marriage, her life. She couldn’t be a shrink anymore, she knew that. Look at Bea. Thanks to Claire she’d ended up in the emergency room. Claire should have known better than to believe her when she said she was happy. How could anyone be happy?

A few fitful hours later, Sam was shaking her awake. “The architect and his sister,” he said. “They’ll be here before you know it.”

“What time is it?” Claire asked.

“Six-forty-five. If we want to sell, we have to clean up. You can start by making the bed.”

Claire rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head.

Sam went out of the bedroom and came back with the vacuum cleaner. “Get up,” he said, plugging it in. “And pull the sheets up with you.”

“I can’t be late,” Claire said, crawling out of bed. “I have a patient at eight-fifteen.”

“Cancel it,” he snapped.

Claire stood groggy and confused in the center of the room and watched him use a white crew sock to dust the top of the dresser. “Cancel the fucking appointment,” he said again.

“I can’t,” she said.

“You’re not seeing that Jody girl anymore. It has to stop.”

“Sam,” Claire said.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Claire, and it’s wrong. You’re wrong. Give it up. She’s not yours. You can’t be doing her any good by acting like she is. Think about somebody else for a minute.”

“You mean, think about you.”

“Cancel the appointment.”

“No,” Claire paused. “She’s special. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t care. I’m talking about you, Claire, about us. I don’t even know her.”

“Well, you certainly acted like you did at the skating rink.”

Sam shook his head in disgust. “We’re leaving, Claire. We’re getting out of here.”