Carmiel Banasky - The Suicide of Claire Bishop

She touched herself, she couldn’t not. Thought she heard a knock at the door — had she locked it? — and continued to touch while she looked in the mirror as if it were the last time she’d ever see herself. As if she were saying goodbye, her reflection flying off to Vietnam to die. Goodbye, me. Say hello to the president.

Bird would stay with his family — his other family — until he was deployed. The night before Bird went home, they got drunk. At first Claire stayed in her room, reading her used American History textbook that she hid from the boys. But she could hear their laughter and music, the linty edge of Miles Davis coming through the wall. She went to get a glass of water from the kitchen. An excuse, she wasn’t fooling anyone. But when she was at the sink, she decided to make herself a martini — with lesser gin than she used to drink. It had been a while since she’d had a cocktail.

When she stepped into the den, Jill stood up from the couch and made her take his seat. Beside her, Bird was so drunk he couldn’t sit without swaying. He looked at her, but his eyes kept shifting to her shoulders and sometimes, she noticed, to her chest. He grabbed her hand with his grimy one and talked about basic training. “I’m going to come back and kick all your asses.” His eyes drooped now to Claire’s lap. “But not yours,” he said. “You could kick my ass any day.”

“You’re not joking,” Claire said. “I’m all muscle.” And she flexed a bicep for them.

Lawrence laughed. “He almost failed his physical. Carlos told him to rub his own leg a lot. They almost thought he was a fairy.”

“Carlos tried to sabotage,” Bird slurred. “But I told them I drink lots of Kool-Aid.”

“‘Kool-Aid saves lives,’” Jill said deeply in his best ad-man voice.

“Will you write to us?” Claire said.

“If you write to me,” said Bird. “Will you write to me once a week?”

“Of course, if that’s what you want. Though I’m afraid I’ll run out of things to say. It will be terribly boring here without you.” She thought to herself that she was not lying, she would try to write every week.

“You can send me your picture,” Bird said.

“All right. I’ll send you a picture.”

“Don’t do anything nasty with it,” Carlos said to Bird.

“Shut up,” Bird said. “And maybe send some bubblegum.”

“Check. Bubblegum,” said Claire. “Is that what you’ll miss the most?”

“No. I don’t know why I said bubblegum. I don’t like it that much.” He lifted his beer. “To bubblegum!” Everyone cheered to bubblegum.

Claire sipped her martini and glanced at Jill, who was smiling at her.

Bird said, “You’ll be here when I get back. You’ll take care of us.”

“No,” Claire said. “I think you’ll have to take care of me.”

“You’ll keep ending the war while I’m over there and then I’ll come back and join”—Bird hiccupped—“and join you. I won’t be gone that long.”

“We’ll still be here when you get back,” she said. She looked to Jill and this time he stopped smiling.

Bird threw up in the bathroom, and when he was in there too long, Claire knocked quietly on the door to see if he needed help. He came out with a runny nose and tear-stained face, but he grinned at her.

She took him back to the den, laid out his sleeping bag and pillow, and helped him get into it without falling. He said, looking up at her from the floor, “There’s two of your nice face now.” He reached for her ankle and held it with his eyes closed, then opened them quickly. “It’s dizzy in there.”

“You’ll just have to sleep with your eyes open,” Claire said, reaching down to peel his fingers from her leg. She squeezed his hand until his eyes closed again.

After they’d gone to sleep, she packed Bird a turkey sandwich and an apple. She threw in a roll at the last minute. No, too much bread. She took it out. He would need vitamins. He’d need to stay healthy. She would tell him that. She put the wrapped food in the refrigerator.

They were running late, seven-something in the morning. Jill was taking Bird to the bus station. He held his bags by the door, tapping his foot. It was all too fast. She was so tired, too tired to think straight. In the hall, she watched Carlos and Lawrence and Bird slap shoulders. She watched them nod and say, “I’ll write you, man. Stay good.”

She hugged Bird lightly. It was like saying goodbye to an imaginary friend.

She let go and her childhood walked out the door — her childhood, riding an elevator to Vietnam — and she went back to her room and fell asleep.

She would wake up later in a panic, remembering the lunch she’d packed and thinking in her dream state that she could run and catch him.

Then there were three. And Claire. Carlos and Lawrence lay around, lethargic. Jill started organizing a new rally, making calls, writing letters, keeping himself busy, all with a scowl. Had he thought he could stop the war before it took his friends?

Jill tried to motivate them. He delegated small jobs. He said he understood. He said they couldn’t give up now, they had to act, they had to work harder on Bird’s behalf. He told them horror stories of soldiers who came back, but never soldiers that died. Still, they weren’t moved.

Claire was leaning in the doorway and the totality with which Jill refused to acknowledge her made her feel like she was eavesdropping.

“He needs us,” Jill was saying. “You don’t want him to come home all homicidal, do you? That’s what the Army does to you. They replace all of your emotions with one: anger.”

Lawrence shrugged. “That’s not special,” he said. “Haven’t you ever felt like killing someone? You know you’d never do it, but. You feel that rage.”

Jill stared at him a moment, hard-eyed. He’d lost them. “No,” he said, “I haven’t.”

Bird’s real name was Alexander Montrose. Claire only thought to ask after he left. He was Jewish and his parents lived in Rochester and he had a younger sister who sent him cards with flowers made of glue and glitter. When she later found one he’d forgotten to pack, it let loose its dust which sparkled on her floor.

——

They were using the painting against her. Freddie’s lawyer informed her of this at a meeting Freddie conveniently missed. The lawyer’s bald head gleamed in the overhead light. Claire had stolen it, he said. It was Freddie’s, and Freddie had gifted it to his sister. “What my client is offering should be considered very generous to an art thief.” It wasn’t legally hers, and the theft, he said, demonstrated she was unworthy of financial support.

Freddie met her on the front steps of the uptown office afterward. He was out of breath. Sweat sprung from his temples. He looked old. Is that what she looked like to him?

“Was that some kind of underhanded strategy?” Claire asked. “Not showing up for the meeting? I looked pathetic in there, fighting against no one.”

“I was held up at work. What do you want me to say?” He took a deep breath, paused and spoke calmly, as one does when dealing with a misbehaving child. “I don’t want any hard feelings. You’re upset about the painting, I know. We’ll talk about it. But maybe it’s best for you if you don’t keep it, don’t you think?”

“Such sudden interest. Do you have a collector looking at it? You must think I’m such a fool. You’re probably laughing with your friends at that dolt who doesn’t know the worth of art. Well, that dolt used to be your wife and knows you better than you think.”

Freddie shook his head ceremoniously. “Why do you think I’m out to hurt you? If you can’t trust the man you were with for eighteen years, I don’t know what to tell you.”