The disk whirs to life and the first image in the slide show pops up on the screen. It’s a family photo, taken the first Christmas after we had Josh. Then, in order after that, each subsequent Christmas card photo except for the year I was unemployed. I didn’t want to take a picture that year, wouldn’t come out of the office in fact. Claire posed the kids in front of the tree and if anyone noticed that Claire and I were missing, they didn’t say anything. Well, they didn’t say anything to me, but maybe they did to her. After the holiday photos there are individual photos of the kids. I smile as they slowly pass by. There are pictures of me and Claire when we were in Hawaii. I pause the one where she’s splashing in the ocean, wearing a pink bikini. I haven’t seen a smile like the one she has on her face in that picture in a long time. I play the slide show twice, watching as photo after photo of my wife and kids passes by, not unlike the way they are in real life because I’m not there. The slide show comes to an end, and I think about calling Claire. It’s late, though, and if I don’t get started on all the work I have to do, I’ll be up all night.

I miss my family profoundly.

44

daniel

I call Claire at eleven thirty. It’s a Tuesday night, so I know her husband won’t be home.

“Too late?” I ask when she answers.

“No. Not too late,” she says.

I love her voice when we talk late at night. It changes. Gets softer. Like she reserves it just for these calls. She sounds sleepy but she also sounds happy to hear from me.

“Are you in bed?” I ask.

“Yes. I was reading. I just closed my book and turned off the light. What are you doing?” she asks.

“Same thing you are,” I say. “Just lying here.” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. She was on my mind all day and now that I’m in bed I’m really having trouble getting her out of my head. I picture her under the covers, wondering once again what she’s wearing even though I know I shouldn’t be thinking about that, because it’s torture and it’s pointless. “How are you feeling?” I ask. She’s had a bad cold and hasn’t stopped by in more than a week because she said she didn’t want to give it to me.

“Much better,” she says. “The kids will probably bring home more germs soon. I better enjoy the respite while I can.”

“I’ve missed having you around.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says.

“I’ve gotten used to seeing you sitting on my couch.” I like stealing looks at Claire when she’s got her head down, reading or typing, with my blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Like she belongs there.

“I like sitting on your couch. I like it when you make me lunch,” she says.

“That’s because I’m an excellent cook,” I say.

“It’s not usually a hot lunch,” she teases.

I laugh. “Details.”

“I can hear the wind outside my window. The meteorologist on the news said that we might break the record for a January low.”

“I’m sure you’re plenty warm. Something tells me you’re all bundled up.” What I wouldn’t give to be able to put my arms around her. Heat her up so that she wouldn’t want anything covering her.

“I’m in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt.”

“I’d be sweating.”

“You run warmer than I do.”

“You aren’t going to ask me what I’m wearing?”

“I’m pretty sure I know what you’re wearing,” she says.

Of course she does. She’s got a husband who’s sometimes home. One who probably also sleeps in his underwear, or naked when she’s beside him. I’m wearing boxer briefs, but being specific with her will accomplish nothing. As much as I’d love to really let loose and tell her—explicitly and in full detail—what I’m thinking about when I call her late at night, I can’t. Crossing any kind of line, even on the phone, is up to Claire, and not me. And there’s no one here to help me with the hard-on I already have, so I should probably stop while I’m ahead. “I’ve got Monday off. Come over?”

“Sure. I’ll come over after yoga.”

“Okay. Go to sleep,” I tell her. “Stay warm.”

“I will. You, too,” she says.

For the first time in months, I think about calling Melissa. But that would be a real dick move, so I disregard it immediately. Even if she agreed to come over, I still wouldn’t be satisfied. I’d only be pretending that it was Claire’s hands stroking me. Claire’s lips on mine. It’s easier if I just take care of this solo, because in my mind Claire can do everything I desperately want her to do, and I can imagine it in full Technicolor, without the distraction of another woman.

It isn’t quite the same. But it’s less complicated than calling Melissa, and it’s almost enough.

45

claire

To: Claire Canton

From: Chris Canton

Subject: Awards banquet

The annual awards banquet is Saturday, February 12th. It’s black tie. Buy yourself something new. Anything you want.

To: Chris Canton

From: Claire Canton

Subject: Re: Awards banquet

Okay. I’ll go dress shopping. Would you like me to rent you a tuxedo?

To: Claire Canton

From: Chris Canton

Subject: Re: re: Awards banquet

That would be great, thanks. I’ll get fitted while I’m on the road and e-mail you my measurements.

I miss you guys.

Chris’s confidence is at an all-time high since his promotion and this event is important to him. He’s still waiting to come in from the field, though. “Any day now,” they tell him, but they haven’t hired his replacement and Chris doesn’t think they’re working all that hard to find someone else. He tries not to let his disappointment show. I try not to ask him about it. We’re both glad we didn’t say anything to the kids.

I drop Josh and Jordan off at Chris’s parents the day of the banquet. His mother greets me with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. She smells like Shalimar. Chris once told me that his mother is one of the hardest women to buy a gift for. “I have everything I need,” she always claims. “Four healthy and happy kids and now all these beautiful grandchildren.” Finally, under duress, she mentioned once that she loved the scent of Shalimar and she received so many bottles of it on her next birthday and for Christmas that she says she’ll never run out. It’s a smell I’ll always associate with her.

“Be good for Grandma and Grandpa,” I tell the kids, kissing them and giving each of them a hug.

“Why not?” I sit perfectly still as she cleanses my skin, removing what little makeup I’m wearing, and starts over. She applies foundation and blush and lines my eye in blue and silver. These are colors I would never have chosen on my own, but when she holds up a hand mirror in front of my face I’m taken aback at how good it looks. She’s smudged it a bit so the line isn’t too harsh and she’s painted my lips in a pale pink to offset the dramatic eye makeup. My lashes have been lengthened with three coats of mascara and then curled; I hardly recognize myself. I thank her and pay, adding a nice tip.