Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,50

startled by that, Walt’s unexpected boldness, returning to their marriage that night. They’d made love right there in the kitchen, his thighs slapping against hers, Claire’s hands gripping his hair while the children slept upstairs. It had sparked a year-long stretch of intimacy, a spark that had dwindled shortly after the Hillers left town.

Yes, it had taken another woman, Angie Hiller, to insert the intimacy back into their lives. Was it her own jealousy that suddenly made Claire interested in Walt again and Walt in her? Was it the unspoken competition of trying to be as doting a couple as the Hillers seemed to be, always sneaking kisses behind corners, Trevor resting his hand lightly on Angie’s wrist while she talked? Whatever it was, when the Hillers moved back to Manhattan and the dinner parties came to a halt, Claire and Walt’s rekindled romance fizzled out as quickly as it had begun.

And then things returned to the way they’d been before or, as Claire thought of it, life returned to normal. They went back to passing each other in the halls more like roommates than husband and wife, Walt threw himself back into work, and the lion’s share of responsibility for the kids fell to Claire once again. On the rare night when Walt did make it home in time for dinner, it was as if he barely noticed her. Once she’d counted the seconds while he rambled on about a situation at work and stared down at his plate. Fifty-four seconds passed before he’d glanced up and actually looked at her. Fifty-four! As if didn’t matter who his audience was. After dinner she’d gotten up to load the dishwasher, actually taking the dirty spoons back out of the silverware holder so she could toss them in again and hear their satisfying racket, mirroring her own emotions. All clatter and bang.

To Walt’s credit, when Amber was in high school he was the one who suggested they try counseling, and Claire agreed—by that point she’d have been willing to try aromatherapy, if it would work. Their therapist, Dr. Fallon,was a rotund, diminutive man. White beard and glasses, Santa Claus minus the holiday cheer. Each Saturday afternoon for a month, they filed into his office and sat next to each other, their legs almost touching on the doctor’s shabby brown couch.

“I’m doing everything I possibly can to make sure our home runs on the few cylinders I have left,” she admitted in their first meeting, fighting back tears. “The kids need so much attention, even now, maybe more so than when they were little. Amber’s dealing with her eating issues, and Ben worries about everything. After I come home from work, I’m making supper, helping them with whatever the crisis of the day is. There’s never any time for me to decompress.” She felt a little selfish putting it that way, as if it were all about her.

But then a fire lit in her again. Because Walt wasn’t there complaining about his lack of me time, was he? Walt was there because he thought their marriage had taken a decided turn toward the frigid, because Claire seemed angry all the time. Her response to Walt’s complaints, albeit not helpful at the time, had been an eye roll. “Now, Claire,” Dr. Fallon had said in a mollifying tone, “we want this to be a positive space without judgment.”

And Claire had wanted to throw up.

Each visit left her feeling more dejected and hopeless than when she’d first stepped foot in the musty office with its corduroy sofa and weepy ferns. She imagined those wide fronds working overtime to absorb all the heartache that spilled forth. (Maybe, she thought during one particularly difficult session, the ferns were busily transforming patients’ distress into something productive, like chlorophyll.) With each new session, the gulf between her and Walt grew only wider, their car rides home achingly silent while she seethed in the passenger seat. She’d thought the era of women being second-class citizens in their marriages was over, but she’d been mistaken. There was no such thing as an equitable division of labor when it came to kids and housework, unless, of course, they were well-off enough to hire a nanny and a housekeeper. Which they weren’t.

At their very last session—before Claire quit—Dr. Fallon suggested she work past her anger if she and Walt were going to have any hope of reaching an understanding, and Claire had laughed, slightly hysterical. “Work past my anger? Work toward an