Would you do my hair for me if I was too sick to lift my arms and do it myself?
The answer she came up with was a decisive yes.
Yes, Richmond would style her hair if she was sick. He would do it for her and do it with no complaints. And he would probably do it well. Those big, beautiful hands of his were capable of anything he put his mind to doing with them.
But she also knew that one night, as Richmond combed through her hair, their phone would ring and he would go to answer it. After he hung up, he would return to her with a lie already worked out to explain why he had to leave for just a little while. She would sit, hair half done, smiling in her sickbed, and pretend to believe his lie as he scooted out the door. If she was lucky, there would be no mirror in the room in which she might catch a glimpse of her face contorted into an imitation of that lovely, soft expression that came over Odette’s face so naturally when she gazed at James.
That vision was in Clarice’s head when she stood up from the sofa, walked over to the television, and turned it off.
Richmond said, “Hey, what are you doing?” He lifted the remote from where it rested on his lap and pointed it at the television. But Clarice was standing in the way and the set wouldn’t respond.
When she didn’t move, he asked, “What’s going on?”
She said, “Richmond, I can’t live with you anymore.” It came out easily and sounded totally natural, even though her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice.
He said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m tired. I’m tired of you, tired of us. Mostly I’m tired of me. And I know I can’t live with you anymore.”
He let out a long sigh and set down the remote. Then he spoke to her in the low, calming tone people reserve for interactions with hysterical children and brain-damaged adults. “Now, Clarice, I’m not sure what’s gotten into you that you think you need to make this fuss right now, but I want you to know that I’m sympathetic. You’ve gone through a lot lately with Odette being sick, your mother’s problems, and whatever’s going on with Barbara Jean. And I understand that the change can hit some women extra hard, mess up your hormones and everything. But I think you should remember what the truth is. And the truth is, I’ve never pretended to be anything other than the man I am.
“Not that I’m claiming to be perfect. Listen, I’m more than willing to accept my portion of the blame for a situation or two that may have hurt you. But I have to say that I believe most women would envy the honesty we have between us. At least you know who your husband is.”
She nodded. “You’re right, Richmond. You never pretended to be anyone other than the man you are. And that might be the saddest part for me. I really should have helped you be a better man than this. Because, sweetheart, the man you are just isn’t good enough.”
That came out meaner than she had intended it to. She really wasn’t angry—well, no angrier than usual. She wasn’t sure what she felt. She had always assumed that if this moment ever came she would be yelling and crying and trying to decide whether to burn his clothes or glue his testicles to his thighs while he slept, the way women on afternoon TV always seemed to be doing to their unfaithful men. Now mostly she felt fatigue and a sadness that left no room for histrionics.
Richmond shook his head in disbelief and said, “Something’s not right about this. Really, I’m worried about you. You should get a checkup or something. This could be a symptom of something bad.”
“No, it’s not a symptom,” Clarice said, “but it might be the cure.”
Richmond hopped up from the sofa. His shock and confusion had faded. Now he was only mad. He started to pace back and forth. “This is Odette’s idea, isn’t it? It’s got to be her idea, all the time you’ve been spending with her.”
“No, this idea is all mine. Odette’s idea was to castrate you back in 1971. Since then she’s kept quiet on the subject of you.”
He stopped pacing then and tried a different approach. He walked over until he stood