Even though he was back sleeping in their bed, some nights he’d pass out in the breakfast nook. He knew he was drinking too much. It wasn’t good. For them as well as for his work. It was starting to feel like he was waiting around for Claudine to get sick of him. For her to say something. He couldn’t shake the disappointment in himself. And yet, during this time, amid all the insults she’d thrown his way, she never called him a drunk. She never said he should slow down or take a night off from drinking. Not once did she scold him about the booze. Other things, yes, but about that she let him be. He never understood why, not until many years later, until the night of his death.

Claudine

The night of the murders had been very confusing.

She was sobbing when she burst through the door. Henry sat, drinking his fourth Manhattan at the dining room table, drafting. He looked up and dropped his pencil. Her face was bloody. Her right eye a theatrical mix of pinks and reds.

“Oh my god. What happened?”

“Jonathan Miller happened,” she spat. It was crucial she explain it all exactly right. “I’ve been working hard, so hard, to make this happen. For us. For him, even. Trying to get him to understand what a better life he would have if he sold the land.”

“I know you have,” he said, focusing on her face. She knew it was swelling up before his eyes. She could feel it. The side of her head was bleeding. Snot dripped from her nose. She found a tissue and blew it noisily. Taking another, she blotted near the wound.

Henry downed the last half of his glass. He dug an ice cube out and tried to press it against her head, but she pushed his hand away. Her breaths were quick and sharp. Attempts to regain control. Her balance was off. Wait: Which one of them was swaying? She could do this. Get through it. The only thing to do was to catch her breath and go on.

“I pulled up and parked in front. Like I’ve done all the times before. Got out of my car. Expecting to be greeted; I thought, ‘He must be excited to have finally made a decision.’ Then I knocked. And he answered. The young worker wasn’t there. Initially I had a good feeling.”

She started to cry harder. This must all be so upsetting for Henry; she never cried. When he reached out to touch her, she shrank back again.

“I’m sorry,” she said.