pinkflannelpyjamas

Fourteen miles, fourteen hairdryers, fourteen boyfriends, well fourteen and a half really, but fourteen days? Fourteen days seem unreal to Claire as she stands in her white tiled bathroom. There had been many numbers in her life but none so frightening as fourteen. Claire had gotten her period when she was fourteen and it had come like clockwork, except for that time with Lawrence, every 28 days since then, (twenty-eight is twice fourteen). But now it was late, fourteen days late.

There had been no one but Bruce. There had been fourteen before him, he was number fourteen and a half because she had seen him only twice, but nonetheless it had to have been Bruce. Claire has decided that the only way to describe Bruce would be to say that he is large. He isn�t fat, but he has a definite ��bigness�� about him. Yes most definitely large, Claire thinks as she looks at herself sideways in the mirror. He is a large man, a very tall man, a thick man who laughs loudly and smiles much of the time. Bruce is the kind of man who owns tools and enjoys making things with his hands. He is the kind of man who owns plaid flannel shirts and work boots. Bruce is not at all like any of the boyfriends who came before him. Bruce is not partial to caviar. He does not play racquetball and does not own a tie. Bruce is the kind of man who would allow Claire to wear pink flannel pyjamas.

Claire has never owned a pair of pink flannel pyjamas. She has never owned anything that is not sensational. Claire is a sensational person. With her honey blonde hair and pale eyes that sparkle. Claire�s green eyes have always sparkled, but the twinkle has faded consistently over the past few years. Claire is what one would call a natural beauty. Firm breasts, strong shoulders, straight teeth, a mouth that smiles and pouts all at once. She has her father�s olive skin and rosy lips and the mother�s hands. Beautiful hands with thin fingers and smooth nails, nails that Claire bites compulsively. I�m not sensational, thinks Claire as she puts on her silk bathrobe. The mother is sensational. The mother is extraordinary. The mother still visits Claire twice a week, arriving in her green sports car to swoop down -- because the mother is the kind of woman who swoops -- to swoop down and drink lemon gin in Claire�s living room. The mother will not approve of Claire being pregnant. And she will most definitely not approve of Claire being pregnant by a man who does not own a tie. The mother does not approve of pink flannel pyjamas.

Carl Jung once wrote that the meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. It is not this way with Claire. When she collides with another person they move through her and Claire compromises. Compromise is Claire�s word. The mother calls it giving in. Claire was born to compromise. Her conception was a compromise. Claire�s father wanted to leave the mother, so she agreed under the terms that he would stay until she became pregnant. It took approximately fourteen weeks. Then he was gone. Claire has never met her father. She holds no contempt for him as she does for the mother.

All her life Claire has given in to the mother. The mother wanted Claire to learn to play the piano, Claire learned. The mother wanted Claire to go to summer camp, so Claire went. The mother wanted Claire to wear Chinese silk pyjamas, and Claire wore them. She wears them still. As she sits in her kitchen on the fourteenth day Claire wears a blue silk kimono, a Christmas present from the mother. Claire could never be bothered to argue with the mother. Such an activity requires too much effort. The mother wanted Claire to become a university professor and seeing little or no point in arguing Claire became a professor. Claire teaches Women�s Literature at the university. The mother adores Women�s Literature. It is a subject of much controversy. Much ado about nothing, Claire thinks. She is young for a professor, only 31, but old enough. Old enough, the mother thinks, to be married. Old enough to be having children, but not by large men who do not play racquetball and do not own ties. This, thought Claire will be a shock to the mother�s system.

Claire had almost been married once. Two years ago she had almost married boyfriend number twelve, Lawrence. He was a nice enough man, but not the kind of man who would allow Claire to wear pink flannel pyjamas. Lawrence was the kind of man who owned many ties. Lawrence was the kind of man who wore green spandex underwear. Lawrence was the kind of man who did not know how to make things with his perfectly manicured hands. Lawrence was the kind of man that the mother approved of. Claire approved of Lawrence too, until he sided with the mother and began to want things for Claire. Claire does not want people to want things for her. She does not want to go to cocktail parties and wear slinky red dresses and be told she is sensational. She does not want Hawaiian vacations and tennis matches and country club memberships. Lawrence did not approve of pink flannel pyjamas either. He liked the Chinese silk pyjamas well enough, but was more partial to satin and lace. Lawrence preferred Claire in pyjamas that were lacy and transparent. Actually, Lawrence preferred Claire without pyjamas.

The relationship lasted fourteen months. Lawrence lived with Claire in her Bay Street house for eight of those fourteen months. Two months before the wedding Claire began to throw up in the morning. A month before the wedding she discovered that she was pregnant. Two weeks before the wedding Claire decided to tell Lawrence. Lawrence did not approve. Claire was too tired to argue. She threw up in the white tiled bathroom while he made the arrangements. One week before the wedding Lawrence took Claire to a doctor to erase the problem. Wipe the slate. Claire knew about wiping the slate. Two hours before the wedding Claire got on a plane to Wisconsin and never spoke to Lawrence again. When she returned from Wisconsin, the house on Bay Street was surprisingly empty. There was no evidence that Lawrence had ever existed. Sometimes Claire pretends that he didn�t.

Claire�s house on Bay Street is a cozy professor-type house. It is made of warm red brick with white shutters and a cobblestone walk. There are pink impatiens in the window boxes and lilac bushes around back. Daises and black-eyed susans run amok in the front flower bed. Morning glories spill over the back fence. The mother does not approve of the lilacs, or the window boxes. She is more partial to roses and tiger lilies and well-manicured hedges. She always makes sure to say so. As Claire sits on the deck and smiles at her morning glories she thinks that sooner or later the mother will dig up this garden and plant some horrible encroaching flowers there. Sooner, rather than later she thinks.

Claire is woken from her reverie by the insistent ringing of the telephone. As it rings a third time, a fourth, a fifth she ponders who it might be. It couldn�t be the mother. She is never up before ten, especially on a weekday. It might be one of her graduate students. One of those pinch-faced feminists that attend her classes. It might be the university, but probably not, because today is Tuesday and Claire does not teach classes on Tuesdays. She chews absently on a fingernail and takes another sip of orange juice. Perhaps it is Bruce. With this thought, Claire leaps from her chair and explodes through the French doors to pick up the phone just before the machine clicks on. It is Bruce.

Claire and Bruce met at the university. She was preparing lecture notes in the cramped English Department staff room while he hammered away next door. The offices were in desperate need of remodeling and Bruce of the plaid flannel shirts had been contracted to build a window seat and do something about the terrible slant of the floor. As he went back and forth across the hall he found himself moved to peer at her through the doorway as she worked. In the two hours Claire spent in the staff room she made seven trips to the bathroom in the hall. She was compelled to watch this gentle, beautiful man as he worked, pulling up boards and measuring new ones. Soon enough they found themselves in the staff cafeteria, talking animatedly about the courses she taught and the things he built, over steaming cups of tea. As they talked, Claire was aware of being genuinely interested in the conversation. As the afternoon wore and the sunlight filtering through the skylight grew dimmer and dimmer Claire and Bruce felt less and less like strangers. They agreed to meet again the following evening at an old English pub uptown. The place was overcrowded and smoky and dark. Later the night they found themselves tangled together on Bruce�s beautiful oak bed. Both not too sure how they had gotten there and neither caring too much anyway.

Back in Claire�s sunny kitchen Bruce�s tinny telephone voice apologizes for not calling sooner, but makes no excuses. When Claire seems distant Bruce apologizes and asks if he has woken her. She says no and laughs, loudly. This is a sound that Bruce enjoys. While he thinks that he could become accustomed to the sound of this laugh, Claire finds herself smiling for the second time this morning. . He wants to go for coffee. Claire does not drink coffee, but makes a mental note to start today. She hears herself agreeing to meet him for coffee at two. After hanging up the phone Claire stares at her reflection in the kitchen window as she makes a grocery list:

home pregnancy test
toothpaste
chocolate ice cream
coffee beans

Claire returns to the backyard, wandering through the tall, wet grass, thinking of Bruce. Later, in the shower as she washes her hair she finds herself singing. The hot water splashes over Claire�s thin frame, runs down along her strong shoulders and flat stomach. Not for long, she thinks as she lets her hand drift down over her belly. The morning is long. Claire spends much of it drifting between her bedroom and the backyard, sipping orange juice and humming. Through the willow trees the sun scatters light across the long grass in the backyard. Back in the bedroom Claire opens the armoire in the corner to find something to wear. She chooses jeans. There is nothing sensational about jeans, thinks Claire triumphantly, as she chooses a pale blue pair. Claire attempts to pass the time by reading, but she cannot concentrate. She decides to bake cookies, but is out of eggs. She brushes her teeth again, merely for something to do. Claire spends the rest of the morning absently flipping through a catalogue. She lingers on the glossy pages depicting smiling women in cozy pyjamas, pink flannel pyjamas.

As Claire and Bruce drink cups of steaming black coffee the afternoon fades quickly into evening. After coffee there is tea and crullers and as the evening wears on more coffee and finally a bottle of white wine. As they walk down Peachwood to Bay Street, Claire tells Bruce about Lawrence and Wisconsin and about her father and the mother. Bruce tells Claire about New England (where he grew up) and his family and about the gazebo he is building in his backyard. With her hand in his Claire feels like a child as she smiles up at him in the paling twilight.

When they reach Claire�s pretty little professor house she leads Bruce up the cobblestone walk, past the flowers who seem to be sleeping peacefully the warm spring air. Claire unlocks the door and flicks the switch to flood the hallway with light. Bruce takes in Claire�s hallway quietly. The hardwood floor is in need of varnish. The plaster is cracked. The mirror on the wall is crooked. He mentions this, tells her he would be happy to fix these things for her. He hopes he is not being intrusive. Claire thinks about how wonderful it would be to have someone to fix these things for her, these things that she cannot do herself, or at least, will not do for herself. They sit in the kitchen, talking and laughing as they empty another bottle of white wine. When they progress into the living room Claire takes off her shoes and sits cross-legged on the couch. Bruce sits down, his thick frame occupying the space next to her. Claire enjoys his occupation of this space. She realizes how long it has been since this space was occupied. Bruce looks at Claire in the dull living room light. This is a face I could get used to seeing, he thinks as she chews absently on her fingernails.

Afterward as they lie on Claire�s bed Bruce whispers that he can hear the faucet in the bathroom dripping and offers to fix it in the morning. Claire laughs, and her smile is radiant in the darkness. The smile explodes yellow and gold in Bruce�s mind. As Claire leans over and rests her head on his stomach she thinks that this is the stomach of a man who doesn�t understand about things like mothers and green sports cars and Women�s Literature and lemon gin and wiping the slate. She thinks that this is not a man who will want things for her. She thinks that this is not a man who will want to take vacations to Hawaii or join a country club. As she listens to his heart beating and feels the rise and fall of his chest beneath her Claire understands that Bruce is unlike any man she has ever met before. His is gentle and soft and comfortable. He is the kind of man who will understand Claire, who will cook for her and bring her flowers, not long stem roses, but wildflowers. Bruce is the kind of man who will build things and read to her and make omelets for breakfast. Claire turns to Bruce, bringing his face very close to her own. She brings her smiling lips to his ear, and in a soft, barely audible whisper, she tells him about pink flannel pyjamas.