Happy Endings Are All Alike. Sandra Scoppettone

of her own body and her own face and there was no escaping either of them.

      She lit another cigarette, sending up a smoke screen between herself and the mirror. Again her mind fixed on Peggy and Jaret. Both of them were attractive. Jaret might even be considered beautiful. Dammit, she was beautiful. If you liked the type, which Claire didn’t. But by American standards, by male standards, she was a knockout. And that was what really made Claire crazy. Jaret Tyler could have had any boy or man she wanted and she wanted none. Peggy, too, could have had her pick. And who did they choose? Each other. It was sick. Crazy. Enraging. Why, when they could have the cream of the crop, did they want each other? She could have understood if they’d been ugly, as she felt she was, if they’d had no personalities, if they were dumb or something. Who’d want them then? But they had everything and still they persisted in this demented thing. It made Claire dizzy with frustration.

      She lay down on her bed. The shaking had subsided and now, in its place, there was a dull pain in her stomach, the kind she had felt for weeks after her mother had died. Claire’s mind went back to the day she’d discovered them in bed, to what Peggy had said to her: “I love Jaret and I’m proud of it and the fact of the matter is you’re just jealous because no one loves you.” And no one did. Not even her father, she felt. There was no one to love her. She’d never had a close friend and, of course, never a boyfriend. Her mother had always told her that she loved her but Claire had never believed it. Her mother had also told her she drove people away with her arrogance, her air of superiority. Well, could she help being intelligent? What the hell else did she have besides that? Could she help it if it showed? Damn!

      She jumped up, squashing the cigarette in the glass ashtray. Round and round never getting anywhere. She had not told her father about Jaret and Peggy for fear of what Peggy would say. Her father had eyes. Claire knew he could see how ugly she was. But as long as it remained unspoken, there was the slightest chance that it might not be true. If she told her father about Peggy and Jaret, Peggy could say: “She’s making it up because she’s jealous, because she can’t get anyone to love her because she’s so damn ugly.” Claire sucked in her breath. Oh, no. Oh, no. If that was said out loud her father would have to acknowledge how horrid she was and then she would die. So she kept the secret, knowing she would never tell, but using it like a club whenever it suited her.

      The thought of what Peggy might say to her father had propelled her back and forth across the room and, once again, she’d stopped in front of the mirror. Snatching up her hairbrush from the vanity, she threw it at the mirror, screaming, “I hate you, Peggy Danziger.” But the mirror didn’t shatter. Instead, the brush bounced off and hit Claire above her right eyebrow, breaking the skin. She stood there, her dreaded image staring back, a dribble of blood running down toward her eye. Typical, she thought, so damn typical.

6

       June 25th

      Summer vacation is only two days old and it’s already a drag. If only I had wheels. Mom was after me today to do some stuff around the house like cleaning out the cellar and attic. So why doesn’t HE do it? All he ever does when he’s home is lie around and watch the tube. So why should I have to work? I told her to shove it and then she started crying and said she gets no respect or anything so I felt sorry for her and told her so and then I cleaned out the attic. Some fun.

      Later me and some of the guys went down in the woods to rap and hang out. Just when we were about to leave we heard some sounds and we lay low. In a few secs we saw Jaret and Peggy come walking by real near us but they didn’t see us. They were holding hands. Girls are really stupid. That Jaret is some chick but she acts like she thinks she’s a movie star. Like she’s above it all or something. Just ’cause she’s good-looking doesn’t give her the right to act that way it seems to me. Somebody ought to knock her around and put her in her place. She gives me a real pain. She thinks she’s too good for all the guys around here. Chris says she writes to some guy at Yale and that’s why she stopped going out with Gardener’s Point guys. I’d like to do more than write to her. And maybe I will. Why not? Who the hell does she think she is anyway?

      Tonight we hung out at the Bee Hive. This Jesus freak came in and we got in an argument with him and then I got him in a hammerlock and the jackass cried. I let him go and told him to stay outta the Hive. We won’t see him again.

      Tomorrow I promised to clean out the cellar for the Old Lady. Can’t wait. Screw it.

7

      Jaret’s father was always tired when he came home from work. He owned a small but lucrative insurance firm. His office was in Riverbay, a half hour’s drive away. Bert complained nightly that he was overworked and could never find efficient help. He hinted that life would be much better, easier, if only Kay would come to work for him. It was the last thing Kay Tyler was going to do. “Rather death,” she’d said once when he asked her directly.

      Kay wasn’t against working, although she was very happy at home doing pottery and painting. She was against working for her husband. “The surest way to screw up a marriage is to spend twenty-four hours a day together,” she said.

      But that was exactly what Bert wanted. Twenty-five hours a day would have been preferable, because he was madly in love with his wife. She was, he insisted, different, special, unique among women.

      The main thing for Kay about Bert was his looks. He often accused her of regarding him as nothing more than a sex object and she had a hard time denying it. “Well, kid,” she often said, “I can’t help it if you’re a looker.”

      “What about my mind?” he’d ask.

      Kay would shrug and say, “Who needs it?”

      Of course, she didn’t really mean it. She just said it to keep Bert aware of the way women were treated. And he knew that. What he didn’t know was that Kay was not overwhelmed by his mind. She would have preferred him to be a little more lively, quicker, with interests beyond his business and Time magazine. At twenty, when she had married him, she hadn’t known any better, hadn’t seen beyond his looks. He’d been five years older, with a kind of dashing air of sophistication which she didn’t find out until later was nothing more than good taste in clothes and an extraordinary sense of good food and wine. Not good enough! But, oh, those looks.

      It drove Kay mad that she was so shallow, such a sucker for thick blue-black hair that grew in a perfect widow’s peak, huge, almost-black eyes, eyelashes thicker and longer than any woman’s she’d ever seen, a nose meant for a sculptor’s eye and a real mouth. Most men had stingy little mouths but not Bert. It was wide, beautifully shaped and lovely to kiss. And even though she’d been dead set against him growing it, the luxurious quality of his beard and mustache gave him an even more romantic look. He was short, only five feet seven, but Kay didn’t mind as she was only five feet.

      The truth of the matter was that Kay found most men dull. It was the rare man who could engage her. Bert thought he was an exception and Kay saw no point in correcting that impression. And, in a way, he was an exception; she loved him dearly. Aside from being gorgeous he was kind, considerate, gentle and loving. And that was a lot.

      “Hello, darling,” Bert said, handing Kay a small bouquet of sweetheart roses, something he did at least once a week. “How’d your day go?”

      She sniffed the flowers, smiled, kissed his lovely mouth. “Thanks, honey. I made a really fantastic bowl. I’ll show you after dinner.”

      “Great.” He put an arm around her as they walked to the kitchen.

      “How was your day?”

      “Well, Helen botched up three letters and couldn’t find Cohen in the file because she’d put it under K. I spent hours looking for the damn thing. My God, I’m tired.”

      “Seems to me if Cohen wasn’t under C the most natural place in the world to look would be under K. Got