Catch of the Day (29 page)

“Right. I’m tired of hiding in the bomb shelter.”

I sit up a little straighter. “Dad, look. I know Mom can be quite a…harridan sometimes. I mean, I certainly get tired of her nagging me all the time, but I thought…” My voice chokes off suddenly. “I thought you loved her,” I finish in a hoarse whisper.

Dad’s own eyes tear up. “I do. I did. But Maggie, the past few years…well, we haven’t been happy. She hasn’t been happy, and I’m just exhausted with trying to guess what mood she’s in and why and how I can make it better.”

“What does she think about all this?”

“She’s furious.” Dad’s mouth tightens again, then wobbles. “She told me if that’s what I want, then I’m even a bigger idiot than she thought and she’d be glad to get rid of me.”

Sounds like Mom, all right.

Mom was never the kind of cookie-baking, Girl Scout leader mother depicted in most of our childhood books. She took care of us, certainly, fed us nutritious meals and sent us to bed on time. But there was always an edge to her, and while I never doubted her love, I often doubted that she liked me very much. Christy dealt with her better. She was the quieter, more studious, more helpful child, while I tended to be a little sneakier, disappearing when the kitchen needed cleaning up, drifting into the bathroom when the groceries had to be unpacked. And with Jonah, the classic little boy, always grubby, always making messes and losing things, Mom’s thin patience had evaporated completely. Only after he moved out did Jonah become someone my mother really seemed to enjoy.

“We had to get married, you know,” my father tells me, interrupting my bemused thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

“Your mother was pregnant with you girls when we got married.” Dad, more composed now, takes a sip of his coffee.

“We’re love children?” I blurt. “Christy and I are love children?”

My father gives a half smile. “Ayuh. You never figured it out?”

“No! Dad! One bombshell at a time!”

Octavio sticks his head out the door. “You still need me, boss?”

“No, no, Tavy. Thanks.”

“I’m gonna run home before lunch, if that’s okay,” he says.

“Sure, sure. Fine.” A moment later, the back door closes, and Dad and I are completely alone. I look at my dad in a new light. “So. You knocked up that nice Lena Gray and had to marry her.”

“Yup. You and Christy—two for the price of one.”

“Did Mom want to get married?”

“Well, Maggie, that’s what you did back then. None of this unwed mother stuff that goes on nowadays. You got a girl pregnant, you married her, and fast.”

“So your anniversary is really…when?” Because my parents never really celebrated their special day (the reason now a little more clear), it was never a big event in our calendar year to begin with.

“We got married on March fifteenth. You and Christy came along six months later.”

“The ides of March? You got married on the ides of March, Dad?” I start laughing. “No wonder you’re getting divorced. ‘Beware the ides of March, Caesar,’” I quote. “Shakespeare knew what he was talking about.”

Dad graces me with a smile, but his eyes are sad. “Listen, sweetheart, your mother’s going to need a little sympathy. Don’t be too hard on her, all right?”

“Well, we’re not really speaking at the moment,” I tell him. “Not since I kicked her out of the diner the other day.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, it would be nice if you could patch things up.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Sure. She only insulted my beloved dog on the day he died.”

Dad sighs again. “I know, Maggie. But do it for me, won’t you, dear?”

Of course I will, and Dad knows it. “Have you told Christy and Jonah?”

“I told Joe last night. I’m headed for Christy’s now.”

“Do you want me to tell her, Dad? You must be worn out.”

His eyes shine with gratitude. “That would be great, honey. I’d appreciate that. You know you’re my best girl, now, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I know you say the same thing to Christy, you dog.” I slide around to sit next to my father, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I love you, Dad.”

“Thanks, baby,” he whispers. “Sorry about all this.”

“Where are you staying? I can’t imagine you both in the same house, if Mom’s on a tear.”

“Well, my lawyer said not to leave home just yet—” His
lawyer!
He’s already called a lawyer! “—so I’m still there. In the cellar, as usual.”

He leaves a minute later. I watch him walk down the street, his shoulders slumped, eyes on the pavement. Poor Dad. He must feel completely desperate if he’s resorted to this. And yet not just desperate—actually doing something about it.

I summon my sister to a late lunch at Joe’s Diner and break the news as she eats. Christy isn’t as stunned as I expect her to be. “I always wondered about that,” she muses. “If they had to get married. It makes sense.”

“You mean it explains why Mom’s been in a bad mood since the day we were born?” I say, far less sympathetic than my sister. She really deserves her title of “the good twin.”

“Well, yes, Maggie. I mean, in those days, there was a lot of shame over being pregnant before you were married. So suddenly she’s twenty-two years old, and her life is mapped out for her. No choice in the matter now. She’d just finished college, remember? She wanted to be an editor in New York City, and instead she’s pregnant and living in her hometown, knitting booties. For twins. The icing on the cake.”

“She wanted to be an editor? I never heard that,” I say. Christy breaks off a piece of grilled cheese and offers it to Violet, who opens her mouth as obediently as a baby bird.

“Yeah.” Christy turns away from her baby to look at me. “Imagine, Maggie. The first girl in our family ever to go to college. Granddad would have been so proud, the whole town would have talked about it, little Lena, a college girl, look at that. And then bam. She’s pregnant. Knocked up. No career, no New York, just mud season and black flies and two colicky babies.”

“It does put things in a new light. You’re right.”

“All done, Violet?” Christy asks. “Are you all done?”

“Bwee,” Violet says, squirming in the high chair. “Nahbo.”

I gird my loins for battle and call my mom that afternoon, but the gods are merciful and I get the machine. “Hey, Mom, it’s Maggie. I heard the news…um, sorry. Uh, I’ll call you later, okay? Hope you’re okay. Bye.” A feeble message, but a message nonetheless.

I drop in on Mrs. K. for a visit and a chat, leaving my parents’ situation out of it. Mrs. K.’s grand-niece is coming to get her for the weekend, and my tiny tenant is busy packing.

“Were you happily married, Mrs. K.?” I ask as her gnarled hands fold sweaters with surprising agility. Though she’s only going for two days, she’s got six complete outfits laid out on the bed. I sit on the comforter, handing her clothes as directed.

“Oh,
yes,
” she replies. “We were. I’ll take those pink argyles, dear.”

“And what was your secret?” I smile, knowing how she loves to talk about Mr. K., who’s been dead for more than twenty years.

“I think, dear, that our
secret
was lots of sex,” she says matter-of-factly. “You can’t be
too
unhappy if you’re having lots of
sex.
”

“I see.” I’m blushing. “Well. Good for you. That’s great.”

“I
miss
it, I must say,” she says. “Of course,
now
it would probably
kill
me, but if you’re going to die…”

“Mrs. K.!” I laugh. “You’re so surprising.”

“Well, now, people aren’t really
so different,
Maggie,” she tells me. “Dear, I need that
cardigan.
You and that scowling man, what’s his name? McCoy?”

“Malone,” I mumble, my face igniting.

“Yes, Malone. From the sounds of it, you’ll be
very
happy.” She laughs merrily. “You were quite
rosy
when you came home the other
day.
”

“Okay. Must run. Have a wonderful weekend.” Mortified and secretly pleased to have impressed the old lady, I kiss her cheek and flee upstairs.

And speaking of secretly pleased, there’s a part of me that can’t help feeling a little…smug…about my parents’ divorce. Though it’s a shock, and not a good one, there’s a certain sense of vindication floating around in my chest.

I always thought my father was too good for my mom. She never seemed to appreciate him, always picked on him, ordering him about like Napoleon sending his troops to Russia. And like Napoleon, she’d gone too far. I’m sorry for the embarrassment and discomfort, sorry that our family will never be the same, but it seems my mother had this coming.

I pull out one of my nicer sweaters and take a little time with some makeup. The volunteer appreciation dinner is guaranteed to be a fun event. Father Tim feeds us well, gives us plenty to drink. We usually stay out fairly late. Last time, Beth Seymour played the piano and we all sang. Later, several of us went into the church, supposedly for a midnight prayer, and ended up laughing so hard that Betty Zebrowski wet her pants. It’s one of the better parties in town.

When I get to the rectory, everyone else is already there—Mrs. Plutarski, unfortunately, Louise Evans, Mabel Greenwood, Jacob Pelletier, Noah Grimley and Beth Seymour. Betty the pants-wetter is in the hospital for bladder suspension surgery.

“Maggie!” Father Tim barks as I enter. He leaps over to me and takes my hand warmly, holding on to it for a long moment. “How are you, dearie?” he asks. “I called you the other day, but you weren’t home. I’ve been thinking of you and your lovely Colonel, as well.”

“Thanks, Father Tim,” I say, warmed by his consideration.

“I’m so glad you came. Now the party can really begin. A drink, Maggie? I’ve broken out the good stuff, and it’s going faster than the devil in a roomful of Baptists.”

Father Tim is in top form. He passes hors d’oeuvres, prying the tray out of Mrs. Plutarski’s clenched hands as she tries to nail her part as “most helpful one here.” Though I often compete for that role, tonight I’m content to be waited on. I chew contentedly on scallops wrapped in bacon and lobster cheese puffs and chat with Jacob, who reshingled the leaky part of St. Mary’s roof last year.

“These are delicious, Father Tim.” I gesture with my lobster puff as the priest refills my glass.

“I knew they were your favorite, Maggie,” he says with a crooked grin. “I’d serve them at Mass if it’d get you coming back.” I smile in response but don’t answer. Jake wanders off to flirt with Louise Evans—apparently they had a thing in high school, some forty years past—and Father Tim’s face grows serious.

“Maggie, I had a talk with your dear mother today,” he says quietly.

“Oh, wow. That was fast. Yes.” I take a deep breath. “How is she? I called her but she wasn’t in.”

“She’s devastated, of course. And hoping your father will see the light. I’ve offered to do some counseling in the hope that we can make things better without having to resort to…well, you know.” He pats my hand, then squeezes it. “It must be terrible for you.”

“It’s definitely a shock,” I say carefully. “The thing is, Father Tim, my mother—well, she’s not an easy person to live with. And she doesn’t really try to see anyone else’s point of view, if you know what I mean.”

“That I do, Maggie, that I do. And yet we’re talking about the sacrament of marriage. It’s to be preserved at all costs. You don’t just walk away from someone you love.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Yes, of course. But my father’s been henpecked for years, Father Tim. You’ve seen that, haven’t you? She really doesn’t…well. Maybe now’s not the time to talk about it,” I say as Beth makes desperate eye contact with me. Noah Grimley has left the platter of shrimp cocktail and moved on to her, and as he’s old enough to be her grandfather and missing his front teeth to boot, I must intervene. She did the same for me last fall.

“Maybe we can talk later,” Father Tim suggests.

“Sure.” Not that I’m dying to discuss my parents’ marriage with anyone, to tell the truth. I walk over to Noah and ask about his new boat, a subject guaranteed to take any man’s mind off sex, at least on the coast of Maine.

The party is wonderful. Father Tim entertains us, feeds us, pours drinks until we’re all buzzed and laughing at stories of his Irish childhood, the pranks played by his six older brothers and sisters. And I can’t help feeling special—it seems that he’s going out of his way to acknowledge our friendship. “Well, of course, poor Maggie’s heard this one already,” he says at the beginning of a story, or “When Maggie and her daddy and I went to Machias last fall to pick up the statue from Our Lady of Fatima…” Edith Plutarski’s face grows more and more sour, I note through the pleasant fog of wine. Definitely the sign of a happy night.

When we can eat no more, Father Tim walks us to the door. “Drive safely, Jacob,” he calls to our token teetotaler. Jake’ll be driving everyone who lives more than a few blocks from here, though Noah and I will walk back.