Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (16 page)

“Okay.”

“I'm sending lots of love to you. Charlie says hi, too.”

“Does he have a robot foot?” Gordon asked in the last silence before hanging up.

“No, sweetie,” his mom said. “Why don't we talk about that when I get home? We'll have lots to talk about, I promise.”

Gordon nodded. His mother said good-bye again and hung up. Gordon let the phone drop on the couch, then realized the size and shape of it made it a perfect bomb. He picked it up and launched it at the meerkat, the bomb exploding just as the meerkat started to run away. The force of the explosion shot the meerkat into the air, somersaulting, and Gordon made the poor animal fall in slow motion, the impact of his landing a puff in the boy's round cheeks.

Chapter Nineteen

M
otel sex. That was all Margaret could think about, and it astonished her that she didn't care. It felt good and exciting and a little illicit. She liked the sound of the cars outside the window, the flimsy walls, the temporary quality of every aspect of the place. She couldn't even remember the building's name. If she called the police at that moment and had to tell them where to come to save her, she couldn't have done it. The entire building was dedicated to quick exchanges, to namelessness, to a tiny interruption in a day's travel. Under other circumstances she might have felt less drawn in by it, but Charlie made it right.

She wanted him. In the last tiny bit of failing light they made love on the king-size bed, more directly now, more hungrily, and she found herself responding to everything in a fierce, eager fashion. Sex had been good before, it had, she told herself, but now something had changed. She realized that time had changed her; she had not been with a man in a half decade, and the slightly nervous, shy girl of her early marriage was a woman now. A motel woman, she amended, and she liked thinking that, liked the way Charlie moved with her, orchestrated their lovemaking. This was a land she didn't get to visit any longer, and she found she could not deny herself any pleasure. Where before she might have been too timid, worried that a demonstration of deliberate passion was defeminizing, now she answered specifically to her body. It was all good. Everything was good and she liked the way the last daylight caught the edge of the bed, the way the bathroom door moved ever so slightly to a wind she could not even sense, the way the nubbled ceiling reminded her of sand, or clouds, beyond Charlie's back.

She kissed him. The kiss burned through her body.

When they finished, she did not allow their bodies to separate. She climbed on him and fit her body exactly to his and she let his breath become her breath. He took her hands and held them out to the sides so that every inch was every inch of them both. For a long time neither spoke.

“I'm falling in love with you,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

She kissed his neck. She kissed him over and over, moving across his shoulders, his throat, his lips. Afterward she stayed directly on top of him, skin to skin. She felt sleep closing in, but she didn't want to sleep. She inched up on him so she could whisper into his ear.

“Charlie,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I'm not saying thank you. I don't mean it like that. But thank you. Thank you for coming and taking me away. At least for now, at least so far. Thank you.”

He nodded.

“I'm in love with you, Charlie, but I don't want to say it yet. Not freely and easily. It's too much. I won't be able to come back if I say it too much. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“I have to come back,” she whispered. “I do. Don't make me go too far away.”

“I understand.”

“This has meant so much to me.”

“I'm glad. It has to me, too.”

“And our bodies,” she said.

“I know.”

He kissed her. She put her ear to his chest and listened to his heart beating. For a moment a drip from the bathroom sink echoed on the beat, but in time it separated and the two sounds broke apart. She listened for a while until her stomach gave an enormous growl. It was incredibly loud and she rolled off him and started laughing.

“Did I just hear someone say pizza?” Charlie asked.

“Yes,” Margaret said, scrambling out of bed, her voice light and happy, “that's exactly what you heard.”

* * *

Ben ran hot water over his left hand in the kitchen sink until his fingers slowly began to move again. They froze up from time to time; they went on vacation, he thought when it happened, and refused to return until the hot water soaked down into the bones. He slowly closed his hand, opened it, repeated the action until his hand closed somewhat normally. Afterward he put both hands under the stream and began washing the day's dirt from his skin.

It was suppertime. He smelled the casserole—tuna casserole, one of the ones Margaret had left for them—warming in the oven. He heard Gordon in the television room, listening to a show that starred a character with a high, squeaky voice speaking rapidly. Ben leaned back a little, his hands still under the water flow, and checked to make sure the boy didn't sit too close to the screen. He wondered, absently, if that was a matter of concern; sitting close to the screen was not supposed to be good for you, but honestly he didn't know what harm it could do.

“Gordon,” he called, “you come and clean up now. Dinner's almost ready.”

The boy didn't answer. Ben hadn't really expected him to answer, but you had to throw a line to catch a fish. He finished with his hands and dried them on a paper towel. He checked the dinner table to make sure it was properly set. If he had one pet peeve in the world, it was getting up to get more things once you had sat down to eat your supper.

“Gordie,” Ben said as he stepped into the television room, “you're going to fall into the picture screen if you're not careful.”

The boy stood but kept looking at the screen.

“Okay, buddy, time to clean up. You ready?”

A great stroke of luck: the show ended. The annoying voice disappeared and Ben heard a commercial about dish soap come on in its place. Gordon pointed the remote at the television and the sound went dead altogether.

“Horse ride,” Gordon said, tossing the remote onto the couch.

“No horse rides right now. You need to get ready for dinner. Come on and clean up.”

But the boy bounced and leaped and caught Ben's left hand. The pain caused a bright shower of sparks to skitter in Ben's brain. The boy swung on his hand, lifting his feet and trying to get airborne, and Ben had to hold him so he wouldn't fall. The pain grew and then became something dull and manageable, and Ben lifted the boy a little higher, accepting the bargain, and then he lowered him and made sure he was properly on his feet.

“Come eat,” Ben said, his voice carrying a little more weight.

And Gordon complied. He ran to the kitchen and stepped up on the stool near the sink and Ben followed him, flexing his hand, his fingers thick as apple cores.

* * *

Charlie put a half dozen quarters on top of a pinball machine and fed three into the coin slot while they waited for the pizza. He felt good. He felt happy. He held out his arm and invited Margaret to stand in front of him, both of their hands on the flippers.

“Ready?” he asked when she stood with him.

“I'm warning you. I'm bad at this.”

He kissed the side of her neck.

“You're good at other things,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Yes, very, very good.”

“You're pretty good, too, you know?”

“It's a pleasure to practice. I know that much.”

She bumped back into him. Then he pulled the spring-loaded ball shooter and let it go. A plump steel ball shot up to the top of the machine and began its inevitable fall.

“Here it comes,” Charlie said.

Together they used their fingers to send the ball rocketing all the way back to the top. The machine liked that and rewarded them with a ton of points. The picture on the front board, Charlie noticed, had something to do with girls on motorcycles, gang girls, and behind them stood Harley-looking fellows holding pool cues. Evidently the game had something to do with pool, or motorcycles, but Charlie couldn't say for certain.

They did better with the second ball, keeping it alive for a minute at least. But when the second ball died Margaret pulled back the spring-loaded delivery rod and sent the last ball into the game immediately.

“A little competitive, are we?” Charlie asked.

“Women's lacrosse, Charlie. I was a jock for a couple years in high school. Blake and I were teammates on the deadly Lady Pirates.”

“Good for you.”

“Here it comes.”

She went after the game this time. Charlie felt her determination, her concentration on each moment that promised termination. Twice she rescued them from the brink of elimination. But then the ball drifted lazily to one side, to a lane they could do nothing to protect, and the ball settled into the killer slot and the game ended.

Margaret leaned back into his arms.

“Get me away from this machine, Charlie, or I'll be here all night.”

“We're learning a little bit about this Margaret from Maine.”

“My sister gave up playing games with me when we were about twelve. I was cowabunga about games.”

“That's Annie, right?” he said and opened his arms and followed her back toward their small booth. The one couple who had been eating when they had come in was gone. Apparently the place relied on take-out business.

“Yep, Annie. The one in Oregon.”

“Your pizza's ready,” a kid behind the counter said before either of them sat.

Charlie veered off and grabbed the pizza. It looked good—deep cheese, a crisp crust, and a nice layer of tomato sauce. Margaret collected napkins, paper plates, and two Diet Cokes. Charlie slid the pizza onto the table and waited while Margaret scooted into the booth. He felt wonderfully hungry.

“My father used to say he was so hungry he might bite off a finger in his hurry,” Margaret said, serving them both. The pizza steamed.

“So you were saying about Annie . . . ?”

“Oh, nothing really. She didn't like games with me, that's all. She was always a little bit of a hippie. That was her big regret. She wanted to live in the 1960s. She romanticized the whole thing. So she kind of followed the Dead even after they were over and done, and then she followed Phish. I don't know. Annie's complicated.”

“Not to change subjects, but are you worried the pizza's too hot?”

“You're going to burn your mouth, Charlie. Don't do it.”

“The pain might be worth it,” he said, holding off. “So Annie has a tumultuous marriage?”

“I'm not sure I'd say tumultuous. They fight over money and life choices. He's with the Forest Service, so they don't make a lot . . . and he's out doing things all day, and when he comes home she wants to have her turn. I think she's underengaged, if you know what I mean. She needs more to do, but they're in a rural area, so work isn't easy to come by.”

“I have to try the pizza now. I'll sacrifice the roof of my mouth for the greater good.”

“Still too early, Charlie. I promise you. Don't do it.”

“Do they have kids?”

“One girl. Charlotte.”

Charlie lifted the slice of pizza from his plate and folded it so it would fit in his mouth. He waited until Margaret copied him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“We're pushing it. It's still too hot.”

“Go for the gusto.”

“Did you just use an old beer slogan to get me to burn my mouth?”

“I guess I did.”

She nodded. They both took a bite and both reached for their sodas at the same time, their mouths opened like monkeys hooting through the forest. Charlie felt the top of his mouth come close to burning, but it was okay. He couldn't remember tasting anything better in a long time.

“Hot?” she asked.

“Manageable.”

“I'm going to wait a second. You can live dangerously if you like.”

“Do you think they will stay married?” he asked as he took another bite. It was not as hot as the first one, and Charlie wondered if he hadn't happened on an important property of thermodynamics: pizza is hottest at its center.

“I hope they do. They both like the outdoors, so they have that in common. Annie has always wanted to be wherever she isn't, if that makes sense. Yearning, kind of. When she received presents as a kid, they were never quite right. I suppose I'm making her sound awful, and she really isn't.”

“Do they have a good kid?”

“A great kid. I love being an auntie. You can zoom in, spoil the brat rotten, then zoom away. Charlotte is a sweet child. I hate to say it, but she takes after her dad more than her mom. She's easier to please. I must sound like a horrible sister. I'm going to eat now, then I'll probably be struck by lightning.”

“Family is complicated, that's all. Right? My brother and I got along okay, but who knows what it would be like today if he hadn't had the accident? Life is tricky.”

“I'm supposed to go out and see her sometime this summer,” Margaret said, taking a bite. She put her napkin to her lips. “They live in a beautiful area and they go canoeing and kayaking all the time. It's a treat to visit.”

“Will you take Gordon?”

“He loves it there. They dote on him. Especially after Thomas.”

“How's your pizza?”

“Probably the greatest pizza I've ever eaten.”

“Isn't it?” he said and took another bite.

Chapter Twenty

S
ometimes it goes right.
That was what Ben thought when he hooked up the last cow, her sagging sack as full as a tick.
Sometimes it goes right.
It wasn't a great morning weatherwise, but Ben liked the quiet the fog brought. The cows seemed to like it, too, because they had settled into their milking stations like graphite bearings into a proper gear. Click, click, click, and they were done. Ben stood, stretched his back, then went to the sink for his coffee.

He carried the coffee to the open door of the barn and watched the morning find the farm. He loved this moment, although, asked to define it, he would fail. But he knew the fall of sunlight in this season, the slow crouch of it across the fire pond, then the chicken yard, then the red of the barn. He could tell the hour by holding out his hand and watching the light rest on it, each finger five minutes. He took a deep breath, sipped the coffee, and permitted himself rest.

He let his eyes go where they liked, his thoughts trailing after them. Gordon was still asleep and would be another hour, hour and a half. The Red Sox had lost the night before, and that put them only a half game ahead of the Yankees, three ahead of Tampa Bay. But they had a good team and he wasn't worried. As he thought this, he spotted a dead limb, no, make that three, hanging from the oak above the porch. They weren't large, which was why he had missed them, but they hung nearly vertical, ready to stab down and pierce the shingles, swing in and crack a window. It was always something, and that did not necessarily upset him, because he liked being busy, liked the contest the farm imposed on him. Everything tried to break down, it was just a fact, and everything shedded, broke, trimmed away. He felt a warm satisfaction in his stomach at the prospect of the branches: ladder onto the roof, careful walk across the front slant, a bow saw, maybe a tree saw, the wiggle back and forth like a tooth giving way in a child's mouth, then the toss down to the ground. Afterward he would work the branches up, measured for the fireplace, not the stove, though they were oak and they would burn as hot as any wood except apple or ash. It would be done easily and quickly, and it would be one thing he could point to, a finished project, and from that he would draw satisfaction.

He took another sip and tasted sugar marching forward onto his tongue. One of the cows shook her gear, rattling hard against the head pipes, and he turned to look. She was okay. He turned back and watched the sun crawl onto the toe of his boot, the light smoky from the outline of a spiderweb that strained it as it passed. He lifted his boot and jiggled it softly in the sunlight. As he watched, he thought of Margaret. She had delayed her return and he didn't doubt for a moment why. It was plain as paint. He had seen the way they looked at each other, Margaret and the young officer, and it didn't take a genius to figure where it went from there. He couldn't blame her. She was young and she was locked to her husband's breath, to Tom's life, and she had not bargained for that. He didn't blame her a bit. She was a wonderful wife and a good daughter-in-law, and he had seen her come to love the farm as clearly as he did. She was like the sun this morning, slowly working her way across the mud and buildings and equipment until she possessed it all.

He tilted his cup to finish it. A few coffee grains followed the sugar and left his tongue with a bitter taste that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He flicked the cup forward and dashed the dregs out of it. The drops landed on the ground and made a straight line in the dirt, and he thought of the sun drawing the liquid up, all things rising in the spring soil.

* * *

It was foggy. It was the first poor weather they had experienced, and Margaret tried not to take it as an omen. Last day. No, she corrected herself, last
full
day. They still had tomorrow morning. She looked out the window of the small breakfast café and watched the fog curl and wrap around the trees.
The fog comes on little cat feet,
she remembered from the Sandburg poem, but that was all she could remember. Teachers had always used it as an example of metaphor and she realized, studying the fog, that fog was not feline at all. It did not creep but swam instead, pooling and moving like a horror monster, like Dracula spinning and slipping beneath a door.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Charlie said.

He sat in front of a large bowl of oatmeal. She had an English muffin and pomegranate-orange juice.

“I was watching the fog,” she said. “Empty-headed right now. Not worth a penny, really.”

“It's going to cut off a little of our sightseeing.”

She smiled and reached across the table and took his hand.

“I just like being with you, Charlie.”

“You okay?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm starting to think about the outside world intruding. We've been in our bubble and I don't want to leave it.”

“I thought you said it was the basket of an air balloon.”

“I did say that, didn't I?”

“And you said no wishing time away, so shake it off. Be right here with me now.”

“I am. I guess I'm a little sleepy.”

“We haven't found any blooms. We're slacking.”

“We will today. I can feel it. This fog is an omen.”

“It might burn off later. But they're calling for rain, too.”

She squeezed his hand. The waitress came by with more coffee. She was an older woman, gray and slightly bullet-backed, and her hands, Margaret noticed, had been twisted by arthritis. She appeared fierce at first: angular and sharp, with bright blue eyes that seemed to focus best when she glanced sideways. But she had a friendly way and the café was not crowded and she apparently enjoyed visiting with customers. She had already asked where they were from, were they down for the parkway, and so forth. Her name tag said
June
.

“You know, the cook told me the rhododendron was out over his way,” she said, topping off their coffee. “A big forest of it. Would you be interested if I could get you directions?”

“Absolutely,” Charlie said.

“At the higher elevation, you're going to have trouble finding it . . . but down in the hollows, you should come across some banks. He said the azaleas are out, too. Could be real pretty.”

“We'd appreciate it,” Charlie said.

“Easiest thing in the world.”

Margaret finished her muffin and drank some juice. For a moment she pictured the morning routine back in Maine: Gordon waking, sleepy and soft, and Grandpa Ben tiptoeing in to check on him. It was Tuesday, so Blake would swing by to pick up Gordon and Ben, likely, would use the morning hours to patch or repair something. A piece of machinery was always down or up on the farm; fences needed perpetual mending; and water troughs collapsed and broke, sprung leaks, the cows stropping their heavy bodies against them to scrape away winter coats. She imagined the light finding the oak tree, climbing it slowly, and she could see the phoebe bobbing its tail in the early air. She would be back there tomorrow. It would be evening by the time she returned, but still she would know she'd returned by the smells and sounds.
Home,
she thought. Yes, it was Gordon's home, and her home, too, although deep down it felt like Ben's land. The property and houses would pass on to Gordon, but at times, when she felt down or blue, she wondered if she wasn't an intermediary, a caretaker for a line of men. She wondered if most women didn't feel that way: as onlookers somehow, not quite team members but managers instead, the outsider kid who was quick with a water bucket and a dry towel who did not get to play, precisely, but waited in attendance on those who did.

Gloomy thoughts, she decided, and shook herself. When June came back with a piece of paper Margaret was glad to get out of her own head.

“Gary got this for you off Google Maps,” June said, putting the paper down and offering more coffee. “He's a big computer enthusiast, is Gary. It's about five miles from here. You follow these directions and it will take you right there.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said. “And thank Gary for us, too.”

“I'll do that. Now, here's your check. You need anything else?”

“We should be all set.”

“Well, you two enjoy the rest of your trip. We might get lucky and get a little sun later. You never know this time of year.”

She moved on and Margaret finished her juice.

“We winning or losing?” Charlie asked.

“Winning.”

“You okay?”

“I'm fine, Charlie. I'm feeling a little sentimental about you already.”

“That's a good thing, right?”

“Yes, a very good thing. You know what I was remembering a little while ago? The music at the ball. When we got out of the cab you could hear it, and the lights were on in the embassy, and everyone was dressed so beautifully. The music made everything soar. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that's how I remember it. See, I'm already nostalgic over us.”

He lifted her hand and kissed the back.

“Let's find some rhododendrons,” he said.

“Yes, let's.”

* * *

Charlie saw the glow of azaleas through the fog. It did not quite seem possible. Margaret's concentration was fixed on the map in her lap, and Charlie, at first glance, thought they had come across an old sign, or a building, buried on the side road. He could not initially believe in the colors. Then the truth of what he saw came to him: a forest of pink and red blooms, pale and shimmering in the early fog.

“Margaret,” he said, “look.”

She looked up and instinctively reached across the console and put her hand on his knee.

“Awesome,” she said.

“There must be a pull-off.”

She sat up on the edge of her seat. The map slid partially off her lap.

“It doesn't look real,” she said.

“I thought it was a building at first.”

“Oh, does it really look like this?”

“Here, I can pull off here.”

And he did. He eased the Jeep onto a dirt turnout and then switched off the ignition and did not move for a moment. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't this. He had not anticipated anything this vast. Margaret took the Google map and slid it onto the dash. She alternated between looking at the azaleas and looking at him. Each time their eyes met, their smiles grew broader.

“I had no idea,” she said, emphasizing the “no.”

“Do you think we're finally getting far enough south? Is that it?”

“I don't know. Come on, let's get out. There's a path.”

He followed her. Whatever had gripped her for a moment at breakfast fell away. She kept turning and smiling, amazed and wanting to share her amazement with him.

“The fog makes it better, doesn't it?” she said. “It's muted but more beautiful. Oh, Charlie, look at what we've found!”

“The mountains could be covered with these.”

“I read that azaleas and rhododendrons are both rhododendron. I know that sounds confusing, but it's what I read.”

“I'm not sure the name matters.”

She took his hand and led him down the path. It was not a park or a prescribed path; it was a path made by people's interest in the plants. At the edge, Charlie saw a few plastic soda bottles and the inevitable beer cans, but as they went farther the debris disappeared. In its place a cape of flowers covered the forest floor. Though it was foggy, Charlie imagined dappled light would find the plants in most weather. It was exquisite. He pulled Margaret to him and kissed her softly.

“I'm glad I'm seeing this with you,” he said.

“It's beautiful, Charlie.”

“Every spring this happens. It's hard to believe.”

He let her go and followed her deeper into the plants.
Azaleas,
he thought. How strange to discover these plants existed on such a scale, that springtime for people in the area meant this profusion of beauty. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the scent of the blooms come to him. It reminded him of the poppy field in
The Wizard of Oz
. Snow on poppies, he remembered, that was what woke Dorothy and the others. The plants went on for acres. If the rest of the mountains held entire forests of rhododendron, it would be nearly too much to take in. He wondered how he had never had a sense of this before.

“This is crazy,” Margaret said and turned and laughed. “This is way more than I ever guessed.”

“You're right about the fog. It makes them even more beautiful.”

“Sometimes the fog covers the entire plant and all you can see is the bloom. It looks like a floor covered with beautiful flowers.”

Then for a moment they stopped. Charlie felt an overwhelming love—yes, he could call it love now—for her. For Margaret. For this kind, good woman from Maine.

“This can't be the end,” he said.

“Shhhhh,” she whispered and came into his arms. “Shhh, not now. Not now. Flowers, just be here.”

* * *

Blake found Grandpa Ben in the dooryard, the innards of his old Farmall tractor spread around him like an oily skirt. Oil covered his hands, too, and his cheek had a single slash of gunk that he probably hadn't noticed. Blake didn't know much about tractors, but she knew this one was famous for breaking down. When Margaret wanted to be a little naughty, she referred to it as Ben's hobby. They needed a new tractor, of course, but the financing on farm equipment was paralyzing.

“See you're working on your race car,” Blake said, climbing out of her Civic.

“Going to take it down to Daytona and make my fortune,” Ben said, looking up, his hands picking up a nut and trying to fit it to a bolt that didn't want to receive it.

Blake stepped over the muddy dooryard and gradually gained better ground. The sun had worked clear of the morning fog and she found a blade of light and stood in it. She was greedy for sunlight. Everyone in Maine was greedy for it at this point of the year, but in a couple weeks, Blake knew, they would be complaining about the heat.