Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (20 page)

“So what will you do after you drop me at the airport?” Margaret asked.

She motioned for Charlie to join her in another bite of cheesecake.

“You mean after I finish gnashing my teeth and pulling out chunks of hair?”

“Yes, after that.”

“Terry asked me to come by. I'll probably stop there for dinner.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“Then the next day I should make some phone calls, catch up on a few things. I'm supposed to take Fritz birding. He wants to see the hawk migration. But we haven't made any solid plans. How about you?”

“Cows. And I have to make Gordon shepherd's pie. It's his favorite.”

“Do you make it with beef or lamb?”

“Beef. Hamburger. It's really like a glorified hamburger, but he doesn't know that. Ben likes it, too.”

“You're looking forward to seeing him, aren't you? Gordon, I mean.”

“It's not even conscious, really. It's just a whole big thing in my gut. It's hard to explain.”

“And will you go see Thomas?”

“Yes,” she said, “I'll go see Thomas.”

“How often do you see him?”

“I try to do it every other day at least.”

“Is it a long drive?”

“Half hour, door to door.”

“Do you bring Gordon?”

“Not very often. He understands Thomas is his dad, but I don't know. I've wrestled with it, the pros and cons of exposing him to it all. Ben goes over every now and then, more to give me a break, I think, than anything else. A few other family members drop in around the holidays. That kind of thing.”

“Gordon will remember it when he's older.”

“I hope so. I hope he remembers it in a good way. I mean, there's no
good
about it, really, but I don't want it to be a guilty thing, either. Do you visit your brother very often?”

“Whenever I'm home I do. My mom and dad go pretty often to see him, but it's hard, as you know. He doesn't register that they're there, so you start asking yourself what the point of it is. Mom's a trouper about it. She does his birthday every year. Paper hats and cake. She does it mostly for the nurses and to remind them all that he's her son.”

“It must be very touching.”

“It is, actually. My parents are good people.”

“They call Thomas's wing the Greenhouse, because that's where all the vegetables live. They don't say it when we're around, naturally, but I've overheard it a couple times. It hurts to hear it, especially the first time, but I suppose it's a gallows humor for people who have to tend the . . . what do we call them these days?”

“I'm not even sure anymore.”

“It's just day-to-day work for the nurses, so you can't get in an uproar. Thomas receives good care and that's all I can concern myself with. They do the best they can.”

Margaret broke the last small piece of cheesecake in two with the edge of her fork.

“Sorry,” she said, looking at him levelly, “how did we get off on this track? Gloomy topics. Eat that and then please take me for a walk. I'm so full it's absurd.”

“It's good cheesecake.”

“It's a new benchmark in cheesecake,” she said, lifting the last little bit to her mouth. “It is the cheesecake by which all other cheesecakes will be judged hereafter.”

He reached out and clinked her fork with his. Then he took the tiny bite on his side of the plate and put it on his tongue. She nodded as she chewed her last taste, and he nodded with her.

* * *

Gordon woke and it was late. He knew it was late because the darkness grew at night like a balloon swelling, and then the sun came and drew it down again. But now, on his waking, the balloon was ready to burst, and he felt nervous and alone. He missed his mother. He ran his hands around the edge of the bed, looking for the saw-chuck guy. The saw-chuck guy protected him at night and even if he sometimes couldn't find him, Gordon knew, at least, that the saw-chuck guy set perimeters and went on scouting missions, and that no one got through the line without taking fire.

After Gordon found the soldier beside the meerkat, he slipped out of his bed and went to the bathroom. He followed two night-lights in the hallway. He heard Grandpa Ben snoring, and it was a good sound after all. He wanted to talk to Grandpa Ben about the saw-chuck guy, and setting perimeters, and he would do that in the morning first thing. For now he let Grandpa Ben's snore set a perimeter around the house. His snores sounded like ropes.

He peed into the toilet and felt cold and shivered as he finished. He ran back to bed, his feet dancing a little on the oxblood boards to keep his toes from freezing. He spotted the meerkat on the side of his bed and he grabbed him quickly and tucked him under one arm. In a flash he got under the covers again and he felt the bed's warmth reach up to meet him. He put the meerkat beside him, cheek to cheek, and together they examined the night's dark balloon. Soon, he knew, the sun would come up and it would be the day his mother came home, but what that meant, what demands the day would make on him, he couldn't say. He pictured Charlie for just a second, a man living in a city that was somehow higher than his own house, a place where you needed a plane to bring you, and he thought that was odd, one of the oddest things he had ever thought about. Slowly he marched the saw-chuck guy up to rest on top of the meerkat. Maybe, he thought, his mind returning seamlessly to earlier propositions, he could ask for a dog, one like the dog in the movie, with white fur on its chest and a bark that sounded like cans falling. He would teach the dog to stay in bed with him, he decided. It could stay down by his feet and it would be another snore, a rope he could follow when he felt nervous at night. For now, he shivered farther down into the bed and found the phantom of his former spot, still warm, still waiting, and he clutched the meerkat to his chest, the creature's beady eyes dancing with merriment in the spring moonlight.

* * *

A few miles away, Blake reached across her bed for Donny but he wasn't there. She had already cried, so Donny's absence did not jar her as it might have an hour before. It merely felt strange to have him absent. She wondered if her equilibrium had become so accustomed to the motion produced by another body on the mattress that it was like sleeping at sea. She had never been to sea, and did not particularly care to go, but the thought stuck in her head and she could not shake it.

She sat up slowly and grabbed a water bottle from her bedside stand. The water felt cool from sitting near the window. She drank a long time, feeling that the cells of her body required replenishing. Donny was gone, she told herself. Just like that. Gone to another woman, gone to his rattletrap pickup, gone to his lawn mowers and gas-covered truck upholstery. She wondered if he hadn't been going their entire married life, his life orbiting around her own, ready to fling off like a slinging comet. She wondered, too, what she would tell Phillip.
Daddy's gone,
she said inside her head. It sounded like a bad blues lyric and she promised herself never to utter it.

She replaced the water bottle on the bedside stand and slid down into the fold of covers again. Without Donny, the bed felt crisp and even. Maybe that was one advantage to having him gone. There would be other advantages, she imagined, but she could not think of them right now. Things about staying clean, being organized, the house in order. But she rested in the neat envelope of her bed like a letter unsent. Return to sender, she thought. Donny didn't want her anymore.

She watched the wind move the tree branches beyond the window, the shadows from the branches dancing.
Here I begin again,
she thought.
Here I return to myself
. She rested in bed with her arms outside the blankets, her feet snug against the tightly tucked sheet at the bottom of the bed. A handkerchief folded and left in a man's suit pocket, she thought. An arrow in a quiver, resting, not drawn out and nocked on a string, never sent on its way.

* * *

And in the last stroke before midnight, Margaret turned and felt Charlie follow her, his hand coming across her hip, then hanging like a counterweight of comfort and quiet. Awakened at that moment, she would not have been able to express exactly what the hand meant across her hip, could not have raised an answer to consciousness. But in the small hours with the crickets calling, the sheets crisp, the pillows luxurious, she settled beneath his arm with a deep animal contentment.

She did not dream. At least she had no memory of dreaming the next morning, though she pushed back into his arms, feeling safe and warm, his breath a steady metronome on her neck. For a time she ran in her sleep, her legs moving slightly. She did not move in panic, but in an attempt to arrive someplace. Then his hand tightened on her waist and pulled her closer—was he asleep?—and her legs settled and went slack.

Far away, in Maine, Sgt. Thomas Kennedy continued to breathe, his breath as steady as a broom sweep. He felt nothing, thought nothing. His body continued to function even as his brain, inactive, turned slowly softer. Night and day made no difference to him; only a full moon, with its pull on tides, affected him now. The interior of his body had become a sea, an ocean following the dictates of gravity. Whatever had been the essence of Thomas Kennedy had long since drifted away or ceased or become part of the gentle sway of liquid that washed with the light from the moon.

Chapter Twenty-four

M
argaret called Blake. She sat on a bench by herself, her carry-on bag at her feet. Blake picked up on the third ring. They had talked twice that morning already, but it had been about details of traveling.

“Hi, honey,” Blake said, her voice raised and happy, “is this my southern girl?”

“It is indeed.”

“I can't wait to see you, honey. Where are you now?”

“At the airport.”

“You sound a little off, darling. Are you okay?” Blake asked, then she said something to Phillip, her son, and added, “Sorry. They had a half day today so he's home. A teachers' service day, I guess.”

“Everything is okay,” Margaret said. “He's parking the car.”

“Your fella?”

“He's not my fella, Blake,” Margaret said, and she felt a sharp, grinding pain in her gut.

“Oh, sweetie, you're sad,” Blake said, her voice moving with the phone away from somewhere—her kitchen, probably, Margaret guessed. “Oh, Margaret, what's wrong?”

“I'm just an idiot,” Margaret said and began to cry.

“What, what, what is it?”

“I was crazy to let it get so out of hand,” Margaret said. “So stupid. He's perfect, Blake. He's a perfect man.”

“No one is perfect, Margaret.”

“You haven't met him. No, of course not, of course no one is perfect,” Margaret conceded, feeling a deep, sad sob growing inside her. “But everything that was so sealed up and shut down . . .”

Then she couldn't help it. She turned and faced the window, trying to keep her sobs private. She put her hand over her face and for a long time she couldn't breathe. She heard Blake say something, but her friend's voice had no weight or substance. Sadness came in like a bright, scalding log falling slowly out of the fireplace. Such sadness felt dangerous and she let it build and burn for a moment before she decided she needed to put it back among the other logs. But it didn't go back easily, and she felt her need for breath building and searching her lungs, and then the sob she had anticipated broke through and forced out of her a sharp, anguished cry.

“Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. It's okay, though,” Blake said. “It's okay, it's just big feelings. It's just your heart thawing in a way it hasn't in a long, long time.”

Margaret nodded, her hand still over her face. She felt horrible crying on the phone to Blake when Blake had her own problems to deal with. Her own huge problems. It was selfish, horrible behavior, but she couldn't help it right now. She held still for a second, then let out something that was closer to a laugh than a sob.

“Oh, boy, I've got it bad,” she said. “And I'm being so self-involved I'm not even asking about you and Donny.”

“Donny and I can wait. Nothing is changing there. Right now we have to help you leave things the way you want them to go. It's so new to you, that's all,” Blake said. “You're having positive thoughts, Margaret. There's nothing wrong. You met a terrific guy, that's all. That's a good thing, right? Just take everything in time.”

“I know, I know, I know you're right,” Margaret said. Then she whispered into the phone, “I have such feelings for him.”

“Good,” Blake said. “Good for you. If you couldn't feel, you might as well be dead. Or married to Donny!”

Margaret laughed, her face feeling wet and stretched and unsettled. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. What a strange, mixed-up day it felt to be.

“No word from the Donn-a-nator today?” she asked Blake, trying to lighten things.

“Nope, not a word. It almost feels like a relief.”

“I'm sorry, Blake.”

“Listen, right now just collect yourself and see where things go. You don't have to make any definitive plans this moment. This doesn't have to be the whole shebang one way or the other. Just take it easy.”

“Thanks, Blake,” she said. “I called just to touch base and tell you we were at the airport. . . . I don't know where that all came from. I should hop off. Charlie will be here in a minute.”

“I've got your itinerary, so don't worry. I'll be there to meet you.”

“You haven't told anyone else about this weekend, have you, Blake?”

“No. I thought about it, to be honest. I saw Maryanne in the Shop 'n Save and she asked about you, and I started to say something, and then the good angels told me it was none of my business to be telling, and it sure as heck wasn't any of Maryanne's business to know.”

“Maybe down the road I can talk about it, but not right now. Not with anyone but you.”

“Okay, we'll do it just that way. Now, I should go back and make sure Phillip eats some mac and peas. I'll be right on time, don't worry. Can I bring you anything?”

“If you're stopping at Dunkin' Donuts, how about a coffee?”

“Done.”

“Thank you, Blake. Thanks for listening.”

“I wish I had some poetic thing to say to you that would make it all right, but I don't, honey. It's all good. You're entitled to a little happiness.”

Margaret closed her phone. She looked out the window and realized it had begun to rain. She watched water streak down the window and she felt Charlie's presence return more than saw it. His hand touched her shoulder and she reached up and covered his fingers with her own. He smelled of the outdoors and soap, and when he kissed the side of her neck she leaned away from his mouth and held his head close to her, and she opened herself, gave access to her neck as she would to a vampire, to a lover, to a husband.

* * *

It felt like a movie. Margaret couldn't escape the sensation. She saw the security station in front of them, and she understood—in a way she had never considered before—why filmmakers relied on departure scenes. It was the big show, only it didn't feel like a big show. It felt quiet and sad and lonely. She did not want to leave; she did not want to say good-bye. But it was time to go, and momentum carried her forward. She knew, without question, that she could lose herself in the busy details of air travel, but that would be a cheat. She needed to concentrate, to record these last moments. They had time, not much, but some.

“Do you think we just let everything get out of hand?” she asked Charlie quickly, her voice choked. “Was this real, Charlie?”

“Yes, it was real. It still is.”

“I'm afraid when I get home it won't feel real.”

“We had good days together. It was exactly what you think it was, Margaret.”

“But the rest of it . . .”

“Trust it,” Charlie said simply. “Whatever you were feeling, so was I. It was true.”

“And now it's over and we're going to go back to our separate lives.”

“Nothing's over, Margaret.”

“You'll be leaving soon.”

“Who knows what will happen?”

“I do,” she said. “I know what will happen. You'll be this wonderful memory that I will visit each spring. When the lilacs come out, and when the apple blossoms bloom. I'll never smell a lilac again without calling you to mind.”

“Come here,” he said and he turned her body toward his.

He held her in his arms. She wanted to crawl into his pocket and stay there. She put her forehead against his chest and nodded. She felt her eyes begin to grow glassy. She rubbed her fingers against them and nodded again.

Then, a few steps later, it was time to check in. The first security guard asked to see her boarding pass and Margaret showed it to her. The guard read it and handed it back.

“Go ahead,” the guard said. “Have your ID out.”

“We just want to say good-bye.”

The guard nodded and took boarding passes from a couple behind Margaret.

“Good-bye, Margaret,” Charlie said.

“Good-bye, Charlie.”

“I'm not going to try to say anything clever or memorable, if that's okay.”

“Me neither.
Meaningful good-bye, meaningful good-bye, meaningful good-bye
.”

“My brother was smarter than I realized.”

“Thank you for everything.”

He kissed her. At first it started as a calm, rational kiss, but then it grew. She felt herself falling into him, losing herself, and she thought it was impossible that she would never kiss him, never do
this
, again. She shook when the kiss reached its climax.

When they broke apart, she stepped immediately into the security line. She did not look back and she did not try to cover her tears.

* * *

“I wanted to make sure you're okay,” Terry said over the phone. “Are you all right, Charlie?”

“I'm okay.”

“Where are you?”

“Coming back from the airport.”

“Will you swing by?” Terry asked. “We're just eating leftovers, but there's a plate for you if you want it.”

“I think I'm going to go home, if you don't mind. I'm sorry. I just don't think I'd be good company right now.”

“And lick your wounds?”

“And lick my wounds.”

“Do you think she'll relent?”

“I don't think so. She's loyal to her husband.”

“That's commendable.”

“But . . . ?”

“But he isn't conscious, is he?”

“Apparently not.”

“It's a tough decision. From outside it seems like an easy thing, but not when you're inside it. It's a house of mirrors when you're inside it.”

“I can't push. I want to, but I can't.”

“Are you sure?”

“She wouldn't want me to. I'd just make things harder for her. It wouldn't be fair to put that kind of pressure on her.”

“Fortune favors the brave.”

“I'm not sure it does in this case.”

“Okay, are you sure you won't come back over? Henry says he'll beat you at Scrabble.”

“I'm going to go home, Terry, but thanks. Thanks for everything. She had a good couple days, I hope. You made her feel welcome, so thanks for that. She liked you a great deal.”

“Well, the feeling was mutual.”

“I may bring Fritz out Saturday if that's okay. The birds are incredibly active right now.”

“No problem. He's always welcome. And so are you.”

Charlie hung up. It felt strange being in the Jeep alone. Twice, as he drove home, he pushed his hand over toward Margaret's knee, but she was not there.

* * *

“So, talk,” Blake said when they had navigated the airport traffic and made it safely onto the interchange. “When you're ready, go ahead and talk. I'm all ears.”

“First tell me about Donny. Has he been in touch?”

“He's with Phillip now. He came back home around the time I was set to leave. I guess he remembered he promised to watch him.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Donny? He hasn't yet acquired language.”

“Seriously.”

Blake shook her head and then insisted she wanted to hear about Charlie.

Margaret didn't know where to begin. She held the coffee Blake had given her against her belly. She liked the warmth of the coffee, but she wasn't sure she could drink it after all. She felt jittery and out of sorts; travel always did that to her in any case, but it felt more unsettling in this instance.

“What was Grandpa Ben like when you went to the house?” Margaret asked, thinking if she could listen to Blake for a while she could follow her friend's voice.

“Oh, he was fine. He was asleep in the chair watching the Red Sox when I went over. He had a big bowl of strawberry ice cream beside him . . . empty, I mean. He's fine. And I guess the cows are doing something good. . . . I forget what he said, but he seemed pleased.”

“Thanks for looking in on him.”

“My pleasure. So tell me about the ball at least. I want to hear about it. Was it what you thought it would be like?”

“It was beautiful, Blake.”

“I'm so stinking jealous. And the gown?”

“It was fine. I looked passable.”

“Passable? I bet you were stunning.”

“I looked okay, Blake. We made a nice-looking couple.”

“You have pictures somewhere, right?”

“A few. Not many.”

“And Charlie . . . he's how tall?”

“Six-two or so, I think. He's a perfect size. I wouldn't wish him any other way.”

“And you danced?”

“We did. And we kissed on the veranda. It smelled of lilacs. Everything about this weekend, this time away, had lilacs or apple blossoms underscoring it. It was a little weird that way.”

“So freaking dreamy.”

“It actually was. You know, I was thinking about it. It was one of the few times in my life where the reality matched the anticipation. Childbirth was one occasion like that. I can't think of many others.”

Blake drank her coffee and took an exit off to the right. Margaret heard spring peepers calling from marshland as they merged onto Highway 157. She rolled down the window a little to get more of the sound. Then she realized it might be cold on Blake, so she wound it up again.

“And so he was terrific?” Blake asked.

“He's a good man. A truly good man. His friend, Terry, she adores him. Did I tell you Charlie is an Eagle Scout? And the thing is, he
is
an Eagle Scout. I guess a lot of the women in that circle of friends in Washington have shown interest, but he's not the sort to tip a bunch of women into bed. He's not a conquest sort of guy.”

“And he's in the diplomatic corps?”

“He's going to Africa. He's excited about it.”

“So you could travel the world with him?”

“I could travel the world with him, yes. If we decided we wanted to stay together. And if I didn't have a husband in Bangor. And if a thousand other things fell into place.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I don't think so, Blake.”