Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (22 page)

“Everyone step away, all right?” Mrs. McCafferty said, her voice oddly calm. “Just leave us alone for a second, if you will. We all know Mrs. Kennedy here. Let's give her a moment to collect herself.”

Margaret kept her eyes away. She didn't want to meet the eyes of anyone circling her. She clung to her husband's hand. If she let go of her husband's hand, she felt she might perish. She might drift away or never find another breath of air. Meanwhile, Mrs. McCafferty said nothing. She changed positions slightly to be more comfortable. She put one hand out to steady herself against the bed.

“Hi, Margaret,” she said quietly when the rest of the staff had backed away.

Margaret nodded.

“I don't want to pretend to know what you're feeling,” Mrs. McCafferty said, her voice slightly flattened with a Maine accent. “No one can know that. I've watched you come here faithfully all these years, and you've never raised your voice, never caused us any problem, and so I know something has hurt you. Or maybe you've finally reached a point . . . we all have points, don't we? We have a place that fills us too much and then we give in, we can't help it, we're saturated. You and I both know I have nothing good to say here. You know it. I won't try. But I promise you I will defend you to the last moment I work here because I have seen what you have been through. And if you've just had a little collapse, so what? How do you not deserve that? I'm going to stay here for a few minutes and let you decide when you're ready to rejoin the world. I'll help you, so don't worry. And we can go have a nice cup of tea, or a glass of whiskey, I don't care, because I see your husband there and I know a little of it.”

Margaret placed her husband's hand against her eyes. She held it there. Slowly, breath by breath, the world came back into focus. She flushed with embarrassment. Had she really gone crazy that way? Had she kicked at people? She kissed the back of her husband's hand and slowly lifted it to the bed. Then she uncurled from under the bed, moving gradually into a sitting position. She could not bring herself to meet Mrs. McCafferty's eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Don't worry a second about it. We all have days. You've never been anything but a pleasure to be around, so don't give it another thought. You just take your time. We have lots of time around here.”

“It's childish.”

“Not a bit of it. Would you like a hand up? Have pity on an old lady. I can't squat like this much longer.”

Between the bed and Mrs. McCafferty's hand, Margaret stood. She felt shaky. She sensed that the others—the orderly and the nurses—watched from the nurses' station. The lilacs had fallen from the table; a glass of water had tipped over.

“I'm so sorry,” Margaret whispered.

“You can make your apologies another day. I'll have a word with them. You go home and get a good rest. We'll see to everything here. Or would you like to stay and have a cup of tea?”

“I'll go home.”

Margaret touched Thomas's hand once more, then she allowed Mrs. McCafferty to walk her slowly out. Margaret did not look closely where she was going, but trusted Mrs. McCafferty. Mrs. McCafferty walked her all the way out to her car.

“Will you be okay to drive? Would you like me to call someone?”

“I'm going to sit for a few minutes. Maybe I'll close my eyes.”

“That's a good idea. It's shady here. I used to take a nap sometimes at lunch in the parking lot. Better than eating and putting on more weight I didn't need.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Margaret, you've broken my heart many times in these last years. You've made me a better wife to my husband, believe it or not. I go home and I see him and, as crazy as he sometimes makes me, I remember your circumstances and I thank God for what I have. You're brave, Margaret. Tremendously brave.”

Margaret hugged Mrs. McCafferty and didn't let go. Not for a while. Finally she folded herself into her car and put her head back against the seat rest. Mrs. McCafferty left. Margaret felt sleep steal over her. Shade pushed and pulled in the spring breeze and when she woke, a little later, she felt cold.

Chapter Twenty-six

T
he daisies had come at last. Margaret noted them as she pulled out of the driveway, amazed that it could be July, mid-July, already. She was not sure who had planted them, if anyone at all, but they clung to either side of the driveway in great sweeps, extending from the bare earth of the tire tracks to the dull gleam of the fire pond higher on the hill. Simple daisies. They arrived every year, their march unobtrusive and silent, and they carried the Maine summer into its full expression. She slowed to watch them move in the afternoon breeze. Wind went through them and bent back the heads like a child blowing on dandelion seeds.

She drove Blake's car, a secondhand Civic, because Grandpa Ben needed the truck. It was one of those impossibly complicated domestic confusions that meant nothing at all except that two people needed the same thing at the same time. Grandpa Ben had gone off to a dairy farmers' symposium, of all things, sponsored by the Maine Department of Agriculture. The local agent, Tim Oberman, had insisted Ben attend; north-central Maine dairymen needed to discuss pricing, and that was one of the few things that would draw Ben away for so much as a day. So he was off to Bangor in the truck, and John Walt, the son of one of Ben's closest friends, had volunteered to watch after the cattle, and now for the first time in memory the house was going to be empty. It felt strange to drive away, and she glanced in the mirror several times to watch the house disappear.

“You looking forward to playing with Phillip?” she asked Gordon, who sat in the backseat buckled in and obviously out of sorts. He did not want to go to Blake's; he had protested, asking if he couldn't simply go with his grandfather, but the arrangements had already been made.

He nodded anyway and looked out the window.

“Did you see the daisies are here?” she asked. “Right up to the pond.”

“Yes.”

“What do they look like to you?”

“Like daisies.”

“But if you had to imagine they looked like something else? What then?”

He shrugged, then said, “Water.”

She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. She made a face; he returned it. Ten minutes later they pulled into Blake's driveway. Blake had the lawn mower going. Phillip watered something near the house, but mostly he sprayed water into arcs and bullets, occasionally drawing a fine rainbow out of the late afternoon sunlight. Margaret pulled up and turned off the car. She climbed out and waved to catch Blake's attention.

“You look nice,” Blake said when she had spotted them and turned off the lawn mower. “Hi, Gordon. You want to help Phillip water the pumpkins?”

Margaret held the door for Gordon. He climbed out like an old man. He was shy. That was another element of the Kennedy men, for better or worse, Margaret thought.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” she whispered, squatting to kiss him. “I'm going to be leaving in a second. Be a good boy, okay?”

He nodded.

“I'll be over to get you first thing in the morning.”

He walked off, raising his hand in greeting to Phillip. Phillip turned with the water hose and nearly got him.

“So, you ready for this?” Blake asked.

“As I'm going to be, I guess.”

“What do you think he wants to say?”

“I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe just good-bye.”

“Margaret, he could have flown out of Washington, for Pete's sake. He wanted to see you, so he made his flight from Portland.”

“I suppose.”

“Are you going to spend the night?”

“No, I'm not going to spend the night.”

“Just asking.”

“I guess we left it a little unresolved, that's all. The whole affair, I mean. This is about closure.”

“Oh, aren't you Miss Clear Thinker?”

Blake laughed. Margaret began to be cross, but then realized she was wound too tight.

“Really,” Blake said, “you look beautiful. You're going to dinner?”

“A lobster place or something. I don't know. I won't be able to eat, that's for sure.”

“Well, you better get a move on if you're going to make Portland in time. You all set with the car?”

“Yes, and thanks again.”

“I'd hug you, sweetheart, but I'm covered in sweat and grass. Do me a favor, okay? I know it's complicated, but just listen to everything he has to say, all right? Just hear him out.”

“I will.”

“And don't worry about Gordon. He'll be fine once you're out of here. He always is.”

Margaret nodded and blew a kiss at Blake. Blake blew one back. Margaret called to Gordon and said good-bye, and Gordon waved but didn't leave Phillip. They both stared into a plastic bucket, amazed at what water could do.

* * *

Charlie rode the elevator down, his hand jingling change in his pocket. He glanced at himself twice in the mirrors lining the interior of the elevator, wondering if mirrors were supposed to make the elevator column feel more spacious. It failed, if that was what was intended, but Charlie studied himself anyway. He felt good, he admitted. He was on his way to Africa, to his first diplomatic posting, and as he looked at his reflection, he felt that something had been settled. Probably his professional life, he decided. The military had been one thing, and service in Iraq another, but now he felt ready to open a new chapter, one that had the potential to carry him forward in ways he wouldn't be able to predict. It felt exciting.

When the elevator doors opened, he crossed the hotel lobby and looked out at the parking lot. Margaret had called to say she was fifteen minutes away according to the GPS. Thinking of her made him nervous and fidget more with the change in his pocket. He looked out the window again, then realized he wouldn't know her car anyway. He took a deep breath and found a seat on one of the couches in the center of the lobby. As he reached for a copy of
Sports Illustrated
, his cell phone rang.

“You see the Reds last night?” Pete asked without saying hello.

“I didn't. They win?”

“Came from behind. They scored five in the ninth inning. Where are you anyway?”

“Portland.”

“Have you seen her yet?”

“She should be here any second.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know what you're going to say?”

“I don't know exactly. I have the general idea.”

“You leave tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“All right. I won't hold you. I saw your dad yesterday in Putter's, by the way. He looked good. He was buying tomato towers.”

“I talked to them, too. I'll call when I get there. Take care of yourself, Pete.”

Before he could say anything else, he saw Margaret pushing through the revolving door. He whispered, “Got to go,” and closed the phone on Pete. He stood and smiled. She smiled back. And the smile grew brighter as he crossed the lobby and took her in his arms. In the first instant of their contact, he understood it was still there. Whatever had been between them was still there, and he held her for a second, feeling something restored, something that had been missing returned.

* * *

He held her hand on the walk to the restaurant, and Margaret felt grateful for the steady balance his grip lent to her on the cobblestones that lined the streets of the Old Port. It had been a mistake to wear heels, even modest heels, and she chided herself for forgetting about the cobblestones and the difficulty of walking on them. But it didn't matter. Her concern about her heels was a small pin-light of worry in a typhoon of emotions that churned inside her.
Charlie
. His hand, his height, his kind smile. She hadn't known what it would be like to see him, but the first glance, the first touch, had transported her back to the rhododendrons, to the ball at the French Embassy, to everything that had passed between them. He was in her blood, she admitted, and walking beside him felt natural and inevitable.

She smelled the sea as they walked. The scent was everywhere in the Old Port, carried by fog and rain sometimes, but also by the wind that blew and from the sea that lifted ships and took them away. She had forgotten how much she loved Portland. In a different life, even before she had met Thomas, she had thought about moving to Portland. She had visited with a college friend, Shea, and they had called Realtors and checked the newspapers for apartments before accepting jobs that killed the notion of a Portland life. Still, she admired the city, the proximity of the sea, the cobblestone streets and brick storefronts, the blend of workaday life and tourist luxury.

“This looks like it,” Charlie said when they finally reached the bottom of the hill that led from the city, where the hotel was, down to the working port. The restaurant—Growcher's—stood on the corner overlooking the harbor lights. “Terry recommended it. She said to say hello, by the way. She said she still plans to visit you one of these days.”

“I hope she will.”

“I didn't even ask if you like lobster.”

“I love it, actually.”

“I didn't grow up with it, obviously. Not many lobsters in Iowa.”

“Well, maybe this is one thing I can teach you.”

“You'll have to, I'm afraid.”

He held the door for her and she walked into a marvelous restaurant, old and established, with white linens and dark wood and the smell of good food cooking. She was happy to see it was not a stuffy place; she had worried that they would have to talk in a quiet, perhaps pretentious restaurant with hovering waiters and judgmental sommeliers. This was better. A waitress passed by carrying a tray on her shoulder, smiled, and told them someone would seat them in a minute. When the waitress pushed into the kitchen, Margaret saw something flame up on the range.

“Two?” a hostess said when she arrived at the small lectern.

Two couples arrived behind them and Margaret stepped forward to make room.

“Two, yes,” Charlie said.

“Right this way,” the hostess said and led them off.

They did not get the best seat in the house, but it was still a lovely banquet overlooking the harbor. Margaret slid in on one side, while Charlie, Margaret noticed, took a moment to navigate the table with his leg. The hostess informed them the waitress tonight was Barbara, and that Barbara would be over shortly to take drink orders.

“How does this place feel?” Charlie asked. “Is it okay?”

“It's perfect. I was worried it would be a fussy sort of restaurant, but it's fun. Blake had a meal here last winter. I was going to recommend it. I've wanted to eat here.”

“How is Blake?” Charlie asked.

He still did not appear entirely comfortable with the position of his leg under the table. He lifted slightly and made an adjustment that apparently settled the matter. Margaret smiled.

“Blake's okay. She's a little sad lately. Donny is gone. He's living with a buddy and doing his lawn business. He's been good with Phillip, at least. That's their boy.”

“So they'll go ahead and divorce?”

“Looks like it. Blake will probably keep the house. They're sorting out the details. Blake seems more stunned than angry. She's talking about going to work. She has always done things outside the home, but I guess she has a line on a receptionist slash accountant slash human resource position in a small tech company. I'm not sure what they make, but she feels like she has a pretty good shot at it.”

“Well, that's something positive.”

The waitress arrived. Her name tag said Barbara. She was a short, wiry young woman with unusually wide eyes and a wild broom of black hair. She wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans and a blue kerchief tied around her throat. Her voice came out of the side of her mouth.

Margaret used the distraction caused by her arrival to study Charlie. He looked the same, she decided. Handsome and quiet. When he asked for her drink order, she requested a scotch, a Dewar's, and he smiled at that, obviously remembering. Before Barbara left, she listed off a half dozen specials, but Margaret couldn't concentrate sufficiently to take them in. He had cut himself shaving, she saw. Or not cut, perhaps, but scraped down under the right side of his jaw. And he had a recent haircut, fresh for his travel and his new position. She found his grooming endearing. He was a boy heading off for the first day of school, but of course he was not a boy.

When the waitress left, Margaret reached across the table and put her hand over his.

“It's splendid to see you, Charlie. I missed you.”

“I was nervous to see you. Were you nervous?”

“Yes. Ask Blake. But now I don't feel that way. It's too good to see you to feel anything but satisfied. Or happy. You're still the best date I've had in years.”

He smiled and wiggled her hand.

“I liked our date,” he said.

“I think about it all the time.”

“It felt as though you were suddenly gone. I don't know. Did you feel that way, too?”

She nodded.

“It was tough right afterward,” she said. “Adjusting to being back. Adjusting to everything. I wanted to call you so many times.”

“But you didn't, did you?”

“I couldn't. Blake called it my Charlie diet. If I gave in to temptation, it would only make it harder.”

“Why did you agree to see me now?”

“Because I love you. And because you're going away.”

Charlie started to say something, but Barbara came with the drinks. Charlie had ordered a Bass. He asked Barbara for a few minutes before ordering, then he tipped the bottle top and clinked with her glass of scotch.

“Important toast, important toast, important toast,” Margaret said.

He smiled and nodded. “You remembered!”

“I remember everything, Charlie.”

She sipped her scotch. Charlie had a swallow of beer. She turned and looked out at the harbor. The lights flickered on the water and now and then when the door opened she smelled the sea and something fouler, pollution, maybe, or something gone dead in the lapping tidal wash. Charlie looked out, too. She could see a ghost of his reflection in the window when the light moved in certain ways.