Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (24 page)

Asters

(Seven years later)

Chapter Twenty-eight

T
he boy's hands felt cold and raw as he dribbled the basketball, but the rest of his body was well heated and moved with the easy athleticism of a thirteen-year-old. He was tall and thin, nearly six feet, and dribbled and shot without the awkwardness that sometimes accompanied early adolescence. He wore ankle-high Converse sneakers, a University of Maine hoodie, and a pair of gray corduroys so worn in the knees that the abraded ribs glistened in the afternoon light. The
poing
of the ball and the squeak of his sneakers made the only sounds on the Margaret Chase Smith Elementary School blacktop, except when the ball hit against the metal backboard or
ching-g-ged
through the metal chain beneath the basket.

He had warmed up already, shooting from five feet, then ten feet, then the three-point line in a circle around the goal. Although he liked all aspects of the game, he prized jump shooting above all other skills. His grandfather had shown him early shots of Jerry West, the great Los Angeles Laker from the 1970s, and Gordon had accepted West as a jump-shot model. West had been a pure shooter, better than Bird, Gordon believed, better than Havlicek, and as he moved around the clamshell backboard, his shots arcing nicely, he practiced coming quickly off a pass and shooting all in one fluid motion. He hit more than he missed, but when he missed, that was good, too, because he followed the rebound, trapped the ball, then turned and spun and launched a fadeaway, à la Jerry West, and then quickly followed his own shot. The rule was: if the shot went in, he returned to his place in his around-the-world journey on the court. If the shot missed, he trapped it again, spun, and shot until the net finally calmed the ball properly.

It was October and cold in Maine and the wind hit the side of the brick elementary school building and raised an occasional dust devil. Gordon hardly noticed. He did not notice the geese that passed overhead to his east, their wings silently paddling southward. He did not notice the light passing and breaking through the clouds except when it affected his shot. He failed to notice that several of the puddles left by the day's earlier rain had turned to ice. They looked thin and brittle and not convinced of their own desire to remain.

But something—something cold and quiet and deep—made him look up and see his grandfather's pickup coming down Tallytown Road. He knew at a glance it was his grandfather: no one else drove an old GMC truck, powder blue faded to gray, with one headlight half as bright as the other. No one drove as slow, either. Gordon grabbed the ball and held it for a second against his hip. A wind came up and made one of the grammar school swings twist and buckle and ting a little on its chain. The same wind chased the dust devil into the corner of the building beside the art room, and Gordon turned to watch a gum wrapper dance for a moment before flicking down and sideways, then joining more leaves in the swirl.

His grandfather turned into the elementary school parking lot and Gordon knew.

His dad was dead. It was as simple as that. His grandfather wouldn't leave the cows at milking time for anything short of an emergency. How long, he wondered, had this moment been coming? He turned back to the basket and launched a shot that swished so perfectly onto the bottom of the net that it caused the ball to shrug back up for an instant. Then gravity plunged the ball through and Gordon grabbed it nearly out of the net, leaping high and landing in time to see his grandfather slip out of the truck, one foot in, one foot out, and make a small “come here” wave. And for the rest of his life, although he didn't know it at the time, Gordon would remember this single moment: dusk, October, the chill of late afternoon, the gassy thrum of his granddad's pickup, the orange weight of the ball against his hip, the dust devil rising and falling on each wind like breath stolen from somewhere else and spent to no good end.

* * *

Blake heard the news from Carrie, a casual friend, a fellow library board member, in the Shop 'n Save, several feet away from the mustard-ketchup-pickle-barbecue-sauce section. It had just happened, Carrie said. She had just heard. She, Carrie this was, had heard from her cousin Ginny, who worked at the veterans' center and had been calling about pizza, who wanted what on what—it was Tuesday and pinochle night at Carrie's—and in passing Ginny mentioned that they had lost one of the long-termers, a guy named Kennedy, and asked if it wasn't the case that Carrie knew the family. Of course she did, Carrie said, and she repeated the line to Blake—
Of course she did
—who could merely receive the information and continue to stare at the brittle end of Carrie's hair where it flipped in a curl like a ram's horn near her jawline.

“That's Tom Kennedy,” Blake said softly. “Margaret's husband.”

“I thought so,” Carrie said, her eyes satisfied as if she had solved a puzzle. “That's so sad. It's ironic that it even came up. I mean, Ginny didn't know there was any connection.”

“When did it happen?” Blake asked.

“Just a little bit ago. Not even an hour, probably.”

Blake placed her hands carefully on the grocery cart handle and closed her eyes. Poor Tom Kennedy, she thought, gone after all these years. Poor Margaret. She opened her eyes and saw Carrie still regarding her carefully.

“A little prayer?” Carrie asked.

“No, not really. Just remembering Tom before all the sickness. I knew him as a kid. He was as good a man as I ever knew.”

“He won the medal, didn't he?” Carrie asked, although she knew it well enough without asking, Blake knew.

“Yes, the Congressional Medal of Honor. The highest award our country can give.”

“I suppose . . .”

“Yes, it's probably a blessing,” Blake interrupted, not quite wanting Carrie to speak the words. “It's probably time.”

“Are you two still close?” Carrie asked. “You and Margaret?”

“Best friends for years. I have to go to her.”

“I'm sorry to drop it on you like this. I didn't know all the connections exactly. My husband always says I talk before I think.”

“I'm going to get going, Carrie,” Blake said, beginning to push the cart slowly, her body moving automatically. “Hearing it like this, it kind of hit me hard.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to just drop it on you . . . ,” Carrie repeated.

“No, it's okay. It had to happen someday. The poor man.”

“If I hear anything, I'll call you.”

“Thank you,” Blake said.

Outside in the car, Blake sat for a moment after loading the groceries. How strange she felt. Tom Kennedy. Margaret Kennedy. And poor Grandpa Ben, that good man, and little Gordon. She sat for a while and watched people moving back and forth.

She tried to remember what she had in the way of groceries and whether she could go directly to Margaret's or would have to stop on the way home to unload. She picked up her cell and dialed Sean, her husband, and told his message center what had happened when he didn't answer.
Tom Kennedy,
she said.
You never met him.

* * *

Margaret made a fire in the old hearth. It was late afternoon, evening really, and she wanted a fire. Grandpa Ben favored the woodstove, knowing that a fireplace was an impractical indulgence, but tonight, just this evening, Margaret wanted a fire.

She performed the task without thinking much about it. She lit a roll of paper, saw it threaten to go out, then catch more merrily and begin to burn, grabbing a bouquet of pine tinder as it caught. Margaret stayed on one knee beside it, feeding it carefully, letting it grow. She broke off a few pieces from a birch log, the thick paper bark on the backside of the wood, and that made the fire's commitment final. A bright orange flame began to fill the fireplace with light, and Margaret watched for a moment without thinking.

The memory of the phone call intruded only a little. Thomas was gone. Tom. Her husband. The call had been calm and quiet, a short declaration from one of the hospital administrators—what was her name? Margaret tried to recall and couldn't; she had taken the place of Mrs. McCafferty—who had asked at the outset if this was Margaret Kennedy, wife of Thomas who was a patient in the Bangor Veterans' Center. Margaret had known, of course. The administrator had wanted to make sure she did not deliver such information to the wrong party, and when Margaret agreed that in fact she was Margaret Kennedy, the administrator had said she was sorry to inform her that her husband, Thomas Kennedy, had expired shortly before afternoon rounds.

Expired,
the woman had said. Not died, not passed away, but expired. Like milk, Margaret couldn't help thinking. Like old cans of tomato sauce.

When she satisfied herself that the fire would increase, she rose and closed the evening blinds. She did not let herself think of Thomas. Not yet. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a scotch, letting it swirl and turn in one of the short highball glasses she sometimes used when she wanted a drink. She poured one for Grandpa Ben, too, and carried both glasses into the living room and sat and waited. A minute or two later she heard the truck arrive. Two doors closed, and then the back door opened and they entered the kitchen.

“In here,” Margaret called. “I've started a fire.”

She stood. When Gordon came into the room she gathered him in her arms. His skin felt cold and wet. She marveled, not for the first time, that he was taller than she. When she let him go, he stood awkwardly, apparently not sure what to say. She put both hands on his cheeks and smiled.

“It's okay, sweetheart. It's fine,” she said.

“What was it . . . ,” he began to ask.

“Just time,” she said and kissed his cheek. “Just time.”

She hugged Grandpa Ben and then handed him his glass of scotch.

“I thought you might like a drink,” she said to Ben.

He nodded.

“Now, sit with us for a second, sweetheart,” she said to Gordon. “You can run upstairs in a minute. I just wanted to go through things.”

She sat down in one of the two easy chairs. Ben went and put a few more sticks of wood on the fire, then he took a seat, too, the ice in his scotch glass making a winter sound.

“What happens now?” Gordon asked.

He still hadn't taken a seat. Margaret decided to let him do whatever he needed to do. He moved closer to the fireplace and put his back toward it.

“Well,” Margaret began, “we haven't discussed much about it. I suppose we avoided it. A simple ceremony? Is that what you had in mind, Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Time has passed by a little,” Margaret said, trying to frame things so Gordon would understand. “It's been a long time since Tom was part of the everyday world.”

“I know,” Gordon said.

“I mean, his contacts, his friends . . . it's been a long time. We've always thought cremation, if that's okay with everyone still. Then we could have a small service and inter the ashes. Is everyone okay with that?”

Both Ben and Gordon nodded.

“Maybe a week, four or five days from now?”

“Is that what people usually do?” Gordon asked.

“Yes, a little time. It allows people to make a trip up. My parents will want to be here. Maybe we can arrange to have Father Kamili say a few words. Ben, would you like that?”

He nodded.

“All right then. The American Legion will want to do something, I imagine. I'll let them know. We'll put a notice in the paper, too. Maybe some of Thomas's old football friends will show up. The Millinocket Minutemen.”

She smiled. She took a small sip. Yes, she thought, the fire was lovely and needed. She studied Gordon's face. He was a handsome boy, slightly fair with the redness she had contributed, and with Thomas's heavy brows. Sometimes, in the right light, she reminded him of a young Elvis or Marlon Brando—a bright, glimmering handsomeness that surprised her. She knew him well enough, though, to see he didn't know how to behave exactly. His father was dead, but in reality his father had been dead for many years.

“Gordon,” she said, “don't feel you have to do one thing or another. Don't feel any pressure . . . maybe that's the wrong word . . . any expectation, maybe. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. Your dad has been sick all of your life, and you'll feel some sort of expectation to mourn in a certain way, and maybe you can't match that with your feelings right now. That's what I'm trying to say. Your dad was a fine man, but I realize, we both realize, your granddad and I, that you didn't have a chance to know him. I'm sorry for that. I'm trying to say just let things come to you. It's all okay. Do you know what I'm saying?”

Gordon nodded.

Then Gordon saw what Margaret had not. She watched him cross the room and bend down to Ben and take his grandfather in his arms. This loving boy. He held his grandfather while the old man cried. And Thomas was in the room if only for an instant.

* * *

Blake knocked softly on the Kennedys' kitchen door, then pushed slowly through it. She glanced at Margaret's muck boots sitting patiently on the porch. If the boots had not been present, she would have looked for her old friend in the barn. She knocked again out of courtesy just as a wind rose and tucked hard against the house. Leaves shook free of the oak beside the front porch and scattered across the barnyard.

Gordon opened the door as she went through it.

“Hello, Gordon,” Blake said and gently looped one arm around the boy's neck and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I'm sorry about your dad. Very sorry. He was a good man.”

“Thank you.”

“Is your mom home?”

He nodded and she followed him into the kitchen. It felt good to be out of the wind. She glanced around the kitchen. Nothing much had changed. It remained an old farm kitchen, functional and solid, with a fifties-style linoleum-topped table settled against one corner. She had seen a table not unlike it in an antiques store in Portland the week before. She hadn't made the connection before seeing it now.