Margaret from Maine (9781101602690)

by Monninger, Joseph

  “I know. And I’m not really responsible for how I look. The pressure is off.”

  Margaret heard Blake change hands with her phone. Blake always weeded when she talked. Margaret pictured her walking around her deck, the phone crunched into her neck, her hands biting and nipping houseplants.

  “So,” Blake said, dragging the word out a little like a kid on a playground, “how much do you like him?”

  “That’s ridiculous, Blake. You’re such a cornball.”

  “Is it ridiculous?”

  “I’m still married, you know.”

  “I know that, Margaret. But Tom is Tom, and you know I have a whole lot of love for him. It’s been six years since you so much as looked at anyone. Don’t judge yourself so severely.”

  “I’m trying to stay in the moment. Okay, to answer your question, I told you, he’s very sweet. Charlie is.”

  “And you like him?”

  “I like him very much. From what I know, I like him.”

  “That’s all that counts then,” Blake said. “I’m happy for you, Margaret.”

  “I’m married, Blake. Don’t go crazy here. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It caught me by surprise, and I admit it was nice to be asked.”

  “That’s human, Margaret.”

  “I have half a heart for anything. You know that.”

  “I do, sweetie. I know that. But you don’t get to go to a ball at the French Embassy too many times in your life, so just enjoy it. Stay in the present, like you were saying.”

  “Okay, I should get off. He could be here any minute.”

  “Call me first thing tomorrow. And remember everything. God, I am so going to enjoy this vicariously. Take pictures, because I want to see how you look and what Charlie King looks like. And remember what they serve for dinner and how things look. You’re like Cinderella.”

  “I’ll do my best. No glass slipper.”

  “I love you, sweetheart,” Blake said, her voice warm.

  “Love you, too.”

  “Don’t put up obstacles,” Blake said. “Don’t limit anything. Be open, Margaret.”

  “I’ll try to be.”

  Margaret hung up. She bent to the bathroom mirror and traced a thin line of eyeliner under her eyes. She flecked mascara on her lashes, combing them up and away. She couldn’t deny she felt excited. The conversation with Blake reinforced everything. A man, a nice man, would arrive any minute to take her to a ball. How had that happened? It felt as though a minute ago she had been clumping around in muck boots and listening to the phoebe sing a welcome to spring. Now she had a fluttery stomach and a teenage girl’s anxiety about how she would look, how she would act, what the night would bring. Then, almost in the next breath, she warned herself not to get carried away. It was likely that Charlie’s innate decency had provoked him to ask her. Maybe, she thought, it might even be part of his official function. In any case, it didn’t bear thinking about. She was going to a ball, and she had never been to a ball, and she decided simply to enjoy herself and observe everything she could. She let out a long, slow breath and let herself relax for a moment. Meet life openly, she reminded herself of one of her mother’s dictums. Do not climb a mountain before you arrive at its foothills.

  As she bent back to the mirror to inspect her eyeliner she heard steps outside her door and the crinkle of plastic dress bags. Then a knock came sharp and hard, and Margaret felt her breath shorten, felt like a girl again, her hand to the top of her robe to keep it closed.

  Chapter Five

  Gordon placed the saw-chuck soldier on the side of the sink and then brushed his teeth with the Colgate bubble-gum-flavored toothpaste his mother had set on the bathroom counter. He brushed a little up and down, flicking the bristles along his upper teeth, but he found it difficult to concentrate with the saw-chuck guy standing so close. He heard Grandpa Ben coming up the stairs. The stairs sounded like shells cracking the way they squeaked and he could tell how far his grandfather had come by the rising noise each step released.

  “You about finished there, Gordon?” his grandpa asked.

  Gordon nodded, even though he didn’t hear all the words clearly because of the toothbrush, but he understood the general idea. He reached over and made the saw-chuck guy crawl forward on his belly. He made a shooting sound in the side of his cheek and a dot of toothpaste spattered out onto the sink.

  “Okay, hip-hop into bed,” he heard Grandpa Ben say from down the hall.

  He nodded. He swirled water in his mouth and spit it into the sink. He turned on the water and rinsed off his toothbrush. He grabbed the saw-chuck guy and made him slide fast on his belly until he reached the end of the sink. Then the saw-chuck guy flew through the air like Superman.

  Grandpa Ben had the covers pulled back and the chair set beside the bed. Gordon jumped into the bed and shoved down under the covers. He kept the saw-chuck guy in his right hand and kept him down, out of the way, so that he could make him move and fight if Grandpa Ben’s story got boring.

  “What will it be tonight, buckaroo?” Grandpa Ben asked, reaching to a pile of books beside the bed.

  “Is Mom coming home tonight?”

  “No,” Grandpa Ben said, sitting on the chair. “You know that. She told you she would be home Sunday night and you would see her Monday morning, bright and early.”

  “Monday morning,” Gordon whispered.

  “How about the rabbit story?”

  Gordon nodded. He stretched his legs out and made the saw-chuck guy climb his thigh. He smelled straw and hay and wondered if his grandpa had cleaned off the cuffs of his pants. His mom always made Grandpa Ben clean the cuffs of his pants because he tracked. People tracked a lot, he knew, although he wasn’t entirely sure of the concept.

  He fell asleep before his grandpa had read one full chapter of the rabbit story. The saw-chuck man rested cradled in Gordon’s fingers, suspended above the bottom sheet and still a minute weight that the boy perceived. His breath grew gradually deeper, and slower, and his grandfather closed the book and slid it back in its place. He brushed the boy’s hair back and tucked the blankets up a little higher. The movement of the blanket spun the saw-chuck soldier out of Gordon’s fingers, but the grandfather did not notice. He stood and turned off the lamp, and in the last instant of light saw the resemblance between the boy and his son, Thomas. The passing of time made the only difference, and he felt a momentary dislocation between the present and past as he tiptoed out to the hallway, his cuffs carrying two wands of straw that he had forgotten to brush away.

  * * *

  She wore the black gown. Black always worked, Terry said when she fished the dress out of her closet, and Charlie could not say what the other colors might have looked like—a pale peach-colored gown with a wider skirt and tight bodice and a cream-colored gown that was longer and more fitted through the hips—but he thought the black absolutely suited Margaret. It more than suited her; it surprised him by how easily it had transformed her. She had disappeared into the bathroom a mother and had stepped out—well, how exactly? He couldn’t say. The peach, he realized, might not have flattered her coloring; and the cream would have made her pale and mothlike. The black looked beautiful on her and as he stood he could not help but smile.

  “You look lovely,” he said.

  “I had no idea these gowns . . . they’re really quite extravagant. Are you sure Terry won’t mind me wearing one?”

  “Believe me,” Charlie said, “these are hand-me-downs from her friend Trish. Trish has plenty of gowns, I promise you.”

  “It’s a Vera Wang,” Margaret said in a nervous whisper, and Charlie saw her eyes go a little wide. She looked down at the dress and combed it against her thighs. She looked charming. She was charming in her modesty and lack of pretension. She had been excited about the gowns and had made the entire o
utfitting attempt fun.

  “That’s what Terry said,” Charlie said from his position near the bank of windows, “and the other two . . . one’s a DK and I forget . . . the peach one is a Gucci knockoff, I think. Trish goes to a dozen balls a year and she can’t wear the same gown every time. Honestly, you really don’t need to worry about a thing.”

  Charlie felt grateful for the fuss about the gowns. They had been a convenient icebreaker all the way around, preventing the first moments together from becoming too conspicuously datelike. And now the dress—a black ballerina-style gown, halter top, with simple lines that Charlie admired—felt to be the culmination of a satisfying project.

  “I feel like I’m driving a Mercedes after being in an old pickup,” Margaret said. “We don’t wear many gowns in Bangor, Maine.”

  “Well, you look very natural in it,” Charlie said.

  “You look very handsome, too,” Margaret said. “In all the fuss about the gowns, I didn’t properly compliment you.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said.

  He wore a tuxedo; it was a good-quality tuxedo he had bought in a secondhand store on Avenue B. Terry, in fact, had pointed him to it nearly a year before, when he had come for his first interviews with the Foreign Service office. He had attended two formal affairs—a dinner at the vice president’s mansion and an opera premiere—and had been glad to have the tuxedo in his closet. Besides, he actually enjoyed dressing up a little. Why live in Washington if you didn’t become involved in the social life at least to some degree? He cut a decent figure, he knew, and it felt like make-believe to wear a tux. As long as he didn’t take it seriously, he enjoyed the experience.

  “We should get going,” Charlie said. “Did any of the wraps work?”

  “I picked this one,” Margaret said and stepped back into the bathroom quickly and returned with a beige wrap.

  Charlie took the wrap from Margaret and held it while she slipped under it.

  “Ta-da,” he said. “That worked out, didn’t it? And the shoes are okay?”

  “They’re fine. I told my friend in Maine that borrowing a gown took a lot of pressure off. I can simply blame the gown if it doesn’t look right.”

  “You look wonderful, Margaret.”

  He saw her blush. It was natural and complete.

  “This is really a treat. Even dressing up. . . . It’s been so long,” Margaret said.

  “Well, you haven’t danced with me yet. That may not be much of a treat.”

  “I bet you’re a fine dancer.”

  He stepped past her and opened the door. She grabbed a small clutch—another thoughtful detail from Terry—and dropped her key into it. She nodded that she was ready. She stepped through the door and he closed it after her. She smelled of soap, he realized, and faint perfume. The movement of her dress sounded like groceries being bagged far away and in a bright kitchen, and Charlie followed.

  * * *

  Margaret heard music as soon as she stepped out from the taxi and she felt a delicious wave of joy and happiness fill her. She loved music. To hear it now, carried out from the embassy on the warm spring breeze, made her eyes moisten. How long had it been since she had felt so free? she wondered. The idea that she had no responsibilities, no Gordon, no house to clean, no cows to look after, felt nearly incomprehensible. She wished for time to slow. She worried, as she watched Charlie pay the driver, then turn to face her, that the evening might pass too quickly. Dear Charlie. He looked handsome and happy. He smiled easily and she liked his smile. On the taxi ride he had told an amusing story about a basset hound wandering into the last ball he had attended. The dog, he said, had begun to bay at the music, its hangdog look comical and piteous, and when someone on the waitstaff went forward to grab the dog’s collar the basset hound had trotted off, staying just out of reach. The dog had received an enormous round of applause, and the rest of the night people had remarked about it, wondering where it had come from, to whom it belonged, and so on. Honestly, Margaret had not been able to concentrate on the story, because she had been too keenly aware of Charlie: his size, his maleness, the warmth she experienced sitting close to him. She had felt his shoulder against hers; the satin stripe running down his trouser leg had brushed her knee. For a moment in the midst of his story, she had stared at his hands—large, strong hands, so entirely masculine and different from her own—and she had resisted the ludicrous impulse to reach over and grab one. What would he have said? she wondered. And why was she even tempted by such a thing?

  But the music chased such thoughts from her head. She reached behind her and straightened the fall of her dress. She felt, she admitted, prettier than she had in years. She liked the dress, a feminine sheath that clung to her back and breasts. Black had been the correct choice after all. The peach had been tempting, but in the end it had made her feel like a pastry, something soft and comestible and not quite stout enough to stand up to the evening air.

  “They’ve started—do you hear them?” Charlie asked, finishing with the driver and stepping over beside her. “There’s something wonderful about these buildings being all lit up at night, isn’t there?”

  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Well, shall we?”

  He held out his elbow and she took it, grateful for the relative darkness so that he would not see her blush. A curse of redheaded women everywhere, such flushing. But she took his arm and held it, and became aware again of his size. How nice to walk beside a man, to have his arm, to feel as though they presented to the world a pairing. And when he moved slightly right to go around a cement planter, she felt his arm clamp her hand a little to guide her, and unconsciously she tucked her arm more completely under his and an undeniable warmth spread through her. She felt impossibly aware of these minute accommodations and she wondered if he did as well. Rather than dwelling on it, though, she gazed around her, remembering her promise to Blake to record what she saw. Everywhere she looked she was rewarded: a hundred women in gowns, all flowing toward the entrance, their escorts beside them. Men in uniforms; Indian women in saris and Arabs in head cloths. The music acted as a magnet, drawing them closer, and she heard French spoken somewhere behind her, though it was a different French from what she heard in Maine, the French-Canadian variety she sometimes caught during the summer tourist season. She resisted turning her head left and right, gawking like a rube, but little passed her notice.

  At the door Charlie produced the tickets from his breast pocket. He did so, she noticed, without releasing her hand from his elbow. They stood in a small line while security guards went over them with wands, then exchanged the tickets and stepped inside.

  “Ready?” he whispered, dipping a little to gain her ear.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  He smiled. Then they entered.

  The music overwhelmed her instantly, its bright, fluid sound sweeping her along the floor. It felt extraordinary to be in an enormous room, with the orchestra arranged on the right as she entered, the dance floor directly in front of them. Large pillars divided the left-hand side of the room, so that people could gather and converse without obstructing the dancers. Margaret tried to name the music—she recognized its rhythm, but it drifted away from her in the excitement of entering the room—and she let it pass over her, her hand nervously gripping Charlie’s forearm. Ahead of them, all the way across the ballroom floor, massive French doors opened onto some kind of terrace. She saw lighted lanterns holding back the spring night, and to the right of the doors, a buffet table glimmered white and silver.

  “Oh, my, how pretty,” Margaret said, when they paused beside one of the pillars, her eyes gathering details. “This really is a treat, Charlie. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s just how I pictured a ball would look. Just exactly. I’ve been picturing it this way since I was a little girl.
”

  “Did you get anything to eat at all at the hotel? Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t think I could eat right now.”

  “Well, maybe we can share a plate later. I think we should dance. That’s the fun of these things.”

  “I’d love to dance.”

  “Let’s find someplace to put your wrap, then have a drink, and then we’ll dance. How does that sound?”

  “A glass of wine, please.”

  And did he squeeze her arm again against his side? She thought so. She held on to his arm as they navigated the crowd. He stopped her near a statue-vase and took her wrap and gave it to a coat check girl. She used the moment to pull the front of her dress up. It did feel wonderful to wear a halter-top gown, to feel the warm air on her shoulders, to know, to be certain, that she looked good. And the music! She turned and saw the orchestra, all of the musicians dressed in burgundy jackets, their instruments gleaming. The sound was powerful. Then Charlie put his hand on her back and began steering her toward the terrace where people lined up for the bar. She observed people as they pooled around her, but she also felt his hand on her back, the strength of it as it flexed slightly to guide her. Once, when they moved around another couple, she felt his hand fall to her waist, his fingers brushing slightly above her hips, and blood rushed to her face and arms. It was the music, she tried to pretend, that caused the tiny riot in her stomach.

  A small moment followed. She felt, remarkably, as though she could hover above herself, watching their progress across the floor. Here was a woman with a man, she thought, the most natural thing in the world. With each step, she felt herself casting away her caution. She did it deliberately, bravely, like a child consciously approaching the edge of a diving board. It felt, for an instant, as though a thousand tangled roots drifted behind her, each of them snapping and pulling her back to the earth, but she resisted. She took several deep breaths, glad to feel the warm spring air fill her lungs, glad to feel Charlie beside her. For once in her life, she decided, she would not try so desperately to manage things. For once she would let the world take her where it liked, and she felt something nervous and empty in her stomach, but joy, too. She understood what Cinderella knew: that the splendor of the ball was made sweeter by the approach of midnight, that the pumpkin carriage and the ratty chargers waited patiently to collect their passenger at the end of the night.