“And what did that look like?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, trying to think and to select her words carefully, “suppose we went in that direction. Let’s just say that. I’ve tried to think it through and I stumble every time. I keep coming back to Tom. I keep coming back to my vow to him. My heart is yours, Charlie. You know that, I think. I’m honored that you’re interested in me.”
“I’m not interested, Margaret. I love you.”
She looked in his eyes. And nodded.
“That you love me, then. I am honored by that, and so, so flattered. Then I sometimes think, Who am I kidding? I’m a simple girl from Maine. What would I be doing running around the world, flying here and there? Am I cut out for it? And deep down I love the farm. I love it. I didn’t know I was going to love it, but I do. I love the stupid cows and the never-ending work. It’s home.”
“You could have a home with me.”
She studied him. He squeezed her hand and shook it slightly.
“Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe I could learn what I needed to learn. Maybe I could adapt and change. I would do that to be with you. Gladly. It would be an adventure.”
“But Thomas . . .”
She nodded. Her eyes filled.
“You want to hear what I thought about?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He peeled the label off the beer. A sign of sexual frustration, she had always heard. She watched him carefully. He took a deep breath and then launched into it.
“All along I thought that I could overcome any objection except Thomas. He was a deal breaker, I knew. And I also knew I couldn’t say a word one way or the other about him, or your commitment to him. I admire it. I want that kind of commitment for myself. I want to be able to give that level of commitment. Is this sounding too much like an insurance seminar?”
She laughed. She took a drink, relieved that he could still make a joke under the circumstances.
“No, I understand.”
“Fate absolutely rots, you know that? It’s unfair. I talked to Pete and I talked to Terry about it and they both said the same thing. The decision is yours, finally. I’ve done what I could. I’m not being passive. I’m being respectful.”
“Yes, you have been, you sweet man.”
“There’s nobody else in my life, Margaret. I’m not dating, and I’m not looking right now. I want to make a good start with the new post. I want to concentrate on that. I won’t contact you or trouble you, but you have to promise me if things change, you’ll find me. Do you promise to do that?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his beer back and took a long drink.
“You asked me once if what went on between us was real. I know what you meant. Did it really happen? Are we making things more dramatic than they were? But I know now that it’s exactly what we thought it was. On my end, it was.”
“I feel the same way.”
“So . . . Are you okay? You look . . .”
“I need to leave, Charlie. I can’t stay here and talk calmly about this. Can we leave? Can we ask them to wrap up the lobster and take it with us?”
“Sure,” he said, although he wasn’t certain about it at all, she knew.
“Please,” she said, and then she slipped out of the banquet. “I’ll wait for you outside. I’m sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I can’t say good-bye and pretend it isn’t killing me. I have to get some air.”
She nearly ran to the door and pushed out, happy to have a gush of cool, moist air strike her. She walked to the dock and threw up. Simply and abruptly, she voided her stomach and held on to the dock post with her right hand, while her left held her hair back. Disgusting. The vomit splashed into the seawater. She wretched several times, heaving and beginning to cry. It was all ending, and she knew it was ending, and she was solid in her decision, but he was Charlie, that dear man, and she wretched again, shaking and quivering. He was right. Fate rotted. She wished she had never met him. To have food when you are starving, to have a small taste of it and then see it removed, was crueler than no food at all.
She forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She tried to distract herself with the glimmering water. A few minutes later she heard Charlie step behind her. He carried an insulated bag that smelled of lobster. The odor nearly made her gag again.
“You okay?” he asked, touching her back gently.
She shook her head.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Charlie handed the lobster to a homeless man. The man nodded and received it.
“You like lobster?” Charlie asked the man. “There are some mussels in there, too. It’s all good. We haven’t touched it.”
The man nodded again.
“Okay then.”
Charlie felt Margaret slip her arm through his.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“You owe me a lobster.”
“I really do. It’s true.”
“Do you think it would have been good?”
“It would have been delicious.”
“I like thinking of that man eating it. I bet he doesn’t get lobster every day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I guess it was silly to think we would sit and calmly discuss things.”
“I love you, Charlie.”
He clamped her arm with his elbow. She nestled closer to him. Despite everything that was going on, he liked Portland. He liked the shops and the bright windows and the pubs. Several times on their climb up the hill back to the hotel he heard music and glasses clinking and doors pushing open. He liked the smell of the sea and he liked Margaret’s arm on his. It was all out in the open now. That was a relief. He had made his request; she had made her decision. He doubted she would reverse herself in any significant way. She would remain with her husband. He would leave for Africa. It filled him with emptiness to think about it, though he could not help but admire her fortitude. In the end, she had seen things more clearly than he had. Fate had played them a dirty trick, it was true, and there was nothing either of them could do. Star-crossed lovers. It was an old story.
At the hotel he invited her up. She nodded without speaking. And on the ride up in the elevator she kissed him. He led her to his room and swiped the card and they were inside.
“Do you want me to order up some food?” Charlie asked. “Are you starving? You must be.”
“I am starving. I think I could eat now. Could we split a BLT?”
“That sounds perfect.”
“And I promise to eat. I’m going to wash my face now. I’m sorry about the dinner.”
“For one night that guy eats like a king. That’s kind of fun to think about.”
“It’s good karma, Charlie. I’ll be right out.”
He sat at a small circular table and called down and ordered the sandwich with two Diet Cokes and French fries. The person on the other end of the line said it would be fifteen minutes. Charlie thanked her and hung up.
“It’s on its way,” Charlie said when Margaret reappeared. “Feel better?”
“Yes, thanks. Much.”
“I haven’t asked about Gordon. How’s he doing?”
She sat. She smiled.
“He’s a good boy. He’s been more helpful around the farm lately and he loves his grandfather. He’s doing great. It’s summer and he’s tan and full of bug bites.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“By the way, he plays with the meerkat. It’s become one of his favorites. He sleeps with it at night.”
“That’s terrific.”
“You’re going to have such an exciting life, Charlie,” she said, changing subjects. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I hope so.”
�
�Think of your bird list. You’re going to bag some new birds.”
He smiled. She smiled, too.
Charlie signed off for the food at the door when a kid in a hotel uniform brought it up. He carried the tray to the small table. Margaret snitched a French fry as soon as he set it down. She looked beautiful sitting with the window behind her. He bent down and kissed the side of her neck. Then he sat and divided the sandwich and poured half the French fries onto her plate.
“Better than the restaurant?” he asked. “Dig in.”
“I was too nervous. Everything was too large.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Did the people in the restaurant think we had a terrible row?”
“The waitress was sympathetic. I told her you were pregnant.”
“You did not!”
“I did. No one can be mad at a pregnant woman.”
“You scheming devil.”
She ate more fries, but she smiled broadly. Then she took a bite of the sandwich. It was a good sandwich, Charlie saw, built carefully and divided in four triangles. He ate some himself.
“I want a Christmas card from you every year, Charlie. Without fail. I want to know how things turn out for you.”
“A card a year?”
She nodded and slipped another French fry into her mouth.
“I can handle that. What do I get in return?”
“I’ll send a card, too. How would that be?”
He took a deep breath. His chest felt constricted.
“Let’s not do this,” he said. “Not like this. I don’t want to try to be light and gay about it. I can’t do it right now.”
She took his hand. She raised it to her mouth and kissed it.
“You’re right,” she said.
“I don’t want to be gloomy, but we can’t be frivolous about it.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“How is Thomas anyway?”
“Unchanged, really.”
“My brother has been a little bumpy lately. Mom’s trying to track it down. It’s hard.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“My buddy Pete goes over to see him sometimes. I didn’t even know that, but a nurse mentioned it to my dad. They were friends, too, my brother and Pete, but we were closer. Anyway, it touched me to find that out.”
“I like Pete already.”
“How are the fries?”
“I don’t think they’re great, but I could eat a horse.”
He stood and moved to the bed and grabbed something out of his suit jacket. He kissed her and handed it to her.
“What is this?” she asked, obviously pleased.
“Open it and see.”
She opened it quickly. It was a charm bracelet. It had two charms, Charlie knew. One of Humpback Rock to mark the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and one of the Biltmore.
“Oh, Charlie,” she said, taking it out and draping it over her wrist. “I’ve always wanted one. And these . . . they’re so dear. I’m squinting to see. I recognize the Biltmore . . . yes, it’s the Biltmore. And this other one? It sounds familiar. . . .”
“It’s Humpback Rock. It marks the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway.”
“Yes, yes, I remember now.”
She finished with the buckle and raised her wrist and jiggled it in the light. Then she carefully studied it once more.
“I meant to say you’re my north and south, but that’s too corny even for me.”
“It works, Charlie.”
She stood and came and sat on his lap. She kissed him and she held the bracelet out where she could see it, where the light coming from above could find it.
* * *
Margaret woke softly. For a moment she thought she was in the farmhouse, the old oak casting its shadows through the bedroom window. But then she felt Charlie beside her. They had fallen asleep. They had slept in each other’s arms. They had not had sex. They had kissed forever, over and over, and when the moment had come to go further, she had clung to him. She could not do that; she could not give herself again that way, although she burned to do so. It was too dangerous, and he understood, he always understood, and so they had stayed on top of the bedspread, necking like teenagers, saying the things they wanted to say.
Margaret lifted her head and saw light beginning at the edge of the window.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
He pulled her closer.
“You have to go, too,” she said.
She slid out of the bed and used the bathroom and washed her face, used her finger to smear toothpaste on her gums. When she returned, Charlie had the bedside light on and he had started to dress.
“I’ll walk you down,” he said.
“No, Charlie. I don’t want you to. I don’t want to prolong this anymore. I’ll be okay. I’ll get to Blake’s just as Gordon is waking.”
He nodded. She went into his arms.
“Everything, everything, everything,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
She kissed him and turned and went out the door. At the end of the hallway she saw dawn pushing through the windows. Cloudy day, she thought. Rain coming.
Asters
(Seven years later)
Chapter Twenty-eight
The 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 twi
st 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.”
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