by Judy Blume
Michael had been in Aspen at the time, skiing with a woman he’d met through a personal ad in the New York Review, a woman who was willing to relocate if she found the right man.
The couple from Cincinnati wanted a southwestern-style house, like the ones they had seen in Santa Fe over Christmas, with white plaster walls, rough wood ceilings, and Mexican tile in the kitchens and bathrooms, plus a separate guest house for when their children came to visit.
Margo tried to concentrate on their questions, but she hadn’t been able to get the Broders, and what they had said to her, out of her mind—that Andrew wouldn’t be happy until he had Francine back, that Margo was just second best. With all of her problems, with all of her doubts and insecurities, which came and went, she had never thought of herself as second best and she wasn’t about to start now.
When she got home from the canyon she left her muddy boots in the front hallway and went to take a hot bath. Soon she heard a thud, followed by Andrew’s voice. “Goddamn it, Michelle . . . can’t you ever put your things where they belong!”
“They’re not my boots! Why do I always get blamed for everything?”
Margo wrapped herself in a towel and rushed out of the bathroom to see about the commotion. Andrew had tripped over her boots as he’d come into the house and had fallen.
“They’re mine,” Margo said. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
“Bruised my knee,” Andrew said.
She helped him to his feet.
“Sorry, Michelle,” Andrew said, “it’s just that it hurt like hell and I was mad.”
“Yeah, well . . . it could happen to anyone, I suppose.”
He leaned on Margo and she helped him hobble down the hall to their bedroom. He pulled off his jeans and lay down on the bed.
Margo rubbed his knee. “Did your parents get off all right?”
“Not without giving me hell.”
“For what?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“At the beginning.”
“Okay . . . first, I have no job security. How am I going to meet my obligations, which, I assume, means my financial obligations to Sara and you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. They see that as the man’s responsibility. And they can’t understand that freelance writing is a job. They want to know why I don’t go back to the Herald. At least I had a pension plan, medical insurance . . .”
“What else?”
“Then there was the part about us.”
“What about us?”
“That we’re not setting a very good example for Sara, or for your children.”
“Not setting a good example . . .”
“We shouldn’t be living together without being married.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“I told them it’s not their business, and besides, we’ve been too busy to think about marriage.”
Margo laughed. “I once told my mother the same thing.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said, Darling . . . there’s no such thing as too busy.”
Andrew laughed with her.
She lay down beside him and he ran his hand over her face. “They’re usually not so difficult. I think they were just feeling self-conscious and had to put in their two cents.”
“They asked me if I thought you really loved me,” Margo said, “or if you were just trying to prove something to B.B.” Her mouth felt very dry. She licked her lips and swallowed.
He pulled away from her and sat up. “Jesus! I can’t believe they said that. They still think I want her back?”
“Yes. They’re convinced she’s the reason you came here.”
He shook his head and exhaled deeply.
“Is that true? Did you come out here to get back together with her?”
“Not consciously.”
“Subconsciously?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t deny that I had this fantasy of getting back together . . . that enough time had passed to make it a possibility.”
Margo untangled herself from him. She jumped off the bed and marched around the room, trying not to explode. “Did you make love with her . . . here, in Boulder?”
“No, but I would have that first night.”
She sucked in her breath. “God, Andrew . . .”
“It was before I met you,” he said.
“I know, but still . . .” She rested her hand on the old pottery lamp that sat on her dresser. She fought the urge to throw it at him. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?”
“Tell you what? That I had some crazy notion of living happily ever after? What’s so surprising about that?”
“Plenty.”
“I would have told you before if I’d thought it was important . . . or if you had asked.”
“Why should I have asked? I never thought about it until your parents put the bug in my head.”
She walked across the room to the rolltop desk. She remembered her excitement on the day she’d found it in Caprice’s shop. She had given it to Andrew on the night he’d moved in.
“But it’s your desk,” he said. “I can’t take it.”
“I want you to have it,” she’d told him. “I love the idea of you working at it, using the cubbyholes to organize your notes.”
“What about you?”
“I need more space anyway. I’ll set up a door on sawhorses.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She had painted the sawhorses blue.
Now she stood in front of the desk, fiddling with Andrew’s collection of pens. “This is all a little hard to take,” she said.
“Look, Margo . . . my fantasy of getting back together with Francine lasted for about ten minutes. And then I realized that nothing had changed, that nothing ever would, that we wouldn’t have stayed together even if Bobby hadn’t died.”
Margo stacked his pens in a mug that had a picture of a dog on it. It was the only mug left from a set Michelle had given to her the last Christmas they had lived in New York.
“You were a fantasy in the beginning too,” Andrew said.
“Me?” she asked, looking over at him.
“I’d been watching you for days. I knew you were Francine’s friend, I knew I should stay away, but you were too appealing. So finally I worked up the courage to come over. I’d never done anything as ballsy as stripping off my clothes and sliding into your hot tub in my life.”
“It was ballsy, all right.”
For a moment after that neither of them spoke, but Margo was aware of the sound of their breathing. “Were you using me to make B.B. jealous?” she finally asked.
“No, but I liked the idea of her seeing that another woman, a smart woman like you, found me attractive.”
“I don’t feel very smart right now. I wish that you hadn’t wanted her when you came to town. I wish I could be sure you had no ulterior motive when you met me, conscious or unconscious.” She pulled down the top of his desk, then opened it again. “It would hurt too much to think that I’ve just been the pawn in some intricate game between you and B.B.”
“How can you even think that?” he asked, his voice catching. “How can you doubt that I love you more now than I did in November . . . that I expect to keep on loving you more . . .” He stood up and hobbled across the room.
She held out her arms.
THE GRADUATES WERE CALLED to receive their diplomas in alphabetical order. Margo was sure they would never reach the S’s, but finally, Stuart’s name was called and Freddy jumped up with his Olympus OM2, complete with telephoto lens, to catch Stuart, smiling broadly, as if he had the world by the tail, not at all as if he b
elieved he were a failure at eighteen.
After the last graduate received her diploma the chorus stood and sang. Puffin was in the first row, dressed primly, like the others, in a black skirt and white blouse, hands clasped in front of her waist. Margo turned around and smiled at Clare. Clare touched Margo’s shoulder.
A few days ago Margo and Clare had been talking about raising kids, about the way you feel their pain as well as your own and Clare had said, “Puffin is still heartbroken about breaking up with Stuart.”
“Has she told you why they broke up?” Margo asked.
“No . . . she won’t say anything.”
“Neither will Stuart.”
“Do you think they were sleeping together?”
“I don’t know.”
“I gave Puffin a sex information book and told her if she had any questions she should come to me. But she never did.”
Margo laughed. “I gave one to Stuart too.”
“Puffin wants to go away for her senior year,” Clare said, “so I’m taking her to look at Fountain Valley next week. She’s having a hard time. I think it has to do with not knowing what’s going to happen with Robin and me . . . not knowing whether we’re going to stay together this time.”
“Do you know?” Margo said.
Clare shook her head. “I wish I did. It’s going a lot better since he took over B.B.’s business. He has a sense of purpose now. He doesn’t mope around the house questioning the meaning of life.”
Margo had noticed the change in Robin too. Since he had volunteered to take over B.B.’s business a month ago, he seemed more interested in life.
“I’m good with real estate,” Robin had said one night when the four of them were having dinner in Denver. “And I’d like to do this for B.B., if you two have no objections.”
“It’s not our place to object,” Andrew said. “And it’s very decent of you to make the offer.”
“I’ve written to B.B. and I’ve talked about it with Lewis,” Robin said. “Lewis says I should go ahead. Of course, I won’t be taking any commissions. Everything will be put away for B.B.”
“It’s a lovely idea,” Margo said.
“Being semiretired I can pretty much do what I want,” Robin said.
Clare and Margo smiled at each other across the table.
“Do you think it’s possible to forgive and forget?” Margo asked after dinner, when they went to the Women’s Room.
“Forget . . . never,” Clare said. “Forgive . . . I hope so.”
MARGO HAD BOOKED A TABLE for ten at the Flagstaff Inn following graduation, more for the elegant setting and the fabulous view than the food, which was mediocre. She had requested a round table, but a long one had been set up, screwing up her seating plan. Freddy had already taken her aside that morning, insisting that the graduation lunch be on him. Well, why not? she thought. He was always quicker with his checkbook than with anything else.
When she had introduced him to Andrew, at the field, before graduation, Freddy had said, “So this is Andrew.”
And Andrew had said, “So this is Freddy.” Then both men had laughed self-consciously, but Margo had not.
Now, at lunch, the appraisals were over and everyone was behaving in a civilized way. There were no gaps in the conversation until Freddy, reminiscing about his student days at Penn, said, “Remember that weekend, Margo . . . you’d come down from Boston and it turned so cold I had to buy you a sweater? Do you still have that sweater . . . the one with the silver buttons?”
“No,” Margo said, “but I had it for a long time.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment. Then Freddy went back to his sole amandine and Margo, buttering a roll, thought, This man was my husband. I lived with him for fourteen years. I made love with him one thousand four hundred and fifty-six times, more or less.
Ready, Margo?
In a minute.
Now?
Yes, now . . . now . . . hurry.
Margo tried to imagine Freddy making love to Aliza, but she could not.
She reached for Andrew’s hand under the table.
Aliza was telling everyone about the trip to Israel that she and Freddy were taking with Stuart and Michelle. “Three weeks . . .” she said. Her accent was halfway between Yiddish and British. “Everywhere from Haifa to Eilat.”
“Andrew lived on a kibbutz for a while,” Margo said.
“Really . . .” Aliza said. “I’m more of a city girl.”
“When Abe and I went to Israel,” Margo’s mother said, “we visited a kibbutz.”
“They were picking avocadoes,” her father said.
Aliza turned to Michelle. “Next year, when you graduate, we’ll go to Paris and Rome . . . yes?”
Michelle smiled halfheartedly.
Michelle had once told Margo that Aliza felt threatened by her, that Aliza was concerned that Margo would come back east and take Freddy away from her. Don’t worry, Aliza. He’s all yours.
THE NEXT MORNING Margo drove Andrew and Sara to the airport. When they got there Andrew went off to see about their seats and Margo and Sara stood with the carry-on luggage.
“I hope it goes okay with your mom, Sara,” Margo said.
“Me too.”
“I know you’ve missed her very much.”
Sara mashed her lips together and looked down.
“You know something, Sara . . . you’ve become an important part of my life. I’ve learned to like you very, very much in these past few months. And whatever happens in Florida, you’ll always be welcome at our house.” Margo had rehearsed this moment in her mind, but somehow her words sounded all wrong now.
“I had a nice birthday party,” Sara said.
“I’m glad.”
“Thanks for my new jeans and sweater.”
“They look nice on you.”
Sara looked down at her clothes. “Mom will probably say . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Margo hugged Sara, holding her close, thinking, I should have hugged her more often. Why did I think she wouldn’t let me? There was so much to say, but it wasn’t going to be said now. Maybe it would never be said.
“You’ll remember to take care of Lucy?” Sara asked.
“Of course.”
“And it’s okay if she drinks out of your toilets.”
“I thought she’s not supposed to drink out of toilets.”
“No . . . it’s okay now.”
Andrew came back waving their seat assignments. “Goodbye, Margarita,” he said, kissing her. “I’ll call you.”
“Yes,” Margo said.
“Come on, Daddy . . . they’ve already announced our flight.”
“Oh, wait a minute . . .” Margo said, fishing a package out of her purse. She handed it to Andrew.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You’ll have to wait until you’re on the plane to find out.”
“HE’S A LOVELY MAN, DARLING,” Margo’s mother said that night over dinner. “So, do I hear wedding bells in your future?”
“I don’t know, Mother,” Margo said.
“Why should they ruin it by getting married?” Michelle asked her grandmother.
“You think marriage would ruin it?” Margo’s mother said.
“It might,” Michelle said.
“Margo, darling . . . do you think marriage would ruin it?”
“No,” Margo said. “I don’t think marriage would ruin it.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind?” her mother said.
“Mind what?” Margo’s father asked.
“Marrying him,” her mother said.
Margo laughed. “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Mother, I’m shocked!” Michelle said. “I thought you believed that marriage was obsolete.”
“No, Michelle . . . impossible, maybe . . . but not obsolete.”
45
FRANCINE HAD GONE OVER this moment a million times in her mind. The bell would ring and she would walk quickly across the living room to the front door, open it, and there, looking exactly the same, except an inch or two taller, would be Sara.
Sara would say, Hi, Mom . . .
And Francine would say, Hello, Sara . . .
They would embrace naturally, as if they had seen each other yesterday, and then Francine would say, Would you like a glass of juice?
What kind have you got? Sara would ask.
Francine would show her into the kitchen, open the refrigerator and proudly display a jar of apple juice, a large carton of orange juice, and a six-pack of V8. Sara would laugh and choose the apple juice.
Then they would go for a walk on the beach.
Francine had moved into her own apartment ten days ago. She still lived at the hospital during the week, but weekends she was on her own. She was stronger physically too, exercising in the gym at the hospital and swimming laps in the pool. But not compulsively. If she skipped a day or two it didn’t matter. The point, Dr. Arnold had explained, was to enjoy the exercise, not look at it as punishment. She had started to read again, novels with uplifting endings, and to listen to music. Sometimes, in the evenings, she would watch a movie on HBO, but nothing depressing.
She had become angry, rather than depressed, when she had found out two weeks ago that Lewis was footing the bill for her treatment. “It’s my illness,” she had told Dr. Arnold, “and I’ll be damned if anyone else is going to pay for it.”
“Fine,” Dr. Arnold had said, “then pay yourself.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
For a while after that she’d felt ready to face the world, but her confident feelings hadn’t lasted.
She still had not written to Sara. She had bought her a birthday card, but she had not mailed it. After almost four months a birthday card made no sense. She had discussed her fears about seeing Sara again with Dr. Arnold.