by Lee Woodruff
“How about a cup of tea?” Erin pulled the whistling kettle off the red-hot burner and grabbed two mugs from pegs over the stove.
“I’d love one.” Maura was watching Sarah play happily on the floor with her cousin Chloe, their two heads bent over a jumble of multicolored ponies with synthetic hair tails. Next to them was a stacked Lego tower that they had built together. Erin lowered a bag of tea in each mug and filled them with steaming water. She set the milk and sugar in front of her sister. The interior of Erin’s cozy kitchen was a warm yellow, and a series of blue and white Delft plates hung on the wall over the table where they sat. A matching set of china canisters was placed in descending order on the counter nearby.
“You OK?” Erin asked.
“Yeah, tired.” Maura looked up at her gratefully. Her sister’s home felt like one of the few sanctuaries in her life right now. Erin and Brad lived in a smaller Arts and Crafts–style house that was one town west but still part of their school system. Brad pulled long hours on the partner track at his downtown law firm, and Maura was envious of how handy he was around the house. On weekends he unwound with home improvement projects like painting and replacing the back deck, and he had even undertaken a renovation of their first-floor powder room. Over time they had both made the older house inviting and appealing.
“So how are you and Pete doing?” Erin glanced at Maura out of the corner of her eye, as if it were a casual question, but she understood the intent.
“I guess OK. Something feels slightly better lately. I can’t explain it, and it’s not coming from any one conversation we had or a fight. We just seem like maybe we’re on a better track. You know?”
Erin nodded and blew on her tea before taking a sip. “How about his drinking? Did you guys talk about it yet? I mean really address it?”
“No,” admitted Maura, steepling her fingers. “That’s going to be harder. I keep taking digs at him, and that’s not the way to do it.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not even sure he sees that it’s become such a problem. There’s a big part of Pete, well, you know, the old Pete, the party guy. Booze has always been a part of his life, his boys’ nights out, all of that. You know.”
“Yeah, but then you grow up. You back off or you deal with it. Right? Listen, I know everything that happened last summer, with James, well, that was more than any parents should ever have to live through. No one could blame anyone for self-medicating, but you can’t keep sticking your head in the sand.” Erin sat back against her chair and tucked behind her ear a strand of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. Looking directly at her younger sister, Maura took in the mirror image of some of her own strong features, the oval shape of her eyes and the squared Munson jaw line. Erin’s hair was shorter than hers, lighter in color, and she envied her sister’s skin, complected like cream, almost free of wrinkles and freckles, despite the intense sunbathing they had enjoyed during their childhood summers in Wisconsin.
“We’re working on it. We’re getting there,” said Maura quietly. She stared out Erin’s window at the trash cans neatly lined up outside the garage door, ready to be hauled out to the street.
“Sometimes I think I married my father,” Maura said suddenly.
“Do you think we do that as daughters? Marry our fathers?” Erin smiled.
“I think in some ways we probably do. Dad is the strong, head-of-the-family type, brought home the bacon, and all of that. Mom was a traditional mother. We didn’t end up so differently from her. Dad is kind of the life of the party too,” said Maura more soberly. “He’s always pouring the drinks and making sure people are having a good time. I suppose that part of him was attractive to me without actually consciously choosing it. It was what I knew. People have always gravitated toward Dad. When I met Pete back in college I probably responded to that.”
“You responded to other things too, Maura. Pete was loving and funny, and he came from a stable family. There were things there that made you guys work together. There still are.” Maura nodded her head in assent.
“But I think I also responded to what was ‘cool’ back then in college. I was young. Pete was a challenge, that still-waters-run-deep kind of thing, mysterious. And I wanted to be the one who got under his skin.” She paused, imagining herself back then. “I suppose that in the earlier years before kids, that whole package was really attractive. Life was so busy and full, so much was still happening, and we were evolving. There was all this possibility in that phase of our lives, you know? As time went on I think I started missing things, wanting things maybe down deep Pete wasn’t really capable of providing. I wanted him to hang out and really talk to me, examine our feelings together, I guess. I didn’t fully understand in my twenties how important that kind of intimacy was. This all sounds a little silly, right?”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Erin flatly.
“There are days I feel like I’m missing something,” confided Maura. “Some deeper connection. But Pete is a simple guy. Kind of a meat-and-potatoes guy, you know? He doesn’t really ask himself any tough questions. He isn’t interested in things beyond work, family, and sports. He doesn’t care about travel or learning about new ideas. He is … content. That’s a lot like Dad too in some ways. Over the years that pattern has begun to feel, I don’t know, limiting, and at times I want more. You can feel … overlooked. You can feel resentment.”
“The fact is that you married a guy’s guy,” said Erin, sweeping crumbs off the table and into her open palm. “That part of Pete was appealing to you then. People go through different phases in life, and sometimes they need other things. They change. It doesn’t mean that Pete can’t change a little too. He is a really good man, and you know that. But you have to start the conversation, Maura.” They were both silent for a moment.
“But honestly, I don’t think you can change the fundamental nature of a human being. I think we’re all born wired a certain way and you can only tinker with that to a degree. You can dress a pig up in a tutu but that doesn’t mean he is a ballerina.” They both laughed, letting some of the air out of the moment, and Maura shot Erin a grateful look. Sarah had tired of the games on the floor, and hearing her mother’s outburst she walked over and put her hand on Maura’s knee.
“Show me one marriage where the couple is always on the same page anyway, right?” scoffed Erin, rising from the table and grabbing a bag of pretzels on the counter for her niece. “That’s not real life, and you know it. There are times I want to strangle Brad, just hang him up by his necktie in the garage,” and they laughed again.
“But at least he brings out the trash cans and lines them up.” Maura gestured out the window toward the neat row of cans in front of the garage.
“Brad?” Erin laughed. “That was me, who are you kidding?”
“Do you ever think about what it would have been like if you’d married someone other than Brad?” Maura asked nonchalantly, gathering her coat from the chair back and searching for where she’d set her purse and Sarah’s coat.
“Sure. Who hasn’t? But I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about who. If you married someone else then everything about your life now would be different, especially the fact that you’d have completely different kids, and I can’t even imagine that.” Erin looked down uncomfortably before glancing back at Maura. Her comment seemed not to have registered. “You’re not thinking about that now, are you?” she asked. “Marrying someone else?”
For just a moment, the urge to confess her relationship with Art dangled enticingly in the forefront of Maura’s brain. It would be so tempting, so relieving to tell the person in the world that knew her best all that had transpired. Everybody needed to tell at least one person a secret, was how the saying went. It would feel like a burden lifted. But something stopped her. What she had with Art was finished. No matter what Erin thought about Pete and his behavior, he was still her brother-in-law, and she loved him too. Nothing good could come from this admission, especially to her sister. This transgres
sion was too close to home, and she let the moment pass.
19
Standing in snow boots and Roger’s old down ski jacket, Margaret surveyed her frozen garden with the remains of the cigarette between her fingers. Fall had turned the corner abruptly into winter. The first frost had long ago come and gone, crinkling and browning the tips of the leaves and sagging the stalks. She had dug up the dahlia tubers and placed them in peat moss for the winter, storing them in the basement crawl space where the temperature was constant.
Chicagoland had already experienced its first snowfall, although it had since melted, and there was a storm predicted for this weekend. Somewhere down the street, she could smell a fire in the chimney, and it made her wistful. Margaret took another drag and tapped the ash into the stirring breeze. She exhaled the smoke in one long, thin stream and lifted the cuff of her coat to study her watch. 10:30 A.M. She took one last puff, crushed the cigarette under her heel, and carried the butt into the shed to dispose of it in the empty Altoid container by the weed killer. Shutting the garden shed door, she headed back toward the house. A breeze ruffled her hair and stirred the willow branch above her, creating a moaning sound that was almost human.
The rest of the day stretched before her with neatly filled time slots. Next, lunch and bridge, after that a visit at Maura’s to watch Sarah while she ran to the vet or to do some other errands. They must have spent a fortune on that dog by now, Margaret thought to herself. Her daughter had certainly headed to the vet’s office numerous times over the past year with all that animal’s ailments.
Margaret thought ahead to dinner tonight. She would defrost two chicken breasts and sauté them in a basil-lemon marinade with some Vidalia onions. She had a bunch of limp asparagus in the fridge that needed eating, and she would steam that with a little salt. Both she and Roger had to watch their high blood pressure and she’d been making an effort to cook more healthfully, with less butter and more olive oil, but Roger often complained her chicken was dry. Lately they had enjoyed more intimate dinner conversations, and she’d begun to relish mealtime, which no longer felt like an obstacle to be overcome.
Stepping indoors the change in temperature assailed her, and she stamped her feet in the back hall before reaching to remove her boots and the jacket. She could smell burned tobacco on her fingers, so she scrubbed her hands with coarse garden soap in the kitchen sink. As she pulled the plastic-wrapped chicken breasts from the freezer, she was struck by their resemblance to two pink hands, poised to pray. And then the phone trilled before she could unwrap them.
“Hello?”
“Margaret?” Roger’s voice had an edge to it.
“Yes, Roger?”
“I’ll be home a little early tonight. I just thought … I thought I’d let you know so we could eat together.” Roger’s voice had a halting quality to it. A low-level alarm went off. Maybe he didn’t feel well. Roger was never one to admit it.
“That’s fine. I’ve got chicken thawing.” Something in his tone told her not to pry right now. She lowered the two breasts in a bowl of hot tap water to defrost. She had once read that you weren’t supposed to freeze meat in its Styrofoam supermarket packaging. Apparently there was some kind of cancer-causing chemical that was released from the foamy container. Her kitchen freezer was a study in individual plastic- and foil-wrapped items, each carefully labeled with a Sharpie in portions of ones and twos.
Margaret thought about how you could spend your life trying to stay well, buckling your seat belt, eating organic food, wearing sunscreen, and then bad things could still rise up out of nowhere. Senseless things. She shook her head and pushed those thoughts away. She needed to make the marinade and get dressed for bridge.
By 4:30 P.M. Margaret was back in the kitchen, the chicken was already in the pan, and she diced the onions and pulled out the gold-rimmed fine china to set the table. They needed to use it more often, she thought. The kids had actually convinced her of this, arguing that it mostly collected dust. The sight of it might cheer Roger, Margaret mused. The sun was setting so early now, she noticed, there was so much less daylight in winter, no wonder more people suffered from depression in northern climates.
“Hello,” Roger called out halfheartedly an hour later from the back hall. As he walked into the kitchen, setting down his briefcase, she detected a faint look of defeat, a stooped weariness.
Margaret smiled automatically, feigning diffidence. She had learned that the most effective way to extract information from her husband was to wait patiently, like a great white hunter in the Saharan grass. She had endured years of his distancing himself, and she knew better than to pounce now.
“Dinner can be ready soon,” she said, measuring the rice.
“I’m going to make a drink first.” Roger laid his suit jacket over the back of the chair and headed to the cupboard for a highball glass. She heard the freezer open and the rattle of the ice hit the bottom of the crystal.
“Well, the wild rice will take at least forty minutes,” she said.
Roger ignored her and opened the door to the liquor cabinet. The ice crackled as the bourbon engulfed it.
“Good day?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Not really.” He set the glass down and loosened his tie at the neck.
“Oh?”
“I don’t … I don’t have the role I had hoped for on the Crown deal.”
Margaret waited, drawing in her breath thinly, rather than risk making a noise. She wondered what direction this conversation would take, although she was slightly relieved that his darkened mood appeared only to be about some perceived slight in the workplace.
Margaret poked the chicken breasts with a fork to absorb the last of the marinade and flipped them over in the pan. Next she cut the ends off the asparagus spears, lowering them into the steamer while leaving the burner off. The kitchen began to fill with the moist smell of the rice, and she lowered the temperature under the pan. Margaret grazed her fingertips over the white napkins on the table, straightening them, waiting for him to say more. She was afraid Roger might grind to a halt if their eyes met.
“It may be time to think about retiring,” he said simply.
“Really?” Margaret worked to keep her expression even. The remark didn’t fully register at first. Did she feel surprise, shock, or even relief?
“Sometimes in your gut it’s just time,” he said, simply. “I’ve been doing this kind of work for almost forty years.”
“Almost all of your professional life,” she added more gently. Roger drained the last of his cocktail and set the glass down hard on the kitchen counter, causing Margaret to flinch. As he walked back to the liquor cabinet, his gait seemed unsteady, and he stilled himself against the counter with one hand. This had not been his first drink, she realized.
“Right now, Margaret, in corporate America”—he stumbled over this last word slightly—“there is nothing more obsolete than a white man over fifty.”
“Come, sit,” she urged softly, “while I finish cooking.” Roger moved toward the table almost trancelike, his face projecting an emotion she couldn’t quite fathom. This unstable Roger was unnerving. Whatever was troubling him was very close to the surface; the transparency of his emotions vexed her. If this had been about any other topic, anything but their future and his sense of security and position, she realized, it might have made her feel smug in an upside-down way. But something was wrong. Roger was off, somehow, and his unassailable confidence had been something she had always taken for granted. His position in the family and his career success had been a bedrock in their marriage. Margaret pulled a cork out of the remains of a bottle of pinot grigio and poured herself a glass, turning the heat down on the chicken. As she crossed the room to join him at the kitchen table, a slurry of fear fluttered in her chest.
They both sipped their drinks for a while in silence, and then she rose to turn the burner on under the asparagus. She could think of nothing else to say that would either calm him or prov
oke an elaboration. “You used the good china, Mother, what’s the occasion?” he asked in a flat voice.
“I wanted to do something different and unexpected, I guess. We need to use it all more I’ve decided. The silver too.”
“Very nice.” He sat back appraising, head lowered slightly as he swirled the ice in his glass. She could tell his mind was elsewhere. “Let’s see what’s happening in the world.” Roger grabbed the remote to click on the small TV under the kitchen counter, and Margaret rose to check the asparagus as the chicken simmered. Within ten minutes she had served up dinner and they watched the rest of the day’s news, chewing in silence. The familiar patter of the local ABC anchor, Kathy, was a relief.
Later that night, after she’d washed her face and run through her bedtime routine, Roger surprised her, reaching for her in bed with a boozy, sloppy kiss that she found largely distasteful. But she kept silent and returned his advances, both surprised and delighted by the unfamiliar forcefulness of Roger’s passion. There was tenderness there too, and a probing softness to his touch; his murmurings ambushed her heart. Lying there next to him in the dark, after their lovemaking, she felt tears prick her eyes unexpectedly. She felt a sense of … was it gratitude? Yes, she was grateful for her husband’s spontaneous display of love.
An hour later she awoke to a gargling in the back of Roger’s throat, no doubt magnified by the alcohol he’d consumed. Margaret lay with her gyrating thoughts, contemplating Roger’s words in the kitchen, his desperate, clutching ardor in bed, and the sudden possibility of a new future with retirement. How might her world be configured with Roger home every day?