The Search for Maggie Ward

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “I don’t think I want to have you angry at me.” We started to walk through the arboretum again.

  “I’ll never be that angry at you. And it was more fear than anger. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Silence for a few moments. Harsh memories had taken the spring out of her step.

  Wonderful.

  “Let’s go back,” she demanded abruptly.

  “Why?”

  “You know why. I’m hungry.”

  “For what?”

  “Food. First, anyway.”

  Lunch was charcoal roast beef sandwiches with fresh tomatoes, chocolate ice cream, and a bottle of red wine.

  Naturally.

  Her radiant glow seemed to attract everyone—waiters, waitresses, the manager and his wife, the handful of other guests, to our table.

  “See what a little sex does for you,” I whispered.

  “Be quiet. And pour me some more wine.”

  “All right.” I emptied the bottle in her glass, all but the dregs. I had explained to her the previous night why you didn’t consume the dregs. “Are you interested in the agenda for the rest of the day?”

  “You mean after our nap? Sure.”

  “After our nap, my friend Chief Arnold at the service station will have Roxy ready at five-thirty. Then I’ll drive you to the Biltmore, drop you off with whoever your friends are there, check in myself, spend a restful night, hopefully with you, leave Roxy in your charge, and catch a plane back to Chicago. It will take me a few weeks to get life organized there and then I’ll come back for you. We can plan our future then.”

  Holes in it? Sure. I wanted to make up my mind about Andrea King without her physical presence to distract me. I should have said that we would both catch a plane to Chicago.

  I wonder what my life would have been like if I had said those words.

  Well, I didn’t and that’s that.

  “No,” she said flatly. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m not lying, Andrea; I will come back for you.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried that you will sneak back into those terrible mountains by yourself. I won’t let you.”

  “You’re right, lovely mind reader, that’s what I intended to do.”

  “Well,” she said, grimly determined. “I won’t let you.”

  I was learning that it was pointless to argue with my bride when she made up her mind.

  Dear God in heaven, she wanted to protect me.

  “All right,” I said slowly, feeling somehow trapped, “we’ll drive on to Globe, spend the night, and do the Apache Trail tomorrow.”

  “That’s settled then. Now may I have just one more scoop of ice cream, please.”

  Outside of the dining room there was a small gift shop with souvenirs, mostly presentable handicraft and some clothes. I bought bolo ties for Dad and Packy and silver Apache jewelry for Mom and Joanne and another gift or two.

  “Andrea King, see that red nightgown? It matches your hair. Buy it.”

  She gasped in horror. “That terrible, indecent thing? I will not. A person could see right through it.”

  Fairly close to being transparent, it was indecent for the time—long before Frederick’s of Hollywood and the era when prostitute clothes of former ages became standard issue for suburban housewives.

  “I believe that’s the general idea.”

  “I will absolutely never buy it.” Her hand reached out for the money I was offering her. “Never.”

  “I understand.”

  “What’s more,” she said as she held it briefly in front of her to make sure it would fit and then quickly pulled it away, “I certainly will not put it on the minute we go back to our silly old bridal suite.”

  “I understand.”

  I was banished from the store and forced to wait for my “bride”—as I was now routinely thinking of her despite my hesitations and reservations—in the lobby. She emerged from the store, flushed and pleased with herself, the gown in a small package hidden behind her back.

  “The woman thought you would look gorgeous in it,” I suggested with, I’m afraid, a lewd grin.

  As I followed her up the steps, unable to match the speed of her happy bounce, and ogled her trim hips, for which I had scandalous plans, I realized how much I loved this strange, bewitching, rather frightening child/woman. I was not yet ready, however, to tell her that I loved her. Nor had I forgotten her uncle and the carving knife.

  She let me open the door to our suite, leapt into the room, and closed the door in my face. I had to make a number of virtuous promises that I did not intend to keep before, with a great pretense of reluctance, she let me in.

  I promptly took her in my arms, broke all my promises, and crushed her with my kisses.

  “Stop that.” She shoved against me unpersuasively. “You promised.”

  “You’re a provoking woman. I hereby withdraw my promise not to spank you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Go put on that nightgown.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then I’ll tickle you all afternoon.”

  “Stop it! You’re a brute and a beast! A … a Capone stooge!”

  “Because I’m from Chicago?”

  “Stop!” She was giggling, squirming to avoid my fingers, and provoking me all the more. “All Chicagoans are mobsters! Please stop!”

  “Will you put on this expensive gown?”

  “It’s rayon and it shrinks and spots and tears easily. Just remember that when you try to take it off me.”

  “Am I supposed to do that?”

  “Well”—she flounced toward the bathroom—”I certainly don’t intend to. That would be what the nuns”—a final laugh before she slammed the door—”called immodest.”

  Poor little kid. Today was an oasis of laughter in the gloomy desert of her life. I would have to change all that.

  I drew the draperies on the sky, which was now a thick roll of cotton—bunched-up white clouds with occasional dark and dirty patches—stretched from one far horizon to the other. Our bedroom was hot and in the twilight of the drawn draperies seemed to invite swampy, earthy licentiousness, which suited me fine. It was a time to be dissolute, orgiastic.

  Orgies are an excellent idea; the mix of behavior changes with the years, but the pleasure, if anything, improves. I have never been able to understand why we humans don’t arrange for more of them. Afraid of them, perhaps.

  My wife has promised me a spectacular orgy if I ever finish this manuscript, the best ever she claims. We’ll see.

  I took off my clothes and hung them up carefully, lest my fastidious bride be offended. Then I opened the bottle of cognac I had smuggled into the room, filled two large glasses with ice and poured the liquor into them, up to the brim.

  “Have you disappeared on me?” I yelled.

  “I want to be perfect.” The joking was over and we were now settling down to the serious business of orgy.

  Then the door opened, slowly, hesitantly. “I’m embarrassed.”

  “And I’m sure radiant.”

  “I don’t know.” She peeked out the door. “Look at you, no clothes on at all.” Her face softened. “Oh, Jerry, you’re the one who’s radiant. Why did the nuns tell us that women don’t admire the bodies of men?”

  “Maybe they didn’t.… Come on out, woman, or I’ll come and get you.”

  “And you’re not embarrassed at all. If I were as beautiful as you …”

  “Who said I wasn’t embarrassed?” I was, to tell the truth, and also pleased and self-satisfied.

  Finally, with the same modesty with which the sun rises, hesitant but still utterly self-confident, she joined me in our bedroom, head down, hands behind her back, face, neck and slim shoulders crimson and alluring.

  I’ll never forget that picture. Andrea King, as she claimed to be then, was all the beauty in the universe combined into one womanly body—and mine for the taking, the using, the enjoying. She wanted to be p
erfect for me. And she was. However I wanted and as long as I wanted.

  She had carefully applied makeup and liberally doused herself in perfume. Every lovely portion of her lovely self was an invitation and a present.

  “Stop looking at me that way,” she murmured.

  “How do you know how I’m looking at you,” I laughed, “when you’re not looking at me?”

  “I can tell. Anyway, you know all my secrets. What’s left to surprise you?”

  “I know only a little bit.” I pried one of her hands from behind her back and drew her to our bed. “About some of your secrets. It would take several lifetimes, at least, to be cured of surprise.”

  We sat on the bed, in no rush. I imprisoned the hand I had captured on my thigh, although it showed no disposition to attempt escape. Her other hand still hid behind her back, not yet ready for complete capitulation.

  “What do you think of me, Jerry Keenan?”

  “I adore you, isn’t that obvious?”

  “No, I mean, am I at all attractive?”

  Later in life I would learn that women require constant assurance on that subject. And you can’t provide too much. Maybe men require it, too.

  “You’re a magnificent woman, a grand duchess, like I’ve been saying.”

  Her other hand finally deserted its hideaway and rested comfortably on my thigh near its mate. “I’m not a woman, I’m only a girl, just a few years away from dolls. Almost any body my age is useful for screwing.”

  “Such terrible language from a sisters’ school student.”

  “Regardless …”

  I remembered something my father had once said about a pretty and promising fifteen-year-old on our pier at Lake Geneva.

  “Give yourself a few more years, Andrea. Wait till you’re twenty-four or twenty-five. Put on most of those ten pounds of which you’re afraid. Enjoy a lot of loving. Experience more of life. Bear a child or two. Read a lot more of those heavy Russian novels. When all that’s been done, you’ll find one day that you’ve rounded, in a number of different senses of that word”—I smiled and began to explore some of her present roundness—”into a wonderfully mature woman at whom both men and women will stare in astonishment for at least a half century.”

  The other possibility, my father had observed, is that such a one can wither before she’s twenty-one if the graces—his word—don’t all fall into place.

  “I won’t live to be twenty-five,” she said as though it were a settled matter. “Probably not even to be twenty.”

  My fingers ceased abruptly their stealthy journey toward the dense jungle of her loins. “Don’t be ridiculous, my darling.” I kissed her softly. “Of course you will. What makes you think you won’t?”

  “I won’t, that’s all. Maybe already …”

  “Maybe already what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not an answer, my darling.”

  “It should be clear by now, Commander”—her eyes flared with quick anger—”that there are some questions I don’t answer. Love me, please.” The anger died, she bowed her head and pressed her lips to my loins. “Don’t cross-examine me.”

  “I hate to disturb you, but perhaps I should remove this precious gown, lest we spoil it during our game.”

  “I’ll take if off.” She stripped off the gown in a single quick and breathtaking movement. “I don’t know what’s the point in dressing up like this, only to undress.”

  “To delight me as you walk to my bed. A place where we tolerate no nightgowns.”

  “Tell that to your other women.”

  “There are no other women, Andrea.” I pulled her down on the bed next to me. “There never will be.”

  We rested contentedly next to each other. Then I remembered the cognac.

  “Your health, Andrea.” I gave her one of the glasses and toasted her with the other.

  “And yours … Oh, my, this is good with ice. Why didn’t you tell me about drinking it with ice before? You know that I’m a hedonist, like the nuns said.”

  “A strange time to be thinking about the nuns.” I sipped some of my drink and with the other hand began to caress her again.

  “I think about them all the time. Hmm … this is almost as good as you are.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a hedonist.” I put my glass aside. “Right now I’m about to become an unrestrained hedonist. No, not quite yet. Stand up, please. And close your eyes.”

  “A new part of the game?”

  “Kind of. Eyes shut tight? Put your hands over them.”

  “Yes, Commander, sir.”

  “It’s not proper for a woman to be totally naked when she’s making love, so I have a present that will protect your modesty even when you’ve shed that delightful gown.” I lowered the silver-and-jade Apache pendant over her head.

  “Feels like something very seductive,” she said softly. “Can I open my eyes and look?”

  “Not too long, because I still have my hedonism to pursue.”

  She opened her eyes and burst into tears. “It’s too nice, Jerry. You shouldn’t have wasted your money.”

  Why a pendant instead of a ring? I’d almost purchased the ring and then lost my nerve.

  “I’ll take it back.” I put my fingers over hers on the pendant.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Then let’s drink a toast to the future.”

  “To the present.”

  “All right, to the present.”

  Naked in the dim light of our room, we solemnly drank to whatever the gift of the Apache jewelry meant.

  “Now comes the hedonism.” I suited my actions to my words, taking complete possession of her. I dragged her into the bed and promptly began to cover her smooth, soft body with kisses and nibbles.

  “Oh, Jerry, I love you so much.” Her capitulation was rapid and impetuous.

  I don’t know whether she expected a reply. I couldn’t find the words for it.

  Then, lying first side by side, then entwined with one another, and driven by our youthful hungers and desires and needs to the farthest extremes of rapture, we forgot about everything but our passion. I discovered in those moments what oblivion in sex really means.

  Yet while I was on top of her and inside of her and she spread-eagled and helpless under me, long after I thought words were possible, she whispered, “Whatever happens, Jerry, always remember these few days were the happiest of my life.”

  Finally consumed by our game, we napped for a time in one another’s arms.

  Her words still echoed in my head when I awoke. What could I say? I had promised to take her home to Chicago and care for her through the rest of our lives. She didn’t reject the offer; rather she treated it as thought it were nice but irrelevant.

  She had awakened before me and, towel at her hips, was watching the big sky, which had turned from cotton white to somber gray while we had played and slept.

  I slipped from the bed, put my arms around her as I had done the night before, and imprisoned her warm and sweat-covered breasts. It was again like holding the cosmos in my hands. She did not respond. Was the bloom wearing off?

  “Something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Faint smile. “You’d never hurt anyone … your father must be terribly good to your mother and sister.”

  A fair enough Freudian observation long before we all became Freudians. The old man, as my wife would observe at his wake many years later, had treated every woman as if she were a queen. Old-fashioned, she continued, but marvelously effective.

  “Sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  “No.” Another faint grin.

  I flicked away the towel. She drew a very deep breath, partly, it seemed, of dismay and disapproval. I moved my fingers back and forth across the fertile plains of her small, flat belly, brushing the forest regions beyond. “You’re sure?”

  “Uhm-hum.”

  If I’d been more experienced then
, I would have known that a man never loses when he errs on the side of consideration for apparent reluctance. If the reluctance is real, he receives many points for his kindness and is rewarded later. If, on the other hand, it is merely temporary indecision, his consideration loads the scales in favor of a vehemently positive response to his advance.

  Once my marriage was in the bottom of a deep trough. My wife and I had been fighting for months. We had not spoken to each other for a week. Nonetheless I accompanied her to another city, where she was to make a presentation at a professional meeting. She was brilliant, as always, and my hardened heart was filled with pride, then longing, and finally need, which I had thought would never return. Back in our hotel room I began the preliminaries of lovemaking. She responded with what I would describe as a patient submissiveness that only heightened my desires. I had her half undressed, more or less, when I realized that she was dubious about the whole enterprise, ready to do her wifely duty, but not ready to enjoy it, much less to use this potentially romantic situation—alone together in a hotel in a distant city—as an occasion to turn our wobbly marriage around.

  So I stopped. “I haven’t forced you and I never will.”

  “Damn it!” She turned furiously away from me. “I hate you. And the reason I hate you the most”—she turned back to me, her face softened, her body complaisant—”is that you are so wonderful that I can’t hate you for more than five minutes at a time.”

  Then she threw herself on me and pinned me to the bed. “All the time I was talking,” she said as I was being swept by a thunder squall of kisses, “I watched you beaming proudly, and I prayed to God that you’d want to make love. Then, when you did, I acted like a bitch.”

  “Only at first,” I managed to say.

  So we had our orgy and our turning point. There were other troughs, but none so deep.

  So a man never loses if he’s considerate. Which is not the same as being timid. My wife says that timidity is rarely my problem.

  I don’t suppose it would have made any difference in what happened later, but I did not have sense enough to use the same strategy that afternoon in Superior during July in 1946.

  So my hands explored once again the dense copse at her thighs and then, as she was gasping with arousal, I bore her back to our bed and repeated the scenario of the previous night.