"Why are your stories so sad, Mags?" Alice pushed the pages away. "I'll have nightmares."
"Life is grim, Alice. Happy endings are only for babies and for people who bury their heads in the sand."
"Wel , give me happy endings! I'm not going to end up like one of your characters. They're always so miserable. Like you," she'd muttered under her breath.
Her teachers met with Marian more than once. Her mother cal ed her into the kitchen after one of these meetings.
"Your teachers are worried about you." Marian sat at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"They feel you're isolated from your classmates, that you're unhappy. They said your grades are stil good but your writing isn't. Too much gloom and not enough substance. Even your grammar has deteriorated."
"What if Daddy had died right after you met him?" Margaret asked, her voice solemn, her hands as neatly folded as her mother's.
Marian's whole body stiffened. "I would've died inside," she admitted.
Margaret nodded, a lump in her throat. Her mother's voice throbbed with anguish. For the first time, she felt a kinship that j had nothing to do with their shared blood.
"Sometimes I can hardly breathe," she confessed. "And it hurts to swallow." As if eating was wrong, when Andrew would never eat again.
Marian leaned across the table and wrapped her arms around
Margaret's shoulders. "He would want you to go on," she said. "He believed in you and your talent."
Margaret opened her mouth, then shut it. "One day at a time," her mother said. "Try one day at a time."
Her wardrobe gave way to baggy shirts and pants. Her hair hung over her face and she shuffled when she walked. She might have to stay bound to this earth but she didn't have to be happy about it.
Timothy Matthews, a boy in her geometry class, asked her to the movies one fal evening her junior year. She was astonished by his attention. Hopeful that her daughter would cheer up and change her attitude and her clothes, Marian agreed to the date.
Margaret never remembered the movie they saw or where they ate hamburgers afterward. But she always remembered the walk home, writing about it in her first short story that sold.
Her love for Andrew had never reached the physical stage, only a worship from afar. Timothy's nearness and the scent of his cologne caused incredible tremors to go through her. And when he stopped in the shadows of the trees on her lawn, his arm sliding around her neck, his hand drawing her head toward his, she closed her eyes, the better to catalog the experience. His warm breath against her mouth. His tongue brushing her lips.
His hand on the back of her head. His shoulders bumping hers...
When his hand slipped over her shoulder and touched the tiny nubs of her newly developing breasts, she shuddered and pushed him away.
"No," she whispered.
"No?" His voice was harsh and she backed off. "Why do you think 1 asked you out?" His hands were clenched into fists.
"I...thought you liked me." She hated how whimpery her voice was, but she couldn't get enough air to speak any louder.
His sharp crack of laughter hurt her ears and her heart. "I heard you were a good time, under al those dark clothes. The joke's on me, isn't it?"
"What?"
"It's al over school. You're a free spirit—and everyone knows what that means. Your poetry—"
"I never... I..."She whirled away from him. Her feet pounded over the grass as she raced to the front porch.
She paused long enough to school her features into a semblance of her normal expression. Praying no one was up, she pul ed open the front door.
"How was your date?" Her mother looked up from the book she was reading.
"Fine." Maybe she should consider acting instead of writing, she thought, turning toward the hal way.
"Mags, come here, honey."
At the sound of her childhood nickname, she dissolved into tears. "I miss Andrew so much!" He would never have been so coarse, so cruel to her.
"I know, sweetheart, I know." Marian smoothed a hand over her hair. "I promise it'll get easier. You'll never forget him but in time, you'l be able to remember him without hurting so much."
"But it's been more than a year!"
"Grief has no time limit, Margaret. But maybe you could stop focusing on the sad part of your relationship with him." Marian leaned back, framing Margaret's face with her hands. "Think about how fortunate you are to have known Andrew, even for that one summer. And al those letters you have from him. Not many people get to experience such a wonderful relationship."
Margaret sniffed. "It's just that sometimes I feel so alone."
"You're not alone," her mother said. "You have your sisters. Your father and me. We al love you very much.
We believe in you, honey. Just as much as Andrew did."
Margaret nodded. "I know it. But—" She gave another sigh. "It's not going to be easy."
Marian linked her arm with Margaret's, leading them both down the hal way. "No one ever said life would be easy. But you're strong enough to make a go of it, Margaret Robertson. You come from good stock."
A corner of Margaret's mouth turned up. "Good stock?"
Her mother nodded and pushed her toward her bedroom door. "The best. How else would your father and I have survived al these years with each other and with you girls?"
She kissed Margaret's cheek. "You'll make it. And one of these days, we're going to see a book on the shelf with your name on it. Just like Andrew said." She grinned. "Make sure you don't tel al our family secrets, though."
Chapter 15
Mrs. Marian Robertson,
Lincoln, Iowa
October 1954
Dear Margaret,
Thank you for the lovely anniversary present. A silver tea set from England for our 25th! I will think of you whenever I serve tea from now on. We had a wonderful trip to Chicago. Except for a few visits with Richard's family, we went sightseeing like a couple of country bumpkins. Not that I'd ever say so to your father, but we must get out more! I know my mouth was agape most of the time we were traveling around the city. I've already started a fund for our trip to England—perhaps for our thirtieth anniversary. It will take me that long to save up enough money and to convince your father to leave the shop in someone else's hands.
You're an inspiration to me, Margaret. Saving your money and working those extra jobs for this chance to study abroad. Now that you're gone, I can admit I worried about you going so far away but Anne reminded me that you're very responsible.
I can't wait to see your photographs of London! Your letter brought me right into the scenes, with your clever descriptions of Buckingham Palace, Picadil y Circus, Westminster Abbey. You write so wel ! When I think of how easily your father can make a sale, I don't wonder at the ease with which you use words. I may see if Tim is interested in your letters for the local paper. (Of course, we would leave out the personal details.) If you do see the queen, well, it's okay if you curtsey. You're there to absorb and explore the culture. Your professors would say the same thing, no doubt. We may have won our freedom from England years ago but there's something about al that royal fuss that makes you believe in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. Life may not be like that behind the palace doors but we can dream!
Enjoy your visit, my dear. We're al so proud of our world traveler!
Mom and Dad
Mrs. Marian Robertson
Lincoln, Iowa
November 1954
Dear Margaret,
By now you've probably heard that Timothy Matthews is married. He sent us an invitation but we didn't go!
Oh, Margaret, I forgot about that disastrous date with Timothy Matthews! He's married now, to a quiet girl several years younger than himself. He would like to publish your adventures. He said it could be a regular column. I'll edit out the personal parts of the letters you've sent to me or you can write some specifical y for the paper.
Paris in springtime! What a lovely possibil
ity. I'm trying not to be green with envy. I must add to our travel fund.
With the third shop opening in Cedar Rapids, we should be able to cover a vacation for your father and me.
Your father isn't keen on the long boat trip, however. He feels we should wait until there's regular air travel. I don't think I can wait that long!
Anne mentioned that you've been enjoying your evenings. I assume you write different adventures to your sister! I do hope you're being careful. I want you to be happy, Mags, as happy as I've been with your father.
Find the right man and we'll support you one hundred percent. Make sure he's worthy of you. Don't settle for anything but the best.
Enough of the motherly advice. I've discovered why women of the past wrote letters so often. It's a very liberating way of communicating. Is this how you feel when you write? I do have to be careful I don't write pages and pages or else I couldn't afford to send them by air mail. Al our love, Mom and Dad Mrs. Marian Robertson Lincoln, Iowa December 1954 Dear Margaret,
How strange not to have al my girls home for Christmas! This is part of every family's life as the children grow up but it was so different this year. Anne and Richard came for a few days and then left to visit his family. We were glad to hear you attended church. Made us al seem closer that day. Dad attached your first newspaper article to the back of the cash register in the shop. We both love this statement: "Life goes on ahead of us and life stretches behind us. What we do today will affect generations to come. We can't even fathom how much."
I'm excited to read more about our family history in "the old country" and to see photographs of your discoveries in Wales. Mother would tel us stories she'd heard from her grandfather about his childhood. Now you're stepping in those same locations.
I'll add a little family history that's more current. Did you know your father attended seminary for a year? Just before Anne was born. I sometimes wonder if we should've continued, but I like to think we've made a difference in Lincoln. The leaven in the bread, Brother Grimes would have said. He was your father's mentor and a very wise man. 1 didn't realize how wise at the time.
Your father is definitely an asset to this community, helping young people start their own businesses and being such an active part of the city council. Thank goodness he's so busy! That way he doesn't mind that I have my committees, too. My parents taught me that we should give back to our community and I've been fortunate in that I married a man who feels the same way.
Much love and Happy New Year!
Mom and Dad
Mrs. Marian Robertson
Lincoln, Iowa
January 1955
Dear Margaret,
I'm glad to hear you're back in London.
Lots of news this letter. I'm not sure what your sisters have written but I'll fil you in on their news, too. Anne and Richard are expecting! I'm so excited! I never thought about being a grandmother, even after Anne announced her engagement. But of course this is the next phase for your father and me. That baby wil be terribly spoiled. Your father's always been such an easy touch for the children that come into the shop. I have to refil that toy box at least weekly. "One toy per child," I tel him. But he never listens. (And I love him al the more for it, I must confess.)
Alice has moved out. She and Tom Carter eloped, They're living in his parents' basement apartment. We had no idea she was that serious about him, which could be another family trait. My parents didn't realize how I felt about your father, either. But I don't understand why your sister couldn't wait until after they both graduated. I don't mean to complain about her to you, but perhaps you could shed some light on what happened. She isn't pregnant, so I'm not sure of the reason for this sudden marriage.
Your father was devastated and was ready to drag her back home. The house is empty, with al of you gone now Don't worry about us, though. Enjoy the rest of your trip. We have to trust that Alice wil be fine.
Love,
Mom and Dad
Mrs. Marian Robertson
Lincoln, Iowa
March 1955
Dear Margaret,
Your trip to Paris sounds delightful! And how wonderful to have a personal tour guide fluent in French. I can't wait for your article. And the neighbors feel the same way. You're a hit!
Wel , you'll be an aunt twice over this year. Alice is expecting. She's told us several times that this was not the reason for their marriage, just a natural consequence. I worry about her, Margaret, so young and already married, with a baby on the way. The school won't let her finish her classes, even though Tom's stil al owed to go. I tried to sway the principal but he was adamant about the rules. I'll help her with the classes at home and we'll see if she can at least obtain her high school diploma.
I didn't want to upset your trip with this news, Mags, but I was worried you'd hear variations from some of your friends. Alice visits us each week and we've been having Sunday dinner together after church. Tom is a sweet boy. We want the marriage to be successful and his parents feel the same way. She'll need her sisters, and I know you'l be a support for her when you come home.
I lave a lovely last few weeks, dear.
Love,
Mom and Dad
Mrs. Marian Robertson
Lincoln, Iowa
May 1955
Dear Margaret,
Your father and I will meet you at the station in Des Moines. I'll try not to embarrass you when you arrive, but we've been a long time without our darling girl. Wil we recognize you or have you acquired a continental air that will separate you from your provincial family and friends?
Just a quick last letter with some news you should know. Alice has moved back home. She and Tom are getting a divorce. He is leaving Lincoln to go to col ege. She assures us this was a mutual decision. For now, she's going to stay with us and we're going to convert Anne's old room into a nursery. I can help with the baby and I hope she'll attend the junior col ege for the next two years.
Have a safe trip, sweetheart.
Lots of love,
Mom and Dad
Chapter 16
Lincoln, Iowa Fal 1959
The pounding woke her up. "Margaret, aren't you teaching today?" her mother cal ed through the closed door.
Groggy, she squinted at the clock on her nightstand. "Omigosl Thanks, Mom!" She scrambled out of bed, tossed on the clothe she'd laid out the night before, grabbed the slice of toast he mother handed her and raced out to her car.
The students were already seated when she entered the junior col ege classroom. She brushed her hands against her skirt, wiping off the perspiration. Her first class and she was late.
"Today is a good example of how writing can engulf you life," she said as she walked to the front of the room.
The talking stopped, al the students watching her progress. "Last night, I had a wonderful idea for a story and I wrote until the wee hours. Before I knew it, I'd overslept and I had to bolt to make it to class on time. As you can see, my bolting wasn't quite last enough."
Their laughter calmed her. She was soon engrossed in her topic—the influence of personal history on writers and their work. The bel surprised both her and the students. Fifty minutes passed more quickly when she was the teacher.
She assigned them homework—"write the autobiography of your writing life"—and dismissed them.
She packed up the books and materials she'd brought with her. At a sound from the door behind her, she paused. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to rush you but I'm teaching a class in here at nine."
She glanced over her shoulder, taking in the well tailored suit, the polished black shoes, the neat haircut. Her perusal stopped at the unruly reddish-brown beard.
He smiled and she turned away, her cheeks hot. "I must be looking at the famous local writer, Margaret Robertson. So, wil I end up in your next story?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
"How wel do you have to know someone before they get star bil ing?"
She snatched up her briefcase and marched to the door. He leaned against the wal , his long legs crossed at the ankles.
"Oh, much better than this," she couldn't resist saying. "I almost have to live with them first." She could have bitten off her tongue.
His grin widened. "Hmm. Could we start with dinner? Tonight?"
"Dinner? Tonight?" Al clever repartee was gone. No one would guess she had published even so much as a grocery list.
"I'm sorry." He lifted his hands. "Don't you eat? I'm afraid I don't understand famous writers."
A tiny semblance of her wits returned. "I do eat. It was the short notice that startled me."
He had the decency to look somewhat abashed. Or what she supposed would be abashed if she could see more of his face. "I'm assuming no one else has a claim on you. Am I wrong?"
She was tempted to say yes, to knock him down a peg, but her whole being was suffused with sudden excitement. When had she last gone on a date? The men who lived in town knew her, had always known her.
She might be a local celebrity, a writer with a number of nationally published stories to her name, but she was also the Margaret Robertson who'd wandered about the school in baggy clothes and dreary moods.
This man didn't know that Margaret.
Students filed into the room. She made a quick decision. Life was an adventure; hadn't she learned that on her European trip?
"Tonight would be fine. Seven. Ask the secretary for my address."
She eased past him and out the door.
Halfway down the hal way, she stopped. He hadn't told her his name! She pivoted and smiled when she saw him stick his head out the door. "Alex Martin."
"Thanks."
"But who is he?" Marian had asked a variation of that question ever since Margaret arrived home from her class and mentioned she was going out.
"He teaches at the col ege," Margaret repeated patiently. "Alice says he just moved here, from someplace in Kansas. She has him for a class on Monday evenings."
"But he could be married." Marian folded the towel she was holding and placed it in the basket. "He could be using you for cheap entertainment."
"I'm not exactly cheap entertainment material." Margaret laughed. "Mom, what about Dad? You ran off with him! I'm just going to dinner."
Tessa McDermid - Family Stories Page 18