by Sally Koslow
inal last name endlessly amusing—or what bruisers the men were
here. He made his SUV look like a Matchbox car. “Hop in,” he said.
Magnolia hoisted herself into the backseat, where a rosy Polartec
swaddled baby slept sweetly in a car seat.
“That’s our youngest, Bjorn,” Misty said. “We’re picking up the
big ones on the way to your hotel. Be there in a jiff.”
“No rush, guys,” Magnolia said. “And thanks for meeting me. I
can’t believe I’m here.”
“Say what?” Bucky asked.
“Excuse me?” Magnolia said.
“Ya, you’re right, Misty,” he said. “She did get herself a New York
accent.”
“Don’t be a dork, Bucky,” Misty said. “She has not.” Misty paused. “Well, maybe a little. Like that woman on The Nanny reruns.” Magnolia, used to being complimented on her all-American dic
tion, faked a laugh and looked out the window. It was only 3:45 in the afternoon but the northern light was rapidly fading. As Bucky drove
on the crunchy, snow-packed streets, Misty delivered a voice-over.
“See that house”—she pointed to a tidy split level surrounded by
a few, bare trees. “That’s where Scott and Jen live now.” Magnolia
guessed she was supposed to remember who they were. “And that one
over there”—a vinyl-sided ranch already heavily illuminated for
Christmas—“was Tom and Deb’s, but he hooked up with Cynthia.
Deb’s a lesbian now. Moved to the Twin Cities.” Misty raised her eye
brows in mock shock.
Just as Magnolia began to try to imagine what life might have been
like had she never left Fargo—would she be with Tom, assuming she
could recall who he was? would she own a set of jumper cables and
know what to do with them?—Bucky and Misty stopped in front of a
school whose playground had been flooded with water that had frozen
to create a skating rink. The jolt awoke the baby, who started to wail.
In one fluid motion, Misty exited the SUV’s front passenger door,
popped around and opened the back door, unbuckled the car seat, and
plopped the startled child in Magnolia’s lap, saying “We’ll be back in
two shakes—mind the baby, okay?”
The chunky little boy took one look at Magnolia and cried at twice
the volume. She tried to bounce him on her lap—that’s what mom
mies did—but he felt heavier than Biggie, and her jerks succeeded
only in making tears stream down his little chapped face. The child
pulled off one red mitten, tossed it on the floor, and shrieked even
louder. This roused the sleeping dog, who leaped over the seat and
began to slobber on Magnolia’s mink and pant hotly in her face. She
could see the dog’s breath in the chilly car.
“What’s your name again?” Magnolia asked the unhappy infant. Lorne? Porn? “Bjorn!” Had Misty named her child for that Swedish tennis champ with the scraggly hair and headband? When they were both thirteen, she dimly remembered his face on a cover of Time plastered to her friend’s bedroom wall. Or was Bjorn the cool ethnic
name here, the Upper Midwest equivalent of Jaden or Aiden?
She stared out the window, which was getting fogged. Where were
Bucky and Misty? The doors opened. Three apple-cheeked cherubs carrying ice skates
crowded into the seat behind Magnolia, a blur of primary-colored
jackets, pom-pom hats, and boots.
“I’m Brittany,” said a mini Misty. “These are the twins, Brett and
Brendan.”
“Meet Mrs. Goldfarb, kids,” Bucky said.
“Hello Mrs. Goldfarb,” Brittany said in a singsong that matched
her parents.
“Actually, that’s my mother—you can call me Magnolia.”
“That’s a dumb name.”
“Company manners, Brittany,” Misty said, not unkindly, to her
daughter. “Maggie can call herself whatever she wants.”
She turned around to face Magnolia as she continued their tour—
the coffee bar where Siegel’s Menswear used to be, the sewage treat
ment plant, the nonexistent landscaping. And in less than five
minutes, they were pulling up to her hotel. “You’re going to love it
here at the Donaldson—just like South Beach,” Misty said.
I’ll be the judge of that, Magnolia thought.
“Pick you up for supper at seven,” Misty shouted out the window
as the SUV huffed around the corner.
The last time she’d been in Fargo—twelve years earlier, before
her parents abandoned the state for tennis in nonstop 70-degree
sunshine—this hotel had been a flophouse. Now, from what Magnolia
could tell, the whole town was getting subversively trendy. Loft condos
had sprouted up where pawnshops used to be. A patisserie stood next to
a tractor factory rehabbed into a sleek, postmodern office building that
appeared to be furnished by Design Within Reach. Where were the
endless freight trains whose cars she’d counted as a child, trains that
dissected Fargo four times a day and made traffic—such as it was—
come to a standstill? Magnolia hadn’t seen a one. And had all the lumpy,
polyester people of her memory migrated, perhaps to South Dakota?
At the Donaldson, a bellman opened the door to a suite twice the
size of Magnolia’s first New York studio apartment. The walls were
decorator white and the carpeting, sisal. “Is that a hot tub?” Magnolia asked the bellman, pointing to what
looked like a small lap pool.
“Ya, you betcha,” he said. “Welcome to the HoDo.”
She wondered whether its water would freeze like the skating rink.
As soon as he had left, she jacked up the thermostat to eighty degrees
and kept her coat on as she unpacked. Maybe she would cancel Misty.
HBO on the gigantic, flat-screened TV; a run-through of tomorrow’s
speech; and room service sounded like a fine night. She studied the
menu, which promised “artisanal twists on classic regional favorites.”
What might they be? In the Goldfarb home, artisanal food was kugel,
brisket, pastrami and rye bread—imported from Winnipeg or Min
neapolis—and the occasional Sara Lee coffee cake. Here, who knew?
Lutefisk? Jell-O martinis? Perhaps she’d drop in at the bar and check
out the R&B band. Or the poetry reading. Really, her stay was going to
be better than Disney World, and all for $144 a night.
The telephone rang. She hoped it was Misty, canceling.
“Maggie?” asked a nervous, high-pitched voice.
It couldn’t be.
“I read about your speech tomorrow in the Forun,” he said. “Welcome home.”
“Tyler! Or do I have to call you Pastor Peterson now?”
“You heard I got ordained?”
“Did you have a choice?”
“Ya, it’s kind of a family business.” When they grew up, Tyler’s
dad herded the flock of Fargo’s largest Lutheran church, of which
there were as many as Forest Gump had shrimp dishes. All of his
older brothers had become ministers. “So, anyway, I was wonder
ing …”
“Yes, Tyler?”
“If you could meet me? I’m in the bar downstairs.”
Would Tyler wear a minister’s collar? Carry a bible? Say grace? Magnolia threaded her way through the dark, crowded hotel lounge, searching for the dirty-blond hair that used
to hang over her high
school boyfriend’s eyes. Next to several men in orange, deer-hunting
clothing, a group of shrill college girls dominated one end of the
smoky bar, their male counterparts circling them like the chorus of a
Bollywood movie. Magnolia turned in the opposite direction, where
a few couples were sipping margaritas and chomping tortilla chips.
No Tyler.
Maybe he wasn’t going to show. Worse, maybe it had been a joke
instigated by Bucky, who would roar through the door, slapping his
beefy thigh and shouting, “Got ya, Goldfarb. Still got the hots for
Tyler Peterson, huh?” She sat at a table and waited, crossing her arms
against her breasts. Even with a layer of silk long johns under her
jeans and a thick cashmere turtleneck, Magnolia wondered how she
had ever survived here in Iglooville.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. In place of the Tyler she remem
bered stood a serious man with wire-rimmed glasses and a blue knit
ski hat. She could easily picture him at a desk in a bank, granting a
loan to a customer in a John Deere cap. He stared at her and didn’t
seem able to speak. Nor could she.
“Maggie,” he said, after what felt like minutes. “I like your hair
long.” He brushed away her bangs, and as his hand grazed her cheek,
she shivered—this time not from the cold—and pulled him close,
breathing in the clean scent of skin she’d know anywhere.
“Aw, heck, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, as they sat down
together. He pulled off his hat; his hair had turned brown. Magnolia
blinked away her tears.
“It’s just so great to be home.” She lied. The truth was, if she
wanted to go to a Starbucks or a Gap, she could find dozens at home in
Manhattan, with the same caramel macchiatos and boot-cut jeans.
Nothing about Fargo felt remotely like the sweetly unadorned town of
her memory. Nothing except Tyler Peterson. As he settled into his
chair, she could picture him on the bench in his football uniform,
turning shyly to look for her in the bleachers.
“I don’t suppose you want the local specialty, a prairie fire—tequila and Tabasco?” Tyler said, as he smiled for the first time and ordered
them a pitcher of beer. “Tell me about your life in New York.”
“Magazine editor. Two wheaten terriers. Good friends. Not a lot to
tell,” she said. Not a lot she wanted to tell. She didn’t know how to edit
the caption for her life in a way that wouldn’t give Tyler the opportu
nity to denounce her as an urban sinner. Divorcee, workaholic, child
less woman, big spender. “You?”
“Church in a town where the tallest building is the grain elevator,” he
said, looking at his hands. “Wife, two kids, small house, big mortgage.”
“Circle back to that wife part.”
“Jody’s the sunniest girl I ever met.”
“Sounds perfect,” Magnolia said, thinking no one was ever going
to call her sunny. “Tell me everything.”
“She’s a preacher’s kid, too; knows the drill; makes a mean ham
burger hot dish, teaches bible camp, can sew a Halloween costume
that fits over a parka,” he said, looking Magnolia straight in the eye
for the first time. “But nothing’s perfect.”
The hue and cry of married men on the make, she thought, then
squashed the idea. Don’t flatter yourself, Magnolia. Tyler is probably
here to save your soul. “I guess it’s the not-perfect part that keeps your
business alive,” she said.
“Secret of my success—people don’t show up on Sunday for my
sermons.”
“Pictures?” Magnolia asked.
Tyler reached into the pocket of his corduroys, pulled out a canvas
wallet, and opened it to a shot of two young teenagers—a pudgy,
sunburned girl and a boy who looked remarkably like the Tyler who
had sat next to her in geometry class twenty years earlier. They
were standing in front of an RV. “We took this last summer at
Yellowstone,” he said proudly.
“They’re so old,” Magnolia stammered. She had prepared herself
for babies.
“We sort of had to get married,” he said and laughed again, this
time nervously, absentmindedly rubbing his bare ring finger. “Tyler Peterson, are you blushing? It’s not like you were a virgin.”
As soon as Magnolia said it she wondered if she shouldn’t take down
the smart-ass tone a notch. When she last knew this man, he did not
have an ironic bone in his damn good body.
“My wife reads your magazine,” he said. “She’s been following
your career.”
“My brilliant career?” Magnolia said, bristling at the “wife” word. “So I guess you know that Bebe Blake runs the show now.”
“Jody figured that out. Watches Bebe every day,” he said. “I don’t
get that woman. Can you explain her to me?”
“I doubt it,” Magnolia said. But the look on Tyler’s face showed he
expected an answer.
“Hot-and-cold-running ego. But just when you really start hating
her, she does something decent. Then, when you let yourself like her,
she ignores you completely.”
“Why do you submit yourself to that?” he asked.
“Well …” Magnolia said. It was an utterly reasonable question,
but she wasn’t quite ready for pastoral counseling. Because even a not
great job is better than men, who never fail to disappoint? Because she
was afraid that living in a place as regular as Fargo would be an
e-ticket to hell?
“Maggie Goldfarb, are you blushing?” Tyler asked. He filled their
glasses for the second time, put his hand on top of hers and slowly
moved his palm toward her wrist. She felt warm everywhere, as if
they’d both stripped and were breathing heavily under the universe’s
most luxurious duvet. “Soft,” he said, as he moved his fingers toward
her arm.
Soft, she repeated to herself. She time-traveled to their first date,
when they’d French-kissed for hours in the back of the Fargo Theatre
and she confirmed firsthand the definition of the term “orgasm.”
Tyler continued to stroke her wrist until he reached her watch.
Magnolia jolted back to reality. “Jesus, Tyler,” she said. “Oh, Christ,
sorry I said ‘Jesus.’ What time is it?” She yanked her arm away and
quickly stood. “Bucky is picking me up in five minutes.” “That fool who hawks cars on Channel Four?” he asked, not sound
ing one bit like the Reverend-anything.
“Don’t act like you don’t remember Bucky,” she said. “You were
on the same football team.” Is he jealous, she wondered? And are
they both insane? “It’s not a date—it’s supper. Misty Knight is the one
who invited me to speak tomorrow.” Why was she explaining this to
Tyler?
“But when will I see you?” he said as he stood up to help her into
her coat.
“Tyler, get a grip …” she said, but this time she didn’t finish her
sentence because he leaped forward and kissed her. His tongue tasted
like slow dancing, like high-octane teenage hormones, like midnight
skinny-dipping at Pelican Lake.
She pulled
herself away, ran out the door and into the street.
Magnolia had expected Saturday’s event to be the equivalent of a lunchtime facial. It turned into a heart-lung transplant. Starting
at 8:30, seventy journalists from Montana, the Dakotas, and western
Minnesota assembled to praise and dissect one another in a drone of
panel discussions. Only at 2:30, after the last cup of weak black coffee
following pale chicken and limp broccoli bathed in hollandaise, did
Misty approach the podium for Magnolia’s introduction.
“I remember her as Maggie Goldfarb, my coeditor on the South
High newspaper, but to all of you she’s the famous New York magazine editor, the former editor in chief of Lady and now an editor with Bebe Blake on Bebe. Let’s give it up for Magnolia Gold, Fargo girl made good!” Magnolia wondered if Misty, the former cheerleading
captain, would finish with the splits.
Applause carried Magnolia to the front of the auditorium. She
looked out at the sea of faces attached to Lands’ End work clothes.
Embarrassed to think of her Manhattan colleagues seeing her feted
like a rock star, she waved for the crowd to stop clapping and signaled
a tech wonk to begin her how-a-magazine-gets-made lecture. When Magnolia read that public speaking was many people’s worst
fear, she never got it. Put her in front of a microphone and a trained
monkey took over. Where this creature came from—complete with
stand-up comic timing—she never knew, and she could rarely sum
mon her on command. Today the audience laughed and clapped at all
the right places, and, in thirty minutes that felt to her like five, her
presentation was already done.
“Questions?” she asked.
“What do you pay celebrities to be on the cover?” asked a Missoula
court reporter.
“Absolutely nothing,” Magnolia said. “No money changes hands.” Just a lot of tsuris, she thought, plus hairsplitting negotiations over locations, photographers, writers, stylists, hair and makeup crew, and
photo retouching.
“Your edit doesn’t begin until page 102,” complained a food editor
from Bismarck. “Why are there this many ads?”
“Without advertising, cover prices for magazines would be so high
no one would buy them,” Magnolia said, although every reader bitched
about the same thing. “Newsstand sales are only a small part of the