“Come on, Mom. What did she say?”
“Please have Sam call me. I must talk to him.” She slammed shut the door of the empty dishwasher.
Karen called. He stared at her image in his mind’s eye and didn’t feel anything. Where had all the emotion gone? An empty space in his mind, a hollow, his heart. How amazing was this? Sam’s breath caught in a sigh, a shiver ran through his spine. Could he really be past the pain?
His thoughts turned to Margie. A graceful dancer, she appeared to float from strings manipulated from an outside force. It struck Sam that the woman lived her life the same way. Like a marionette, she played out the script of her life just as it was handed to her, never questioning her own life’s journey.
He felt a deep sadness for her son and the boy’s feelings of responsibility for his mother. But as he imagined her dancing, Sam felt something else. He shook his head in an effort to clear the emotion threatening to overtake him, but the feelings held fast and he felt daunted, confused.
He carried his coffee back to his bedroom where the radio broadcast of La Traviata was announced as the opera being aired that afternoon. Sam missed his father, but especially on Saturday. The rift between them loomed cloudy, gray and beyond reach. “I love you, Dad,” Sam told the walls. His impending departure kept nudging him like a soft punch in the arm, but Sam kept deflecting the intrusion. He thought instead of the upcoming performance he intended to enjoy.
The ringing of the phone brought Sam to his door. He listened to Allison’s voice react to the caller in a variety of musical intonations. Finally, she yelled up the stairs, “Sam, it’s for you. Karen.”
Allison had put the receiver on the kitchen counter and had left the room. Sam stared at the phone for several heartbeats before he picked it up. The drum roll beating of his heart made his chest hurt and when he spoke he was surprised at hearing his voice: a whisper.
“Sam, I am.” He spoke the familiar greeting gleaned from Karen’s and his Dr. Seuss upbringing.
“Hey, Sam I am.” Silence. “I’m not sure how to begin, Sam. You see, I made this all time, horrific, not easily forgivable mistake.” He listened to her erratic breathing, wondering what was coming next. She started to cry, quietly at first, almost inaudibly. Then the sobs became more pronounced. Her voice became clipped, and he knew she was biting her lip, holding on to some self-brewed mixture of self-esteem and pride. “I woke up … ,” she started. “I woke up to the realization that I love you, just you.” Karen hesitated, apparently waiting for some positive response. Receiving none she forged on. “How can I make this up to you? What can I do to win you back?”
Sam closed his eyes. Control. Not easily forgivable mistake! “Karen,” he said finally, “You never even called. I was dying … no, I died, and you never even called. When did you wake up? Before I died or after you found out I didn’t?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you even try to hang life insurance on me. I left you without a clue of any heart problems. How could I have known? You never talked to me about anything. Not something that meant anything to you or affected you personally. Sam, you didn’t talk to me at all, so wrapped up in your work and heading up some new department.”
“Karen, I’m talking about love, not life insurance. Let’s cut the bullshit. What do you want?”
“What do you mean, what do I want?”
“It’s your call.”
“I want you. I want us. I want this year to have been a bad dream. I want another chance. I’ve never asked you for anything. Please, Sam, at least see me.”
“What happened to Mr. Right? Did he decide he was too young for you after all?”
“No, I decided he was too young—immature for me. I told him I’d made a dreadful mistake. He was so attentive, always commenting on my clothes, my hair. I mean he looked at me, Sam, paid attention to my moods, took time to really listen to me. Hung on my every word. Wanted to spend all of our free time in each other’s company …”
“Sounds idyllic to me.”
“Exactly. And boring. The situation became oppressive, strangling.” A heartbeat of silence. “You quit looking at me, but he never looked at anyone or anything else.”
“I never quit looking at you. How could anyone quit looking at you? I just didn’t think it necessary to compliment you all the time. Maybe I didn’t do it enough. But I never quit looking at you. And you’re right, I got pretty absorbed in work. Ambition can become obsession, but you are certainly no stranger to ambition. In fact, I wondered if the break-up had something to do with me climbing my career ladder faster then you were climbing yours.” Sam waited for a reply to his previously unspoken suspicions.
“I might have guessed that’s what you’d tell yourself. It would never occur to you that maybe Charlie was a better lover than you.”
“It occurred to me.” Silence. It occurred to Sam they were both to blame for the mess made of their marriage.
“Will you see me? Don’t we owe it to us or the sacrament of marriage or something to see if the spark can be reignited?”
“Karen, what sacrament? We’re divorced.”
“I love you, Sam. I know that now. Please see me. Please, give me the chance to show you how much and yourself the chance to renew your love for me. You loved me. I know you did, Sam. I’m here for you, the same me that you fell in love with. Give us a chance. Will you?”
Sam mumbled something, talking to himself more than anyone.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Lust. I think maybe it was lust, and spiting my dad. I don’t know, Karen. There’s so much about me I need to try to figure out. I don’t think I can handle much more right now.”
“Maybe we can find you together. But if you need time, that’s okay. Let me just try to stay part of your life. Let me be part of your family. See me, Sam. Just see me.” Her voice cracked; she was crying. “I miss you, honey. I need you.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be in Vermont,” he lied. “Maybe I’ll give you a call when I get back to Charlotte.” He didn’t mean to sound cold; his words just came out that way.
“I have a ticket to Vermont. Plane leaves 6:45 Friday night. Lands in … (her voice shuddered) Hartford 7:45, I think. Will you pick me up?”
“We’ll cross paths. I’m supposed to be back at work on Monday.” The lie exposed, Sam leaned against the counter for support. “I’ll be driving back. Leave here Saturday morning.” Sam thought about Margie Merryhill and how she would see this episode as it unfolded.
“Then I’ll cancel my flight and just wait to hear from you. We could meet somewhere for dinner. The Olive Garden in Pineville, Monday at 7:00. What do you say?”
Sam tried to voice his feelings. “There’s nothing left in me, Karen, just empty spaces and pain where I see your face.” He pressed his eyes closed tight and was surprised to find himself tearless. Shoulders squared, he stood up straight. “And the pain isn’t bad anymore,” he said as he made the realization.
After he hung up the phone he went to look for Allison. She’d disappeared. He walked through the downstairs, out the front door and searched the driveway for the Volkswagen bus. Gone. His mother had run off without a word, leaving him to deal with those parts of his life that she and his dad had fought against. He wanted to tell her about the phone call to relieve her mind, but then he still had to discuss his imminent departure back to the life she felt was killing him.
He made a fist and rammed his knuckles into the siding a few inches from the screen door. Blood ran scarlet, shocking and sickening him. Then he heard clapping and chanting from inside the house. The Saturday broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera filled the air with the beginning Prelude of La Traviata. Allison must have changed the station before she left. Did she know that today the broadcast was his dad’s and his favorite?
Sam walked back through the house to the kitchen amazed at the volume. Had it been that loud before? His attention was diverted by the sound of a kitchen chair scraping ag
ainst the floor. Sam was alone and none of the chairs had moved as far as he could tell. Then he smelled that unmistakable mixture of hair oil and Old Spice that was his dad. The scent overcame him like a shroud. Sam sank to his knees on the tile floor and cried as if a dam behind his eyes had burst.
******
Once in the car and heading down Main Street, Allison, out of sorts and unsure what to do with herself, decided to go to the post office before it closed at noon. Surely Sam won’t go back to Karen. How could he forgive her for her coldness in his hour of need? She didn’t even call me to tell me he was in the hospital. I wonder if he knows that. His boss finally phoned when Sam was out of danger and recuperating. That’s when I first talked to him after fifteen years of silence. Oh sure, there was the card of sympathy in the flower arrangement he sent after his dad’s funeral. Called me with regrets that he was out of the country and didn’t get the message until he returned to his Charlotte home. That was the one and only time I heard from him. She kept him on a short leash.
Allison parked, checked her hair in the visor mirror, and satisfied she looked all right, left the car. She walked to her box, searched in her purse for her key and pulled out the mail inside. Bills, she mused. But there was something else. An envelope with no return address. The name printed, and centered on the front was Mrs. Allie Gear. What is this? She looked around as if someone might be watching her and quickly pocketed the mystery envelope in her coat. The rest of the mail she stuffed into her handbag.
Back in the VW she pulled out the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. She opened it flat to a heading that read Brownie’ Garage, Auto, Snowmobile Repair and Service. She placed the paper face down in her lap. Her heart beating like a drum, she said in a whisper, “My God, he’s writing to tell me he’s not wanting any more pancakes. Well, you can just tell me to my face, coward. And in front of your workers.”
She started the car, put it in gear and headed to the service station. Parked, she bounded from the Volkswagen with note in hand. She didn’t even grab her pocketbook. Through the garage door she pounced. As usual she found Brownie’s work boots sticking out from under a vehicle. A pickup truck. “What’s the matter with you?” she hissed loud enough to get everyone’s attention. Heads turned with smiles. All activity halted. Brownie slid out on his creeper and looked up at her.
“You got it?” he said.
“Oh, I got it all right. If you got something to say to me, you can tell me to my face.”
“Allie, I just thought if you wanted to turn me down it would be easier this a-way. You wouldn’t have to see my disappointment.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“The letter. Did you read it?”
“Well, I never … .” she said, turned on her heel and stalked back to her car with Brownie close behind.
She climbed in the driver’s side hoping to beat it out of there before he reached her, but he was in quick pursuit and was seated on the passenger side before she could pull out of the driveway.
“I can’t read it if you’re gonna sit there, now can I?”
“I wish you would.”
She opened the flap and drew out the page. “Dear Allie, I’m about to retire. Sixty-five on my next birthday. I been thinking about an RV and going around the states. You know, hitting all them historical sights we learned about in grade school.
“The thing is, I’d be mighty pleased for you to come with me if you think that is something you’d like to do. Neither of us has seen much of our country and this would be that opportunity.” Allison stopped reading and looked up at Brownie.
“What are you asking me? Come along like a male friend? I’m no man, Art. I may be old but I’m still female at my core.”
“Allie, whatever makes you comfortable. I mean if marriage makes you feel … uhm.” Brownie breathed a loud sigh before he said, “I want you to come with me and I’m more than willing to marry if that’s what it will take.”
“What a consolation.”
“I know I’m no prize. I want you and me to be together in our senior years. We don’t need to face them alone.”
“Art. Art, you are about as romantic as a fencepost. You know that?”
“Romance seems a little silly at our age.”
“Who says?”
“I, uhm, I don’t know. Allie, I’ve always been hard put to approach a girl I’m interested in.”
“You managed with Catherine all right.”
“She proposed to me.”
“Hum. This marriage thing—intimate?”
“What does that mean?”
“In-ti-mate. Like in mate.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking, Alley.”
“What’s your idea of marriage?”
“Companionship,” he said and removed his hat.
“Art, I have to tell you something. It may send you to running for the hills, but I got to tell you.” Allison took a deep breath before she continued the confession that would break her heart for surely he’d retract his offer. “I’ve loved you my whole life. No one else. Just you.”
“Oh my dear sweet Alley. I’ve loved you from kindergarten forward. I had no idea. I had nothing to offer the most beautiful girl in Green Mountain except devotion. I thought Sam was the better catch for you. He had some land, a house, a secure paycheck.”
Brownie stared down at his boots, put his hat back on his head. “I’ve loved you from afar,” he said, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “I still love you, Allie. My heart has never changed.” He sat up and watched her reaction to his words.
Her green eyes took on fire, her mouth began to knead her lips and a tick started in the corner of it. Brownie could imagine smoke coming from her ears.
“Then what’s the problem? You love me, I love you. Let’s get married.” She had that look like she wanted to hit him.
“Wasted a lot of time, haven’t I? A lifetime, you’re thinking.”
“You could get a head start by kissing me,” she said.
“Here?” He leaned over and bent his head to hers. It was a sweet kiss, a sealing kiss. Engaged at last.
******
Peter didn’t recognize the return name or address on the envelope. He stuffed the mail inside his coat and left the post office. Who was Mary Merryhill Bennett? Rutland, Vermont. Peter had been to Rutland once when he was a kid, but that was a long time ago. He didn’t remember much about it, except it was snowing and cold and he was waiting in the car with the motor running for a very long time. Mary Merryhill Bennett. He didn’t know of a relative living; maybe his mother didn’t either and this would be a great surprise to her. He was too early for work and decided to stop by the diner and deliver the mail. He wanted to watch his mother’s face when she saw the strange envelope. The smells and warmth of the diner always gave him a rush. He guessed it was about his favorite place to be and at 2:30 on this Monday afternoon it was empty so he had Hannah and his mother all to himself.
“Peter, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Hannah asked him.
“School has a water leak in the basement again. Thought I’d drop our mail by on my way to work and maybe bum a piece of pie.
Margie heard Peter’s voice and wiped her hands on her apron before she walked through the swinging door. He was holding the mail, tapping the envelopes on the counter while Hannah cut his pie. She gestured—did he want ice cream—and he looked to his mom for an okay. “Sure,” she said and smiled at him. “What have you got there?”
He handed her the envelopes and watched her, not touching the pie Hannah placed in front of him lest he miss the surprise.
A flicker, nothing more showed on his mother’s face as she shuffled the envelopes then tucked them into the pocket of her apron.
Peter watched her dumbstruck. “Do you know who that is?” he asked.
“Who what is?” she said, found a rag and swiped at the already clean counter.
“Come on, Mom, Mary Merryhill
Bennett is who? Did you not see the return address on that one?”
Hannah’s ears perked up. Peter noticed that she stopped scraping the grill so she wouldn’t miss anything.
Margie eyed Hannah, gave Peter a tight mouthed stare and finally said, “I saw it. I’ll read it later. Eat your pie. I have work to do.” With that she turned and left Peter open-mouth, astonished.
Hannah shrugged her shoulders, offered Peter a bland smile and went back to scraping her grill. Peter finished his pie in silence, thanked Hannah for the treat and left for his job at the drugstore.
******
Bennett. Was that his last name? No. It was James. How could she have forgotten Jessie James? So this is someone new, or new to Margie at least. The letter was a hot potato in Margie’s apron; she could scarcely contain her growing anxiety. Why now, after all these years of not a word.
Margie kneaded the sourdough with a vengeance, plying more flour into the batter than intended. When she tested the softness with her thumb, she was surprised how it popped back at her, tough and unyielding. She wondered had she better make biscuits, was the bread ruined? But the envelope imprisoned her mind. She draped a towel over the bread and left the kitchen for the ladies room.
Dear Margie,
I’m told I’m dying. They’ve got me trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey here at the Rutland hospital, giving me morphine and such. But they tell me I waited too long to come to them and there is nothing they can do for me but keep me doped up until I go.
I’m writing this to tell you that I always intended to get in touch, to make amends if possible, to say I’m sorry. I figured you’d never forgive me. Why should you? But Bobby Bennett, my husband, tells me you’ve a right to know that I know I was wrong, and that I am sorry. If I could have just one wish before I die it would be to see you. It is too much to ask, but Bobby says that that should be up to you.
I love you,
Mom
CHAPTER XVII
Margie panicked. Her grandmother’s old wreck of a car wouldn’t make it to Rutland. She knew who she’d go to, who’d save the day. She felt guilty for expecting friends to take care of her, but shrugged her shoulders. She couldn’t see other options. I want to see my mom, damn it. I want to hear her say, “I love you, Margie.”
Learning to Live Again Page 14