Maggie had lost most of what she loved, missed who she used to be, and was deeply troubled by what she had become. She had spent nearly four years running, hiding, and searching, and little good had come from her desperate flight except some clarity. This she valued and grasped like a talisman. Clarity had given her insight and fostered a sense of emerging courage. Someday, she was beginning to believe, she might be able to walk back into her former self. But not today. She wasn’t quite ready. Yet.
Hardship had presented an unforeseen advantage. No money to buy alcohol. Her innate intelligence finally rendered her former lover, the vacuum cleaner salesman, an unacceptable slovenly liability. She had walked away, run away, leaving him behind in the Ozarks. She bore no guilt as she rifled his pockets while he lay in a drunken stupor. His five hundred dollars bought train tickets for brief visits back to her small town New England childhood home and to internationally cosmopolitan Georgetown, places where young Maggie Fitzgerald had once thrived in the course of her voyage into adulthood. At the newsstand in Union Station, the photograph of a handsome thoroughbred Kentucky Derby winner caught her eye in a featured story from a newspaper in Bowling Green, Kentucky. She needed a fresh start in a new place where no one knew her or cared to pry into her past. The last of her money was spent on bus fare to Bowling Green, an appealing location with cheap rooms to rent and a daily newspaper that was advertising for typing positions.
Maggie lamented the loss of many things, but she never lost her skill in typing. She supposed that it was like riding a bicycle. It came back with little effort. Memory resided in her fingers and she was fast. Her previous work at Western Union as a single young woman had honed not only her typing skills, but also her confidence, which had diminished in slow motion like a Chinese water torture. Determined to get it all back, Bowling Green seemed a good start.
Her once handsome, strong husband, Captain Terry A. Lyons of the Army Core of Engineers, returned from his combat tour in the Pacific Theater had changed. Reassigned to occupied Japan, their early years in Tokyo gave them two children too fast. Drinking became more than recreation for many of the families stationed in the military compound as coping in the devastated, foreign environment became more difficult. War memories haunted the once innocent and bright-eyed men. Reminders of the bombing obliteration were not only in the rubble of homes and buildings, but also in the scars and minds of the people. The animosity was contagious. Alcohol offered a cheap escape hatch.
Maggie was not yet twenty when she boarded the first ship of American wives to join their soldier husbands in the Allied occupation of Japan. Already pregnant with their first child, the result of a wildly romantic short honeymoon while Terry was back in the States on leave, the second followed soon after. Mary Ellen and Nelle were raised by Michiko, their young Japanese housemaid who spoke little English and had lost her entire family in the bombing of Hiroshima. Michiko needed work and a place to live. Maggie needed help. There was no hating between the two uprooted young women, who found themselves clinging together in a changed world not of their making.
At times, it all seemed a blur to her. After several years in Japan, new assignments took them to Ohio, the territory of Alaska, and finally Texas. Maggie was yanked from place to place, never anywhere long enough to put down roots. Another child, Christine, was born. Michiko was not there to help and her friendship had not been replaced. She had no family to lean on, and no one she could confide in who might begin to understand her loneliness and isolation.
It was during his tour of duty in Alaska, on a bitter cold night during a blizzard, after a day of drinking in their tiny Army base apartment that he beat her senseless for the first time. He pounded her face with his fists and split her lip, an injury that left a permanent bump on her once beautifully shaped lips. She regained consciousness to the sounds of her babies crying, finding them soaked with urine and barely clothed in their frigid bedroom. Blood had caked on her face and dried in her hair. Terry was passed out face down on the bathroom floor. Furious wind howled through the rattling ice-encrusted windows. She had never felt so desperate and alone.
Maggie had hoped their move to Texas after several years in the harsh Alaska environment would prove better. Terry found them a house in the dusty tiny town of Lampasas and commuted to the military base, where he spent most of his time in the company of other soldiers, reminiscing about the war. In Texas, he became increasingly remote and sullen, a stranger to his children and to her. It was clear that her husband was unraveling. What she didn’t realize was that she was, too. It was easier to see him without having to look at herself in the mirror.
Finally, episodes of drunkenness, violence, arrests, nightmares, and bouts of mental confusion marked by his hearing voices that issued dangerous commands, landed them in Louisiana under the watchful eye of his father, Ralph. He was given an honorable medical discharge and awarded a bronze star for his distinguished wartime service, but his beloved military career was over.
The move to Louisiana was doomed from the start. Ralph and Maggie took an instant dislike to one another, each secretly blaming the other for Terry’s decline. Tensions bubbled up immediately. Her off-handed criticisms of his chaotic childhood and his remarks pointing out her inability to behave like a proper wife, peppered their constantly strained relationship. Unspoken truces never lasted for long. Terry absorbed the conflict and friction and became increasingly remote and agitated, frequently releasing his fury on those he loved most of all.
In spite of all the strain and dread the family endured, the girls loved their grandfather. He showered them with affection and attention and fed them sugary squares of sweet chocolate Hersey Bars and delectable canned sausages splayed on crackers and topped with mustard. He treated them to bright green packages of overpowering Doublemint chewing gum and poured foamy root beer over his homemade ice cream that they helped him hand crank in a big wooden bucket as they sat on the back steps under the unforgiving Louisiana sun. He doused them with cold water when he watered his garden and created rainbow showers by pressing his thumb on the nozzle. Squealing and running through the cascading waterfall was the best of times on blistering summer days. Maggie had appreciated all these moments herself, when history and future didn’t seem to matter much. Her girls were happy and cared for on these days. She had come to believe that this counted more than anything she could provide or protect them from. Her despair over Terry’s illness had consumed her will to fight and had eventually plunged her in the bottom of a bottle and into the arms of other men. A shell of her former self, she was done. Maggie had to run. Her daughters had not known the love of a family relative before the move to West River, Louisiana, or the stability of an even-tempered sober older man. Here, they had adoration and safety. In her departing letter to Ralph, she tried to tell him what he meant to all of them, in spite of their differences and hoped that he could understand. Maggie believed his forgiveness was too much to ask.
She loved the smell of printers ink and perked up when the printing press roared into action for the daily run. The entire building vibrated with the pulsating motion of the enormous Heidelberg press. It was impossible not to smile when the presses started running after the news of the day had been put to bed.
“For tomorrow, Maggie. First thing,” the gray haired woman said pleasantly as she placed a pile of papers on Maggie’s desk. “It’s not as much as it looks like. Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly over her shoulder as she walked away.
Clara Worthy, supervising head of the typing pool, knew who the capable and competent ones were. When they performed, as Maggie did, it made her look good and she didn’t apologize for taking the credit. Clara Worthy saw Maggie as a thoroughbred among donkeys. Most of her girls got by doing the least required, impatiently anticipating the work day’s end. Their young clique headed for the bars a minute after the clock struck five. They left giggling and gossiping strutting out the door like femme fatales on the night’s hunt. Maggie had been invited to join in wh
en she first arrived, which she declined as politely as possible. Now they ignored her and left her alone altogether. Maggie didn’t care. She was privately thankful.
Maggie shifted her gaze from her typewriter. “Okay, Mrs. Worthy. I’ll get it done.” Her eyes widen at the size of the pile. She liked her job as a pool typist and knew that Clara Worthy acknowledged her skill by giving her more work. It was another reason she was shunned by the pack but it made her feel useful again. She never minded staying late since she had nothing to go home for. It was good medicine that filled her time and added a little extra to her paycheck each week. Mrs. Worthy never questioned when her punch out card was stamped six or seven o’clock.
She worked faster after the others had left, enjoying the tapping noise as she pounded her fingers on the keyboard. The repetitive motion calmed her as words appeared on the page with the magic of her fingers skimming across the keys. Before long, the work pile had diminished and the finished pile was neatly stacked and completed.
“There,” she said loudly to no one. “Done.” She turned off her lamp and walked down the hall to Mrs. Worthy’s office surprised to see her light was still on. Maggie rapped lightly on her door.
“Yes? Who is it?” Mrs. Worthy called out.
“Me. Maggie. Work’s done for you,” she said opening the door. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, no, no. Come in, Maggie. You’re here late again. I’m sorry to burden you with that much for tomorrow’s deadline.” Mrs. Worthy took off her glasses and motioned for Maggie to sit down.
Maggie was tired and wanted to go home but complied. “You’re here late, too. Always a deadline in this business, I guess,” she said trying to make conversation with her boss.
“Yes. We’re never quite done, it seems. Thank you, Maggie. Just put it here,” she said pointing to a large wire basket on the corner of her desk. “No such thing as tomorrow for a daily paper.” Mrs. Worthy sat back in her in her chair and studied Maggie intently.
Maggie looked down and shuffled her feet, wanting very much to leave.
“You don’t mingle with the other girls. You’re not from here. You are a mystery to me Maggie Lyons. How about we grab a bite to eat. It’s late. You must be hungry, too.” Without waiting for an answer, Clara Worthy scooted back from her desk and picked up her purse. “There’s a nice little café just around the corner. You like Italian food? I always take some home for the next day. Makes it easier.”
Suddenly, Maggie’s belly growled loudly. She put her hand on her stomach, turning bright red. “Sorry.”
Clara chuckled. “Let’s go. I’m starved, too.”
They stopped at the punch card station and clocked out together at seven-thirty, chatting about the newspaper business as they walked outside into the warm night. The late summer sun was setting in a golden glow on the horizon. Sweet smelling Kentucky blue grass scented the air.
Maggie noticed that Mrs. Worthy walked with a slight limp and that her right shoe had a stacked heel much higher than the left. Her slightly bowed leg gave a waddle to her step. Maggie slowed her pace as they strolled leisurely to the neighborhood café less than a block away.
Varino’s Italian Eatery was a quaint restaurant with low lights, few patrons, and cozy booths. It was the kind of place frequented by lonely single locals, older couples, widowed men who could not cook for themselves, and widowed women who could not bear to cook for only one. Varino’s captured the charm of a cozy, welcoming home filled with aromas of fresh baked bread, roasted garlic, and heavenly spiced tomato sauce.
Clara opened the door for Maggie. “They make the best gravy in town here,” she said, ushering Maggie through the door.
“Gravy?” Maggie asked.
“That what Mario calls it. We say tomato sauce down here. He’s from Philadelphia originally and claims that up there it’s gravy. It’s his grandmother’s recipe and a source of great pride. Don’t call it tomato sauce. Big mistake. Go figure. You’ll like it.”
Clara walked in, giving a familiar nod to the portly man dressed in a stained white apron with a red bandana tied around his neck. He gave her a big smile in return. Clara led Maggie to a comfortable booth by the window. “This okay with you?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question.
Before Maggie responded the man appeared beside them grinning broadly. “Hello, Mrs. Worthy. Glass of wine for you and your friend?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mario. Maggie? Wine for you?”
“No. No thanks. I’ll have iced tea. Sweet please, if you have that,” Maggie answered.
Mario nodded affirmatively. “Of course. Be right back ladies.” He placed a worn menu in front of them. “Lasagna ‘specially good tonight, Mrs. Worthy. Made with gravy that simmered all day.”
Maggie chuckled. “You come here often, Mrs. Worthy. It must be good,” she said, perusing the battered laminated sheet of limited choices.
“It is my home away from home,” Mrs. Worthy said smiling.
Mario returned promptly with a goblet of red wine and a tall glass of iced tea. “Ladies?”
“Lasagna for me, Mario,” Mrs. Worthy said quickly, not looking at the menu.
“Me, too,” Maggie agreed.
Mario retrieved the menus. “Good choice,” he said confidently.
Mrs. Worthy took a long swallow from her goblet of wine as if she were putting an end to another busy but empty day, putting a period behind her obligations.
Maggie thought this might be her evening ritual and understood. She joined with a big drink of iced tea.
“So. Maggie. Maggie the Mystery,” Mrs. Worthy said placing her wine on the table, resting back comfortably into the high leather seated booth. “I hope I’m not working you too hard. I can do that when I have a talent like you. The good ones don’t seem to last very long. Move on to God knows what. Maybe the work is too much or I push too hard. I don’t know. But I hope you will stay a while. You’re very good. And. I like you.”
Maggie was surprised by her comments and flattered by the compliment but not sure how to answer. She needed to remain Maggie the Mystery for good reasons and didn’t want to give too much of herself away. She answered with an appreciative, but weak, smile.
“It’s alright. You don’t have to tell me. We all have our stories don’t we,” Mrs. Worthy said wistfully. “I never thought I would wind up in Bowling Green either. What I like about my job though, and it has kept me here, is that I don’t have much time to think. My days are full. The work is good even if I find it boring half the time. But that’s enough for now. For me, anyway.” She reached for her wine glass once more. And call me Clara. Please.”
Maggie suddenly saw herself in the tired older woman sitting across from her. Gray hair, pulled back in a tight bun worn low on her neck, Clara Worthy looked like a worn out spinster. Her deeply wrinkled face with disarming pale blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, showed a history and mystery, too. Her right eye had a slight droop, pulled taught by a small but thick white scar. The lower lid hung too low, revealing a raw angry redness accentuated by her luminous eyes. Mrs. Worthy was alone. And lonely. Like Maggie.
Maggie caught her gaze as Clara stared at Maggie’s lip. The bump. That large bump that marred her perfectly formed full lips. Her badge of sorrow. Like Clara’s eye.
“Well, Clara, where did you come from then?” Maggie asked, shaking herself out of an awkward silence. “You sound like, as my husband would say, a Yankee.” Maggie could have bitten her tongue. She did not want Mrs. Worthy to know anything of her past and let her reference to Terry mistakenly slip out.
“He meant “damn” Yankee. Very good! I am. Rhode Island. Guess the accent stays no matter where life takes us. My husband always hated my accent. He said I sounded like I was always ‘putting on airs’. It irritated the hell out of him. I should have known then.” She took a sip of wine. “I didn’t much like his either.”
For all that wasn’t said, a trove of hushed and buried past had been revealed. Neither asked for more and wer
e delightfully distracted as Mario placed two mounds of steaming lasagna before them accompanied by a basket of warm Italian bread.
“Mangia bene! Boun appetito!” Mario chimed cheerfully.
And they did. Ravenously. Without conversation, in comfortable silence as they devoured Mario’s scrumptious meal. Eyebrows raised in enjoyment and closed-mouthed “mmm, mmm, mmm” exchanged several times with each luscious bite indicated satisfaction with not only the fine food, but also each other. Maggie liked Clara, too.
Before evening’s end, after Clara’s second glass of wine, Maggie learned more about her new friend. In vino veritas. Maggie remembered her Latin from Sunday Masses. In wine, there is truth. She was content to hear Clara talk, especially since she did not want to say much more about herself.
“I guess it was our differences at first. He was rugged and strong and so in control of everything he touched,” Clara said. “He came from a family of poor coal miners, proud people, and he shot up to mine shift supervisor before he reached twenty-one. I know this sounds silly, but I used to love it when he came home with a face still smudged with black dust. I thought it looked sexy and brave. He drank. A lot. Lost his temper a lot. He gambled at the track. Lost a lot. Money went out as fast as it came in.” Clara reflexively touched her eye. “He got sick with black lung and died before he was thirty. He got mean and bitter and resented me, blamed me. We couldn’t have kids. I felt free when he died. That’s awful to say, but I did. Got a job at the paper. Worked hard. Worked my way up. And here I am.”
“How did you meet him?” Maggie asked.
“At the race track. My father was half owner of a good horse. I wanted desperately to get out of Rhode Island after I graduated from business school. I was good at numbers. Father got me a job through a friend who knew the owner of the track. He gave me a job for the summer behind the window taking bets and issuing tickets. That’s how I met Dan. Fireworks went off when we looked at each other. I never went back home.”
The Road to Home Page 13