Maggie Darling

by James Howard Kunstler

“I’m glad to hear that, Kenneth.”

  “Just thought you might be interested. I’ve been able to look back on our years together as a fantastic learning experience. You were a great teacher, you know that?”

  “I have some pedagogic impulses,” Maggie admitted.

  “You really taught me to be humble.”

  “I can’t say I was trying to do that. Maybe some other things, like show up on time at a restaurant.”

  “Doesn’t that take a kind of humility? The awareness that other people matter too?”

  “I suppose.”

  “That’s all I mean.”

  “Where does Laura Wilkie fit in?”

  “What does she have to do with anything?” Kenneth asked darkly.

  “Just wondering. Since you referred to my private life.”

  “Well, she’s out of the picture,” Kenneth said and then, as though he were talking to a foreign soldier at a border crossing who failed to understand him, snarled, “out of the picture.”

  “Have you seen our son?” Maggie tactically changed the subject.

  “What?” Kenneth seemed momentarily lost in thought.

  “Hooper.”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you seen him. He hasn’t mentioned you in a long time.”

  “Isn’t he in school?”

  “No, Kenneth, he took the semester off. Haven’t you talked to him?”

  “No. He’s pissed off at me for breaking up the family.”

  “Have you tried to talk to him?”

  “I’ve called.”

  “Where? School? Didn’t anyone inform you that he wasn’t there?”

  “I called that number at the apartment he was living in at Swarthmore. There’s this changing cast of characters there. They don’t seem to know anything about anyone anymore.”

  “Well, he’s been living here since Christmas.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Would you like me to tell him to call you? I will if you want.”

  “No, don’t twist his arm. Only if he wants to. He’s got to want to. What the hell’s he doing here, anyway?”

  “Working for MTV in the city.”

  “Really?” Kenneth said, brightening. “Probably a good way to meet girls, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t know—”

  It was just at that moment that Walter Fayerwether stepped through the arbor to the driveway.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned!” Kenneth exclaimed.

  The gardener stopped short, while Kenneth stepped out of the car and appeared to elongate himself in order to appear larger than he was.

  “Walter goddamn Fayerwether!” Kenneth said.

  Fayerwether glanced at Maggie, as though appealing for some explanation.

  “Are the two of you somehow acquainted?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Walter said.

  “Uh, Walter Fayerwether, meet Kenneth Darling, my soon-to-be ex-husband.”

  “Meet! Hell, Maggie, we’re old teammates!” At that, Kenneth moved toward Fayerwether and fairly engulfed him in a bear hug, rocking from one foot to the other. Walter seemed to endure it stoically.

  “What team were you on together?”

  “Lacrosse. Choate. Nineteen seventy,” Kenneth said, finally letting go and stepping back. “You don’t remember me, do you Walt?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I was a sophomore, you see.”

  “Seventy was my senior year,” Fayerwether said.

  “I was a mere benchwarmer. You were like one of the gods.”

  “It was just a game.”

  “So what the hell are you doing here on the ranch?” Kenneth said.

  “Working.”

  “You work here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For my wife?”

  Fayerwether nodded.

  “Isn’t life a kick in the guts! What as?”

  “I run the gardening crew.”

  “Shhhhhhh,” Kenneth said. “That’s supposed to be a big secret. The hoi polloi think she does it all herself.”

  Maggie folded her arms.

  “She treating you okay?” Kenneth went on.

  “I think we’re both satisfied,” Fayerwether said.

  “Hunh. Satisfied. Say, Maggs, what happened to what’s-his-name, the old gardener?”

  “He was murdered on the Merritt Parkway.”

  “No!” Kenneth drew back and held a hand in front of his mouth. “When did that happen?”

  “Recently,” Maggie said, with mounting irritation. “You have time for People magazine but not the newspaper, huh?”

  “Well, gosh, Maggie. I’ve had my hands full. And people, you know, bring things to my attention. But this, this is shocking. He was a darn nice fellow.”

  “There’s a sniper operating on the Merritt Parkway,” Maggie informed him.

  “What are they doing about it?”

  “I have no idea. Following leads, I suppose. Apparently you don’t live on this planet anymore—”

  Just then another car turned into the drive. It was Walter’s Volvo, with the blonde behind the wheel.

  “Ah, my lunch date’s here,” Walter said. “Nice meeting you, uh—”

  “Kenneth. Kenny back then. Of course I’m big now.”

  “Everything okay here?” Walter asked Maggie.

  “Oh, sure. Fine.”

  “See you then, Ken.”

  “You bet. And don’t let old Maggs here push you around.”

  “I’ll be back in three quarters of an hour,” Walter said over his shoulder as he got into his car.

  Kenneth and Maggie watched the car turn around and drive off.

  “What the hell did he mean, ‘Everything okay here?’” Kenneth said.

  “What the hell did you mean, ‘Don’t let Maggs push you around’?”

  “I was just joking. You know, like when you said, ‘lord of the flies.’ Ha ha. A quip. Everything okay? Somebody’s gonna show that sonofabitch what’s okay and what’s not okay.”

  “Kenneth!”

  “Oh Maggs, you should have seen him in prep school. Most arrogant bastard you ever laid eyes on. He used to smack us younger guys in the ass with his stick during wind sprints. You don’t forget that kind of stuff. Hey, you check out that little cutie who picked him up?”

  “I’ve got a one-thirty dentist appointment, Kenneth.”

  “Really? What’s up? Root canal?”

  “I don’t think you need be concerned.”

  “Am I being obnoxious again?”

  “Look, I’m really grateful that you’ve decided not to drag our divorce through the courts. It’ll save everybody a lot of aggravation.”

  “And I’m pleased that you’re grateful.”

  “Well, then, I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Not if I see you first,” Kenneth said, and then, making his hand into a pistol, pointed his finger at Maggie and fired a silent shot of farewell. Then he, too, motored away.

  6

  A New Friend

  No sooner had Kenneth departed than Lindy appeared from inside the house with a lean and spidery man—not Javier—in tow. His youthful face was pale complected and his close-cropped black hair came to a distinct V low on the forehead. He could have used a shave. The overall impression was simian. His costume suggested that he came from some part of the world with very different ideas about country casual wear: a black polyester knit shirt with sparkly gold-thread accents, tight gray slacks, and pointy black ankle-high boots. No tattoos were visible but neither was much skin. He trailed sheepishly a few steps behind Lindy carrying a couple of shopping bags.

  “Put those in the back,” Lindy instructed him brusquely, popping the rear hatch of her Jeep Cherokee—an amenity Lindy had extracted with a $50,000 payment from her estranged husband, Buddy, in their ongoing divorce negotiations. Lindy’s sunglasses and the scarf tied around her head gave her, too, a look from another time and place: Audrey Hepburn in a sixties thriller—only a b
ad print, in a run-down theater, with the houselights left on, and an odor in the room. “Maggie, this is my friend Ratko,” Lindy said distractedly.

  “How do you do?” Maggie said.

  Ratko shrugged his shoulders and sniffled.

  “He’s an actor,” Lindy said.

  “Really?”

  “They blew up his theater in Zagreb.”

  “How terrible.”

  “The world’s a mess,” Lindy said. “Have you noticed?”

  “Of course I’ve noticed. What a thing to say.”

  “Excuse me. The Prozac hasn’t kicked in. Get in the car, Ratko. I’m sorry, Maggie, it bums me out sometimes, the world situation. It’s like there’s this big drain out there and I can see us all whirling around it.”

  “Frankly, Lindy, I wonder if this Dr. Klein is helping you.”

  “What can he do about the world?”

  “He could encourage you to not obsess about things you can’t control and concentrate on things you can control.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your own little life.”

  “I’ve tried self-absorption,” Lindy said with a dismissive laugh. “Believe me, I’m much better off focusing on the real world.”

  “But one must have personal aims, goals.”

  “Oh, I see,” Lindy recoiled. “Like something besides sponging off my friends, right? Ratko!” she snarled. “I thought I told you to get in the car!”

  “No, Lindy, dearest, that’s not what I mean—”

  But Lindy retreated behind the wheel of her luxury sport-utility vehicle and slammed the door and peeled out of the driveway as though she were a lone heroine in a movie hurrying off to save the world from a horde of radioactive locusts.

  7

  Invitation

  The house seemed eerily underinhabited for this hour of the day and season of the year. Quinona the maid was polishing the brass fireplace fender in the drawing room. But where was Nina? The monthly job manifest, kept on an enormous chalkboard in the kitchen, indicated that they were scheduled to cater the New Milford Museum of Crafts annual fund-raising luncheon three days hence. Ordinarily, Nina and at least two assistants would be preparing great bricks of country pâté and firkins of tapenade at this stage. A call to Nina’s house incited only the answering machine. “It’s me,” Maggie told it. “Where are you? Please call.” Then, having prepared herself a jam omelet (a comforting old childhood favorite, heavy on the fresh cracked pepper), Maggie fielded a blitz of incoming calls; about half of them the usual pests and solicitations for product endorsements; one interesting inquiry from a PBS television producer about the possibility of a Christmastime craft and cookie-making special; an interview request from a young man at the King Features newspaper syndicate; one proposal of marriage from an elderly lunatic in Palm Springs; and a personal reminder from Gerald Nance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute that Maggie had been invited to the opening night party for a show featuring the garb of Napoleon’s imperial court on loan from the Musée de l’Armee, and why hadn’t she RSVP’d?

  “We need you desperately to energize the room,” Gerald put it in his winning way.

  “Who else is coming?”

  “The usual suspects,” Gerald drawled, meaning the thin sugary crust of the buttery uppermost layer of New York wealth and privilege.

  “Who’s catering?”

  “Humble Pie.”

  “They’re never humble enough for me,” Maggie said, “but I like their duck salad. Which room?”

  “That damnable Temple of Dendur,” Gerald said. “We’ve got it all tricked up with runways and miles of fairy lights. Can I depend on you?”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “See you at seven.”

  It suddenly seemed a welcome opportunity to get out of the dreary house for the night. The prospect of being at large on her own exhilarated Maggie, though not so far back in her mind lurked the possibility that an appropriate and available man might present himself on such an occasion. Nance had barely signed off, and Maggie had begun mulling over what to wear, when Harold Hamish rang.

  “Maggie, my Maggie,” he began.

  “Something’s always wrong when you start that way.”

  “Okay,” Hamish admitted. “The Chinaman’s up and quit.”

  “Must you call him that?”

  “Oh come on. Don’t get that way with me. He’s Chinese. He’s a man. A man of China. Ergo, Chinaman. Anyway, he’s bowed out, kissed off, walked, resigned from the job.”

  “Oh, dear …”

  “You know, he’s a very good photographer, this fella. The very best, I should say. What did you do to him?”

  “Why do you suppose I did anything?”

  “He was bawling on the phone.”

  “Oh, God …”

  “Did you throw a shit fit or something?”

  “Of course not. Have I ever?”

  “Well he’s all busted up. Gone loony. What’s more, he says he’s destroyed all the film he shot so far. Did you sleep with him?”

  “Harold!”

  “He sounded wracked with heartbreak. I’ve got a sixth sense for it.”

  “Well, if you must know, I did,” she shocked herself into admitting.

  “Good Christ, Maggie. I was afraid of this, with Kenneth out of the picture. Makes me want to assume in loco parentis just to protect you from yourself. By the by, I caught you in People magazine with the English crooner, you naughty girl.”

  “When I see Connie McQuillan, I’ll personally wring her neck.”

  “They’ll put you on page one of the Post if you do. Hey, what’s up with the you and this crooner?”

  “We’re through.”

  “Who dumped whom?”

  “I’ve never actually hung up on you before, have I, Harold?”

  “I like to think we can be absolutely blunt and frank, like siblings. You’ve never gone huffy on me, either.”

  “I’m having a very hard day. Week. Month,” Maggie said. “It’s been a hell of a year so far.”

  “The thing is, we’re already into the Chinaman for sixty grand, and if we have to sue him to recover, it’ll probably cost us twenty grand.”

  “I feel dreadful about this. You have no idea. I’ve always been so comfortable around Reggie. He stayed for dinner. We got drunk. Things got out of hand.”

  “After Clarissa and I went off the deep end, I carried on like a goddamn schoolboy. Love makes us ridiculous, Maggie. Surely I’ve told you that before. Okay, look, I’ll put out the word tomorrow and see if we can come up with somebody else. It’s a damn shame. That Chinaman has a style, and it’s become very much the Maggie Darling visual style. But I suppose a new look isn’t the worst thing in the world. You might even cut your hair. Say, the green drake hatch is under way up north.”

  “Excuse me … ?”

  “The green drake. It’s a kind of fly that the trout like to eat.”

  “Sounds like a duck.”

  “It’s a mayfly, actually.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s nice.”

  “It occurs to me that fly-fishing for trout might be something you’d find relaxing and diverting.”

  “Hmmmmm. Maybe I would. It’s very complicated, isn’t it?”

  “Hellishly. The knots alone would keep you in thrall for hours at a crack. It’s a real Maggie Darling sport.”

  “Sounds rather up my alley.”

  “I’ve still got that place in Vermont.”

  “Have you?”

  “I go every weekend this time of year.”

  “Is this an invitation, Harold?”

  “Standing.”

  “It sounds interesting. And fraught.”

  “Fraught? How so?”

  “I will not be seduced by you.”

  “I’m beginning to think that you have a smutty mind, Maggie. An old gaffer like me! The idea. Why I don’t remember what love is. And I’m half sure I don’t want to be reminded. Anyway, the invitation st
ands. Here’s the phone number up there, if the spirit moves you.”

  She wrote it down.

  “Harold, I didn’t mean to insinuate that you are in any way a pig, like some men I could mention. You know how much I value you as a friend.”

  “Then do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Call the Chinaman and get him back on board.”

  “He never answers his phone.”

  “Leave him a heartfelt message then. Ooop. I’ve got the dutchess of York waiting in the anteroom. See you soon I hope.”

  It was true that Reggie Chang never answered his phone, even when he was home. However, he had a perfectly good answering machine and it was his custom to selectively return calls. Knowing this, Maggie was more inclined to write a heartfelt letter, but she felt obliged by her friendships with both Harold and Reggie to do the more difficult thing and leave a message on his machine. She steeled herself and dialed.

  “Hi, this is Reggie,” the tape recited cheerfully. “Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

  “I know I’ve hurt your feelings and I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” Maggie began. “I feel so foolish saying this to a machine. If you’re there, Reggie, please pick up. Anyway, I want to talk to you, or see you, or both, very soon. I, uh, I’m coming into town tonight to go to an opening at the Met. I’ll call you when I’m in town. Really, we must talk. I feel so … Oh, I’ll call again later.”

  She showered, threw on an uncomplicated black Donna Karan jersey with a rope of freshwater pearls, a few dabs of mascara, and a little spritz of L’Adventura, and hurried out of the deafeningly quiet house to her mighty Land Cruiser. On the way down to the city, she listened to a recording of Henry James’s Wings of the Dove, hoping to elevate herself. But it was too hopelessly tedious and by New Canaan she switched to a tape of Blossom Dearie singing Cole Porter.

  8

  A Ruined Man

  The Temple of Dendur, a midget Egyptian monument about the size of a railroad millionaire’s mausoleum, was housed in its own large, austere room at the rear of the Metropolitan Museum’s labyrinth of galleries, with one enormous slanting wall of glass panes facing the interior of Central Park, which at this time of year afforded a lovely crepuscular vision of lavender sky and tender green foliage, like a scene out of a Childe Hassam painting. The room itself, a bombastic space on its own terms, was decorated with potted orange trees strung with constellations of little white Christmas lights for the occasion. A series of temporary runways ran out from the granite podium supporting the little temple itself, upon which models in costumes of the Napoleonic era strutted to and fro through a blitzkrieg of throbbing laser beams and disco lights. The music was a raucous techno-pop that ricocheted off the hard surfaces of the room like razor blades shot out of a riot gun. Waiters dressed as hussars in frogged tunics and polyester bearskin hats circulated with trays of champagne and tempting little morsels. Half the faces in view were familiar from the party pages of Vanity Fair and the New York Times Sunday Style section. It was characteristic of this room to seem both ominously underpeopled and claustrophobic at the same time.