by Nancy Thayer
“But—isn’t there some way I could help you?” Margaret asked.
The woman’s eyes began to roll back up toward the ceiling. “Please just go away,” she said as best she could.
Margaret looked: Chuckie had crawled up on a sofa and was eating saltine crackers out of a box. He seemed to think everything was perfectly normal; he seemed content.
“Well, I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “I’m so sorry. Please call me if there’s anything I can ever do to help you.”
She went out the door then and put Daisy and Dale in the car and drove away, back to her house. By the time she had gotten a block away from Chuckie’s home, she was overcome by uncontrollable sobs. The wretchedness of the young woman seemed to be more than anyone should ever have to bear. It occurred to her then, as she drove through the city with her healthy daughters falling into light afternoon sleeps in the backseat, it occurred to her how monumentally lucky she was. She was lucky; and it was not fair. And she thought of Harry, who with each passing year at the hospital became less and less carefree, more and more weighted down with a heaviness he would not discuss. And this was the reason, she now knew: that each day he had to leave his fortunate home and go to the hospital to face misery and grief and injustice. No wonder that he often seemed morose, withdrawn. It was a wonder he had survived at all. How could anyone survive when faced with such disasters? And he was doing something about it; he was trying to help others, he was trying to make them well. He was brave; he faced it. He did not back down easily as Margaret had, he did not turn and nearly run out the door. Margaret felt distraught with shame: if she had been a decent person, she would have brushed away the woman’s feeble words, she would have said, “Nonsense. You need help, and I can help you. It won’t take me an hour to do a little cleaning here, and I can go buy you some groceries and fix you a hot meal. I’ll come back once a week to do that; now don’t tell me that wouldn’t be nice for you and Chuckie. I’m a healthy woman and it would give me great pleasure to help you.” That was what she should have done, Margaret thought, no matter what the woman had said. But she had not done it, and she would never do it now. She would continue to drive Chuckie to and from school, and she might occasionally give him a little bag of cookies or fresh fruit. But she would never set foot in Chuckie’s house again. Unless Chuckie’s mother called her, and Margaret did not think she would call.
Was she a coward? Was she bad? The woman had asked her to go, had not seemed to want anything from Margaret, had seemed to feel totally uninterested in whatever Margaret had to offer. Had Margaret’s face been too revealingly distressed? Or had she looked curious? Undoubtedly she had looked shocked; had she looked repulsed? What had she done by barging in on that woman that way? And what could she do about it now? There seemed to be nothing she could do to atone for the good fortune of her family and the bad fortune of Chuckie’s. Perhaps, it occurred to her, perhaps the one thing she could do would be to help Harry in every possible way; to be patient and understanding and loving and giving, and in that way to help others, through him.
She was now on the twenty-second lap. Her chest heaved as she pulled herself up to the side of the pool to catch her breath before going on. Close by came the slap of someone hitting the water from the diving board, but Margaret did not turn to watch. Her focus was completely on herself now, and the rest of the pool and the large steamy room blurred into insignificance. There was only her lane, marked by a long white underwater line, her lane and the enormous box of water which she had to fight her way through eight more times.
She had gone to Liberty with Harry, and she had devoted herself to him and to the community they lived in. As the girls grew older and spent most of their time in school, Margaret developed one private luxurious vice: reading. She spent every afternoon lying on her bed, lost in the undemanding world of books—reading, and eating. She did not know when this habit of hers—reading, eating, resting away from Harry and the town—became a necessity, an oasis of reality for her in a life which was otherwise unreal. Harry became more rigid and demanding in their private life as he became more important in his public life. Sex became a duty for Margaret: she serviced him, the great god of goodness. Sex became routinized, almost mechanical: there were certain things he liked in certain definite orders, and that was all he wanted, and he never wanted anything different, anything else. He was a good physician: he saved many lives, and went out in the middle of many nights to help a worried mother with a sick child. He gave advice; he healed. With each passing year he became more and more beloved by the people in the community: and he deserved their love. “How lucky you are,” they said to Margaret, “to be married to such a wonderful man!” And she was lucky, she knew it, she was lucky to be married to a good man, she was lucky to have two healthy daughters, to have a fine house and plenty of money. She was lucky, she was lucky, and she endlessly tried to discharge her debt to fate by doing what she could for others. She cooked fried chicken and mashed potatoes and creamed vegetables for Harry every Sunday of their marriage; because that was what he wanted, what he liked, he thrived on the security of the routine of food. She spent hours working for the parent-teacher organizations, and for the church board, and for various charities. She knitted sweaters and made phone calls and drove old people to the hospital in Iowa City and gave tea parties and if it struck her that she was almost shriekingly bored by it all, she felt ashamed of herself for that thought.
What had she been trying to do? To bribe fate with her actions so that her daughters would grow up healthy? Partly so—and when they had turned eighteen and gone off to college she had been astounded at the relief she felt, because she was no longer responsible for their lives. It was an incredible realization, an incredible freedom.
She read, she read, she knew: by taking the responsibility for her daughters’ lives, and for the health of the community and the happiness of her husband, she had been able to abdicate the largest responsibility of all: that toward herself. But what she wanted seemed so shameful, so terrifying, that it took years for her to admit it: She wanted to live by herself, to think only of herself, to get to know herself, to see who she was and what sort of life she would choose if all constraints were taken away.
She began to lose weight. The day she had her hair dyed and fixed in the gentle, loose flow instead of the tight sausage curls had been a turning point in her life. If she could look so different, what might she be able to feel and think and do? If she were free from responsibility for others, what could she do for herself? She was starting late in life, but surely after all those years of being good she could now safely be selfish for a while.
But people in Liberty did not want to let her change. They became miffed and snide when she politely refused to attend the ladies’ church auxiliary luncheons which she had attended for twenty years. They became openly hostile and nasty when she refused to listen to any more problems, to offer any more advice. Harry had turned silently away, offended, when she suggested that he touch her in places he had never touched her before, that he try to help her have an orgasm. He told her she seemed obscene to even speak of it.
Margaret struck the water with one shaking arm, and then the other. She inhaled, then blew air out in bubbles into the water, and turned her face to the left and inhaled again. She battered her way across the pool, hitting, flailing, nearly sobbing with exhaustion. She had only two more laps to go.
She had tried to talk to Harry, she had tried to explain to him how she felt. But he did not want to understand. He was so pleased with his position in life, and he did not want it threatened. He had never been unfaithful to her, he said; how could she be selfish enough to be unfaithful to him—for her changing was a form of betrayal. He was a private person, he reminded her, he would never be able to trust another woman sexually, to build up the security he felt with Margaret. She had no reason to change: hadn’t he given her everything? Children, financial security, occasional trips to Europe—everything. Her sexual desires were vulgar a
nd demeaning, he told her; after all, she was almost fifty years old—she was merely in a menopausal state. She should not ruin both their lives over a hormonal imbalance. How could she leave him after all he had done for her? How could she leave the town she had lived in for twenty years, the town where she was respected and loved?
“But I’m not respected and loved,” Margaret said. “Mrs. Harry Wallace is respected and loved. No one even knows who I am.”
“You’re letting all that feminist stuff you’ve been reading get to you,” Harry replied. “You’ll be sorry.”
Norma Stevens, who had been the closest thing to a best friend Margaret had in Liberty, had also been unsympathetic. Margaret had taken care of Norma’s children more times than she could count, while Norma was in the hospital having various operations. Margaret had spent hours talking with Norma’s children when they were going through various crises over drugs or sex or school. She had a sense of humor, and Margaret felt that Norma loved her. But when she tried to explain her feelings to Norma, Norma had said, “Oh, Margaret, you can’t save up good works in the bank like money. Goodness has to be a constant thing that starts anew every day. I’m afraid you’ve let yourself become vain by losing weight and dyeing your hair—dyeing your hair at your age. Just remember: pride goeth before a fall.” Margaret had stared at her friend, who was skinny from illnesses, and who wore a shapeless print housedress, who played bridge on Mondays, read to the blind on Tuesdays, worked at the Iowa City hospital gift shop on Wednesdays and Thursdays, drove the volunteer Hot Meals wagon on Fridays and did church work the rest of her spare time, and Margaret saw that her friend could never understand her change, and would never forgive her for the change, would never bless her.
The trip to Vancouver, the visit with cool intellectual Miriam and her humorous husband Gordon, saved Margaret’s sanity and life. Things became perfectly clear. It was as if the outline of Margaret’s life and body suddenly came into a crisp sharp place around her, when before she had been only a shapeless mass.
“It’s like loaning money,” Miriam had said during one of their long talks. “Most people who borrow money eventually hate the person who loaned it to them, especially if that person wants the money back. People have learned to count on you for all sorts of things, and they can’t help but hate you if you suddenly stop giving it out. In the meantime, you’re going bankrupt.”
So Margaret had gathered together her courage and done it: she had divorced Harry and moved to Vancouver. The amount of hateful, spiteful, evil-wishing mail she received from former “friends” in Liberty had astounded her. People called her insane, evil, wretched, pitiful, bad; they wished her bad fortune; they told her she would be sorry. Harry had gotten terribly sick, so sick that a doctor had to come out from Iowa City. Harry had cried; he had pleaded; he had threatened; he had spread Margaret’s life thick with a layer of almost impenetrable guilt. How could she leave him now, when he was fifty-three years old? How could she leave him now, after all they had gone through together? What was the meaning of life if she could suddenly change and leave him? Margaret had been weak with relief the day that Harry made a nasty scene over money; she saw that he had strength enough to survive without her, to be angry at her, and that he had wickedness enough inside him to wish to deny her any of their money at all. Still they had a lot of money tucked away in the bank, and the courts had awarded Margaret enough so that she would never have to worry about money the rest of her life. She would only have to worry about whether or not she had ruined the life of the man who had given her the money.
She was so tired of being responsible for other people. She was so tired of tears and grief and confessions and confidences. She was not wise; she did not have the answers to people’s lives. She wanted to be left alone, to use what energy she had to create her own self. She did not want to give another drop of energy over to another person.
Not even to her daughter. Daisy had been the child she had loved best and been closest to; Daisy had been much like Margaret. But Daisy was twenty-nine years old now; she was not a little girl who did not have the experience to solve her own problems. She had been living away from Margaret for ten years; she should have made close friends by now, she should have developed her own inner strengths. She should be able to stand on her own. Margaret felt as though she were on an unsteady ladder climbing toward her best self, and if she stretched out a hand to help anyone, even her daughter, the ladder would tumble down and she would lose all chance of ever reaching the heights of her life.
Thirty laps. Margaret pulled herself up onto the side of the pool and sat there awhile, heaving and gasping for breath, her eyes burning from the chlorine, her heart racing. She was unable to see or hear or think. For a few minutes she simply sat, letting the water run off her cap and shoulders into a puddle around her buttocks and hands. The world sharpened about her slowly: She could see the vast turquoise pool of water take on a clarity and shape and outline, she could see the masses of color in it become individuals: a man in orange swimming trunks, an old lady with flabby arms, a pregnant woman doing a backstroke, her tummy floating along on top of her like a ball. Her ears lost the blurring roar and she could hear separate sounds: the slap of feet against the tiles, laughter and voices. She rose, gathered up her towel, and went into the women’s locker room. She entered a shower stall, stripped off her cap and suit, and stood sagging under a downpour of hot water.
Her years in Liberty had not been totally wasted. She did not regret them. She had loved many of the people she had helped. She had loved her house, her flowers, the sense of the goodness of her life. She was not bitter. She was not full of despair. She would not waste her time in regret.
But she would not go back. She could not go back. She let the heat of the water soothe her, massage her, as it poured down over her resting body. The pleasure of being alone, warm and silent except for the sound of the shower, was rich and full. It was the best part of her day, standing there exhausted and triumphant from her swim, being soothed by the impersonal rush of warmth.
Finally she began to wash. She took up the small expensive soap she carried with her in her blue plastic bag, and began to scrub her body, harshly, everywhere. Then she shampooed her hair and dried herself with a rough towel, rubbing moisturizing lotion into her skin everywhere. She dressed, she blew her hair dry, she put on makeup. More women were beginning to come in now for the swimnastics class, and some of them spoke to her cheerfully. Today she did not want to stay for the exercise, though: Daisy was at home waiting for her. Daisy. Her daughter. Could she make Daisy understand that she had needs that were as important as Daisy’s even though they were not so obvious? Perhaps not; Daisy was in a terrible fix, and Margaret had to admit that Daisy and her plight pulled at her own heartstrings fiercely. All the more so now that Daisy was making such a valiant attempt not to talk about her troubles and fears. Margaret felt proud of Daisy; she admired her; and she was deeply touched. Still Margaret knew she could not reach out a hand for Daisy to lean on. Not this time. She was fighting for her own life; she would help Daisy, but only by making her fight for hers.
—
Every morning for a week Daisy slept till nine. She wanted to sleep till ten, till noon, but the habit of rising early was too strong within her, so she contented herself by simply lying in bed after she awakened, moving her arms and legs luxuriously against the fresh sheets. The first morning she had tried to lounge about in her robe, but Margaret would have none of that: there was too much to do. So Daisy showered and dressed and breakfasted on omelets and fresh fruit, then went off with her indefatigable mother to an amazing variety of places. It seemed they went everywhere. They walked through Queen Elizabeth Park, through the Japanese gardens at UBC, beneath towering evergreens at Lighthouse Park, across the swinging bridge that spanned the violently rushing Lynn Creek. They took the ferry to Vancouver Island and toured the magnificent provincial museum in Victoria; they rode in horse-drawn cabs with red blankets over their legs and
lunched at the Empress Hotel. They shopped for dresses and jewelry in downtown Vancouver, they shopped for toys for the children on Robsonstrasse, they saw Skana the killer whale smile and jump at Stanley Park. Every night they ate at a different and marvelous restaurant; but even so Daisy lost two pounds that week from all the walking she was doing, and when she told her mother, Margaret rewarded her with a smug smile. Daisy’s head whirled with impressions of colossal evergreens, stupendously towering mountains, rushing water, totem poles. She fell asleep each night with a tiredness in her body that did not pull and drag but instead sparkled: her lungs were so full of fresh air, her body so exhilarated by the exercise, her mind so stimulated by the realization of how much there was in the world.
Daisy could not decide how she felt about her mother. One afternoon in a dress shop in Gastown, Margaret pulled a bright-blue flowing cotton dress off the rack, and said, “Here, darling, this will look lovely on you!” Daisy stood in front of the mirror in the tiny dressing room and stared at herself, delighted. She looked slim and young and pretty. She felt rejuvenated. And then she loved her mother. But at other times she felt she hated her mother: Margaret seemed so relentless. She made Daisy walk when Daisy would have taken a cab; she suggested that Daisy have fruit instead of pie for dessert. And she would not let Daisy complain. She did listen calmly enough as they sat on lounge chairs on the ferry staring out at the blue water, the green and white mountains, while Daisy described her own wonderful house in detail. But when Daisy explained why she wanted to keep it, and how much money she would need in order to do so, Margaret only replied, “Oh, Daisy, it’s not necessary for you to have such a large house. Don’t be so gloomy, look on the bright side. A smaller and newer house will be much easier to clean and keep in repair.” And that was all she would say on the subject. So it seemed there was to be no help on that score. The last day Daisy spent with her mother, they took a long walk along the sea wall, and part of the time Daisy was charmed by Margaret, and responded happily when Margaret pointed out a piece of driftwood shaped like a seahorse or the way the blues of the ocean changed in intensity with the depth. But much of the time she was thinking: all this is very well and good, but my life is not here, and winter is coming, and what am I going to do?
