* * *
In dreams, Gordon turned and tossed, and he heard the cows mooing in their evening movement to the barn for milking. He heard a crow calling and the dishwasher running and the sound of his mother opening a window. It was spring, but he had no name for the season. Time meant little to him, especially in the dream, and he watched the saw-chuck guy creep forward and fire at a pair of robins perched on the white oak outside the parlor window. Then the saw-chuck guy became his father and he saw his father hanging upside down in a special bed, a bed like a hamster wheel, and someone promised him it was his father although it didn’t look like anyone he knew. Then he listened to the wind slither down the chimney. He hadn’t told his grandfather or mother, but he believed someone spoke through the chimney, someone lived inside it, because he had heard it calling his name. It was a secret, not a bad secret, a secret that lived in the house. Maybe, he thought in the tangled logic of his dream, his father’s voice had left the hospital and had come to live in the bricks and mortar of the fire flue. Gordon turned again in sleep and drew his knees up closer to his chest, and the saw-chuck man rolled once again and landed on his back, his stunned reaction prompting him to shower a spray of bullets at the ceiling.
* * *
The floor felt wonderfully slippery. That was a detail she needed to remember to tell Blake. It was a ball, of course, and naturally they would wax the floors properly, but Margaret loved the way the surface felt beneath her feet. And the flowers! She made a point of slowly surveying the room to take in the flowers. The planners had selected spring blossoms, understandably, and she easily identified irises and oxeye daisies, salvia and candy tuft, but someone had forced peonies and they gave off their strange, compelling fragrance in bursts of perfume as people passed. In the end, she decided, that was what most impressed her: the tender, exquisite details; the floor, the flowers, and the lighting. Someone had given great thought to the lighting and managed to work small ponds of illumination into an otherwise overly large banquet room, and the resulting effect was intimate and appealing. One could imagine stopping anywhere beside a light and having a conversation, even a romantic exchange, but the larger flow of the room made such potential moments only part of the evening. The music controlled much of the atmosphere in the ballroom, and Margaret delighted to see the burgundy jackets, the gleaming instruments, and the serious indifference with which many of the band members played. They were pros, obviously, and they had doubtless played these standards countless times before, but now and then a moment of genuine pleasure and virtuosity jumped out and took possession of the musicians, and then the band played with more enthusiasm and relish, and the dancers responded. Margaret particularly liked that the ball had no spokesperson, no planned agenda. No one tapped a glass or demanded the group’s attention. It was very French, she felt, to give over the night to music and dance and drink and require nothing of the attendees. It should be a rule, she decided, to require nothing of guests except their own pleasure. That was something she would definitely tell Blake.
“So,” Charlie said, arriving with two glasses of white wine and a small plate of appetizers, “are you taking it all in? You’re not planning to run off at midnight, are you?”
“Oh, Charlie, it’s wonderful. It’s a beautiful event. I’m glad you persuaded me to come.”
“Can you grab one of these wines, please? I ran into a fellow I knew and he insisted we try this food. He called it amuse-bouche. He’s a Frenchie.”
“What is it?” Margaret asked, taking one of the wines. “Did he say?”
“Pâté of some sort. I didn’t listen very closely. I wanted to get back here to you.”
“Well, when in Rome . . .”
“Or Paris. But first a toast to your husband. To Thomas Kennedy.”
“To Thomas,” Margaret said and touched her glass to his.
“Here’s how,” Charlie said as she sipped. “How’s the wine?”
“French, I’m guessing. It’s good. It tastes sweet, but not too much.”
“Try one of these appetizers. You need to lead the way.”
She tasted what looked like a spring roll. It crumbled a little as she bit into it. The pastry gave way and underneath it Margaret tasted a dark, tangy meat with an odd consistency. She didn’t much care for it, but she held it while Charlie sampled a different one.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Not a fan.”
“I’m a complete peasant when it comes to food, I’m sorry to say. Pot roast is exotic for me.”
“I bet you’re a good cook. Here, put that back on the plate and we’ll just drink wine. Is that okay? Maybe we can grab something a little later. The buffet table was jammed.”
She put her half-eaten appetizer back on the plate, and Charlie managed to hand the plate to a passing busboy. It was a relief to be without something to juggle, Margaret decided. She took another sip of wine and found it excellent. It tasted of dry barrels and something bright and sharp that stung the tip of her tongue a little.
“How do you like the band?” Charlie asked.
“Very much. I like seeing the musicians playing. I realized it’s been a while since I was around live music. It’s not like going to a rock show when you’re a kid . . . all those strobe lights and stage theatrics. You can actually see the musicians and watch their faces turn red when they blow hard on their trumpets. That fellow over there . . . the one with the mustache . . . he’s quite dedicated to his instrument.”
“And the clarinetist. Do you think people end up resembling their instruments?”
“They must. And their dogs.”
“You look very beautiful tonight,” Charlie said, changing the subject and catching her off guard. “You should know that. The gown is perfect for you.”
“Well, thank you, Charlie. And you’re very handsome.”
“I mean it sincerely. My friend, the one who recommended those horrible appetizers, he said you have stolen the night. That was his phrase, not mine, though I concur.”
“You’ll make me blush.”
“And he’s French, so you have to believe him.”
“But he doesn’t know food.”
“I’d give my arm for a pig-in-a-blanket,” Charlie said with a warmth that made her smile.
“Those little cocktail wieners? Everyone loves those. They’re ridiculously good.”
“We probably shouldn’t confess to liking them in the French Embassy. They could kick us out of here,” Charlie said. “But at least I like the wine. It has a strange aftertaste, but I like it.”
“So do I.”
“I’ve been trying to understand why the London School of Economics throws a ball at the French Embassy.”
“To raise their profile?” Margaret asked. “I don’t know. It’s a good question. They need excuses to have balls, I suppose. We have a venison ball up in Maine to commemorate a successful deer season.”
“See?” Charlie said. “It’s not very different.”
“It’s held in the VFW, and it’s big on camouflage gear. There’s a door prize of one hundred pounds of venison. Sometimes if it’s been a tough season, they’ll substitute moose meat.”
“And I bet they serve pigs-in-a-blanket.”
“They sure do.”
Charlie sipped his wine, then extended his hand to her. She met his eyes and handed him her glass. He stepped away and put the glasses beside a small vase that stood near one of the columns.
“Could I have this dance, Margaret?” he asked.
“Of course, Charlie. I’d love to.”
Yes, she realized as she followed him a few steps toward the dancing people, the floor was wonderfully slippery. She walked on the balls of her feet, careful not to slip. Here goes nothing, she thought. It was an absurd line to come into her head, but she couldn’t chase it out
. Here goes nothing. It meant, Here goes a dance with a man at the French Embassy. Here goes a dance with a man who is not my husband. She did not let her mind dwell on the thought. Not now. Maybe later, but not now. She concentrated on the fall of her dress, the pleasure she felt in the warm air. When she reached the halfway point on the dance floor, she turned and faced Charlie. She raised her arms. Here goes nothing.
* * *
Charlie was conscious of his leg in the moment before he took Margaret in his arms. He had been kidding himself, he realized. People always noticed his leg. It was impossible not to, and it struck him as perverse that he insisted on dancing on it as if to wave it aloft in public for the world to see. He was not ashamed of the leg, precisely, but he felt it had to be treated with respect. He had to know his leg, and dancing with a beautiful woman, a woman he hoped to impress or at least not injure, struck him as an odd choice. After all, they could have spent the evening in a hundred ways, ways more suitable for a man with one leg than dancing, but, then again, he loved the excitement in Margaret’s eyes, the obvious pleasure she experienced coming into the ball. He loved the way she looked; it was more than the dress, although that worked out far better than he could have hoped. No, it was her innate goodness and openness that he found so appealing. She reminded him of his neighbors he had known in Iowa as a boy. They were not puffed up, as so many easterners tended to be. Margaret seemed grateful for things, for any small joy that came her way, and he found that remarkable in a woman whose husband had been shot into a vegetative state in the first year of their marriage.
“I’ll do my best,” he said to her and watched her smile.
Then he took her in his arms. She fit perfectly; it was strange how well she fit. Nearly everything about their meeting had been easy and comfortable. Her body felt slender and long, and yet her softness pressed against him and made him aware of her breasts, the line of her thighs. He began by doing a sort of slow two-step, following the music, his hand spread wide on her back, her hand in his. His right leg trailed slightly. He could not get it to move as adroitly as he might have liked, but there was nothing for it. He hoped he did not strike her as a comic Igor, Dr. Frankenstein’s misshapen assistant. But the music covered many things. It rose and fell, and he believed he recognized the song—Ella Fitzgerald did it, was it “April in Paris”?—and it moved gently through its measures, while Margaret stayed in his arms, her body blended into his. It was not natural, he decided, that they should fit so well. Under her charm and openness, he sensed her sexuality, and that surprised him. He hadn’t guessed it, but he felt her warmth, felt her body move against his, and he could not determine if she deliberately made him aware of her femaleness, or whether she simply danced naturally and abandoned a portion of herself to the music. Either way, he turned her slightly in his arms and danced her backward, moving as well as he could while her hand, perhaps for steadiness, tightened on his shoulder.
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.
“Funny, I was just thinking you’re a wonderful dancer.”
“I like to dance,” he said, “but my feet don’t share my enthusiasm.”
“The main thing is to like the person you’re dancing with; then it doesn’t matter what anyone does.”
“I like dancing with you, Margaret.”
She glanced at him. A flittering glance. Then, like water rising, she filled his arms completely. They danced for a little longer. The music moved and closed over itself, and, yes, it was “April in Paris,” he recognized it fully now. It was a riff, he imagined, on the idea of the ball taking place at the French Embassy. A little fun note.
“I like dancing with you,” she whispered after he thought she had forgotten his remark.
He could not prevent his arm from gathering her closer. He wondered, as he did so, how this had happened. He could recount the steps they had taken, could remember his first glimpse of her when she passed through the screen door on her porch in Maine, but that did not explain how she felt now in his arms. He wondered, frankly, if he had ever felt so comfortable with a woman. He waited after pulling her closer to see if she would return his movement, and she did, gradually, shyly, until her body fitted against him more perfectly than ever. He marked how sweetly she acknowledged his increased pressure; he felt the dress under his hands, the slickness of the material as she moved to match his awkward steps.
“Would you like some air?” he asked when the music ended.
“Yes, please.”
He took her hand. He could not walk through the entire night with her hand perched on his forearm like a pirate’s parrot. She closed her fingers over his and he walked her onto the terrace, the evening air sweet and warm and fresher than the inside air. The band broke into something a little more lively, something vaguely familiar, and he watched as a number of couples headed back inside to the dance floor. He was glad to see them go. He brought her to a marble railing where they could look down onto a fountain. He smelled the mist from the fountain, and something fragrant and sweet.
“Are those lilacs?” she asked.
Instead of answering, he turned and kissed her.
Chapter Six
Oh, she heard herself say when he lifted his lips away from hers.
She moved her forehead against his shoulder. Oh, my, she thought. The oddest memory came to her at that moment. She recalled the game they played as kids, something about cracking the egg over your head, then feeling the yolk running down your back and shoulders and then cracking the egg again, and feeling the yolk running down and down. . . .
That was how the kiss had made her feel. She felt the kiss run like yolk down through her body and she had to concentrate not to shiver. How strange. She could not sort the many thoughts that rushed at her, especially because they became tangled in the warmth that suffused her body. She felt her hand on his arm, her head against the material of his dinner jacket. She liked his size. She liked the warmth of his skin on the cool spring night.
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head against his shoulder.
“That was inexcusable,” he said. “I just . . . you’re very beautiful tonight and I got carried away, I’m afraid. Please forgive me.”
She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
She felt a momentary shame at the hunger her kiss revealed. What must he think? she wondered, but she was powerless to stop. She had intended, if she had intended anything at all, to kiss him lightly, to show goodwill, to let him know she was not a prude, she did not take offense at his kiss, and then, in the instant before her lips met his she felt herself turn to water. It seemed an entire sea had pushed her harder into his arms, and she kissed him with everything she had, her body pressing into him, and tears came to her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” she said when she released him. She turned and walked away.
“Are you . . .”
She didn’t hear what else he had to say. She walked quickly back into the ballroom, her eyes scanning for signs of the ladies’ room. She spotted it off to her left, partially behind the orchestra, and she went along the wall, dodging people when necessary. His kiss, Charlie’s kiss, still moved through her body. A giddy, girlish feeling inside her warred with bright tears that came from no place she understood. What in the world was she crying about? she wondered as she pushed into the ladies’ room and stepped behind a line of women at the vanity. She understood the tears’ source, of course, and she ducked into an empty stall and pushed the toilet lid down and sat for a moment, her breathing rough in her chest. She felt as if she might be sick; she felt also, she confessed, a sexual stirring that she had believed had been paralyzed when Thomas had been paralyzed. How could this be happening? she mused as she pulled toilet tissue from the roll and pressed it to her eyes. Was she really so desperately lonely th
at she would collapse at the first male attention she had received in a half decade? She decided she was a weak, horrible person. All her cheerfulness, and her laughter about farm life, it had all been a bluff. She felt herself a phony. She pressed the toilet tissue into her eyes for a second more, then sat straight and pulled her shoulders back. Poor Charlie, she thought and nearly laughed. He had chosen to kiss a nutcase.
She stepped out to the vanity and found a faucet unoccupied and ran water on her wrists for a few moments. Then she bent carefully to the sink and dabbed at her face. The little makeup she had applied hadn’t been washed away. After she had examined her face one last time—not bad, none the worse for wear, really—she reached around a woman and grabbed a paper towel and dried herself. Then she pushed back through the door, dodging past two women as she went, and followed her trail back to Charlie. He stood where she had left him, two glasses of wine in his hands.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” she said, taking the wine. “Thank you, Charlie.”
“Are we still friends? I apologize.”
She kissed him. Softly and simply. She held her lips against his, her glass out to one side.
“I’m flattered, actually, Charlie,” she said, moving away from him and turning to watch the dancers. “And very moved. It’s been . . .”
He nodded. He understood.
He bent to her ear and whispered.
“The thing is, we work too well together. Do you feel that, too?”
She nodded.
Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) Page 6
