She put her head on her hands for a moment, took a deep breath, then crossed herself and slid slowly out of the pew. The homeless man coughed again and the church echoed and let in the morning light. Let it go, she thought, though she knew it would haunt her. She pushed out the door and saw the sun had found the church and washed the steps in light.
* * *
Blake Welsh watched her son, Phillip, run after the soccer ball on a bright Saturday morning in Maine. A medium-size Dunkin’ Donuts coffee steamed in her hand. She felt a little guilty about the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, because the West Bangor Little League mothers ran a refreshment booth out near the parking lot—hot dogs, bottled waters, orange soda, and coffee—but she could not abide bad coffee and the mothers’ huge coffee urn notoriously produced rancid dreck. Oh, well, she thought, let them hate me. She had never felt particularly at home with the West Bangor Little League mothers, and she supposed the coffee would drive another nail in her coffin of ex-urban ostracism. So be it, she figured. At least she had good coffee.
She held the coffee flat and smooth as she raised her voice when she saw Phillip gallop close to the opponent’s goal. The children ran like iron filings after a magnet, she’d often thought, chasing the ball wherever it went, abandoning any sense of scheme or strategy that Barney Rudd, the coach, tried to instill in them. Or like fish, she amended now, her eyes still fixed on Phillip. Like tiny reef fish darting in synchronicity to escape a predator. Instead of swimming away, these little fish swam to the compelling object, but in every other way the metaphor suited the situation. She pictured them as a school of bright, shimmering fish, skittering back and forth, back and forth, in unison with the rocking ocean.
She took a sip of coffee and before she removed the cup from her lips, her cell phone rang. It was Donny, her husband, and she answered it on the second ring and turned a little away from the game for privacy. He was already at work, cutting the grass on the twelve-acre cemetery in Millinocket. Mowing the dead, Donny called it, but only to her. He thought it was funny, and she was never quite sure.
“How’s he doing?” Donny asked.
Blake heard mowers running behind his voice. She pictured him taking a break in his truck, the phone pinned to his ear.
“Oh,” she said, “he’s chasing the ball around the field with about twenty other kids.”
“Any score?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, tell him to give me a call when he finishes. Tell him I’m sorry I can’t be there.”
“You can be here,” she said, then felt both annoyed with him and disappointed in herself for having revisited his perpetual absence from family events so quickly in the conversation. She had meant not to do that.
“Whatever, Blake. It’s called making a living.”
“It’s called raising a son.”
He hung up. Just like that. She sipped her coffee, slid her phone back into her pocket, and watched the children chasing after the ball. She spotted Phillip for a second before he disappeared in a swarm of green jerseys and bare legs. She felt her eyes glaze over, and for a moment or two she thought of Margaret. Margaret had called early—mother early, she had named those early hours—and she had recounted the night with Charlie, the ball, the kissing. How strange, Blake thought now, that Margaret, the one woman in their circle with an infirm husband, with what many might have said was a lonely life, had been swept away by passion and romance and a charming man. How out of the blue. And because Blake was a decent person and a devoted friend, she smiled and nodded slightly in honor of her friend’s good fortune. It could not have happened to anyone more deserving, more kind, more human. Yet—and it horrified Blake to understand it, to grasp it fully—she felt a tiny bit jealous, a tiny bit envious that Margaret had experienced this marvelous night. I am a bad person, Blake told herself, a horrible, miserable human being. To rectify it, she closed her eyes and sent out a beam of good thoughts to her friend Margaret, sent her hope and love and joy. Any simple joy, for my friend Margaret. Give her gladness in her heart, she prayed, the coffee like a warm handshake sealing the deal.
* * *
Standing behind the president, Margaret thought about Thomas. She felt light-headed and empty. Charlie stood beside her, his dress uniform sharp and surprisingly vivid among so many civilians, but she would not let her mind go to him. Now was Thomas’s time, and she focused her thoughts on him. Thomas, her husband. Thomas who’d stood and opened his arms to protect his fellow soldier. Thomas whose simple goodness was the most remarkable thing about him.
I see you, Thomas, she whispered to herself. I remember you.
She felt, just for an instant, his warm presence. She pictured him walking toward the barn, his body upright, his neck brown from the sun, his large boots clotted with mustaches of hay and manure. She pictured him sitting at the kitchen table, a yellow foolscap pad of paper in front of him, a calculator, a beaver lodge of pencils, a coffee cup whose rings scattered across the evening sports page. Doing the books, he called it, and she sat with him, helping to calculate the numbers that did not calculate, the sound of the Red Sox in the television room, the baby, Gordon, at rest in her womb.
“And so, today . . . in honor of those who serve . . . ,” she heard President Obama say, but she could not follow his speech. Lights flashed. A person stood beside President Obama with a cluster of pens. She kept her arms at her sides.
Slowly, her eyes filled. They filled for Thomas, whose life had been spent before it had started. Whose empty form rested in a Bangor hospital, whose son would grow up without a father. What had it been about, after all? Surely Thomas had no enmity toward the Afghans. He hardly listened to political talk and never engaged in it. It had been a job, nothing more, and as she’d known he would, he did it without question, without thought of his own safety. For an instant she nearly made a sound, called to President Obama to stop, to hold on, because she wanted to tell the world who her husband had been. She wanted her son to know how proud he should be of his father, this kind man who brought her lilacs in the spring and asters in the fall, who did not raise his voice, did not scold or argue, who met people with gentle directness, whose happiest moments revolved around his house, his family, his livestock.
Thomas Eugene Kennedy, she whispered each time the president’s voice paused. Thomas Eugene Kennedy. When people clapped she whispered his name louder.
“Your daddy,” she whispered to Gordon, though her son was not there. “Your daddy is a good, good man.”
* * *
“Did you see it?” Margaret asked.
She sat on her bed in the hotel room. Her body and eyes felt dry and cried out. She wore no shoes. Her feet hurt from the morning in heels. Her hand trembled a little as it held her cell phone. A headache had begun in her forehead, pressing and pulling at her. She had swallowed two aspirins before calling and the taste of the pills felt like sand in her throat.
“Yes,” Grandpa Ben said, “and a reporter from the Bangor paper called for a quote. I told him we were proud of Thomas, that’s all. I didn’t really know what else there was to say. But yes, it showed up bright and center . . . and we could see you behind President Obama. Blake said it’s on YouTube so you can watch it yourself when you get home.”
“I’m glad you saw it, Ben. I was very proud of Thomas at the signing. Did Gordon understand what was going on?”
“Not so much. He didn’t understand what the signing meant. He thought President Obama was signing autographs.”
“Well, in a way he was. Is he nearby? I’d like to say hello if he is.”
“He’s right here. Gordon? It’s your mommy.”
Margaret listened to the sounds of the house and knew each one. She heard Gordon’s quick steps scurrying. It was late morning and he would be hungry again. She felt a momentary pang at the sound of his little steps. But then he came onto the phone, all bre
ath and hurry, and she asked him if he had seen the signing.
“President Obama is tall,” he said.
“Yes, he is, sweetheart. You should be very proud of your daddy.”
“I am.”
“President Obama told me that he was grateful for the sacrifice your daddy made. Do you understand what ‘sacrifice’ means?”
“Medal of Honor,” Gordon said, falling back on the biggest concept he knew, Margaret understood. It was a phrase he used imperfectly to cover himself when adults pinned him down.
“This is a little different, but it’s kind of that. All those people you saw today, they are trying to help your dad and other men and women like him. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, although he sounded a little distracted.
“Okay, we can talk about it when I get home. Are you having a good time with Grandpa Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Are you helping with the cows? Doing your chores?”
“Yes.”
Margaret understood she was now talking mostly for her own sake. Whatever interest he had had earlier had drifted away. She wondered what he was playing. She wondered if Grandpa Ben had let him watch television earlier than the house rule. She decided not to bring it up. She rubbed her forehead. She turned her foot over to see the back of her left heel. It was red and raw, probably ready to blister.
“Okay, buddy, I love you to the moon. Can I talk to Grandpa Ben again?”
“’Bye, Mommy,” he said.
She heard the phone clatter down. Then Ben picked it up.
“He’s in a whirl,” she said.
“That kind of day around here. Noel Grummond came over from the county and wanted to talk about using biosolids out on the two north apple meadows. We walked it and Gordon came along. I thought he was tired out, but I guess I thought wrong.”
“What did Grummond say?”
“Oh, a lot of state talk. They’re looking for sites where they can spread the biosolids and get them out of the landfills. Has to be at least twenty acres and we have about that up there. Some activists are worried about heavy metals, mercury, mostly, and selenium, but I don’t know. We don’t graze the livestock up there. It’s all apples.”
“Do they pay something?”
“Yes. Not much, but they do. We more or less leave the field empty for one summer. There will be some smell. But it’s supposed to be safe and it’s good for the soil if we ever want to use it.”
“Well, Noel’s a trustworthy sort.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“Are you eating enough?”
“Now, Margaret, I’ve been able to feed myself quite a long time. Gordon’s doing fine, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just take a little break down there. Are they treating you okay?”
“Everything’s fine here.”
“Well, if you see that fellow Charlie, tell him Gordon slept with the animal he gave him. What was it called? Looks a little like a squirrel or rabbit.”
“A meerkat.”
“That’s right. It’s quite a hit right now. He has it attacking his soldiers. Looks like Godzilla marching through Tokyo.”
“Glad he’s enjoying it.”
She felt a lump tighten in her throat, and she thought of her father-in-law’s simple goodness. It was the goodness he had given to Thomas, the same goodness she hoped he would pass along to Gordon.
“I miss Thomas,” she said. “I missed him today at the ceremony.”
“I did, too.”
“He’s helping people, Ben. Even as he is, people are better for him.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you’re proud of him,” she said.
“And of you, Margaret.”
And that was all he said.
Chapter Ten
Charlie lifted the cone of blue cotton candy away from the concessionaire and passed it to Margaret.
“Oh, good grief, I can’t believe I’m eating more,” she said as she bit a little off the top. “Thank you.”
“You only have so many zoo days in your life,” Charlie said. He paid the concessionaire and smiled. “It’s a beautiful spring day and we’re at the zoo. It’s better than the French pâté last night, isn’t it?”
“Much better. Here, take a bite.”
She held it out to him. He broke off a hunk and tasted it.
“Are you sure this is covered?” Margaret asked. “There’s no reason for you to pay. . . .”
Charlie put his hand briefly on her back to move her away from the concession stand.
“Ready to find the lions?” he asked. “We’re fine, Margaret. Everything is good.”
Margaret nodded, then glanced down at the park map. Charlie liked Margaret’s approach to the zoo. She was systematic without being dictatorial, but it was clear she wanted to make sure they saw everything. It amused him to watch her. She was a true Yankee who insisted on value for payment, her thoroughness a personality trait she hardly recognized in herself. It charmed him to see it, and it charmed him, also, to see her relax after a difficult morning. She wore flip-flops below a khaki skirt and carried a blue sweater knotted around her purse strap.
It took fifteen minutes to find the lion enclosure, and Charlie helped himself to three more bites of cotton candy as they walked. He couldn’t remember a better afternoon. The temperature stood at seventy and the usual Washington humidity had drifted away. He felt relaxed and happy. He wanted to put his arm around Margaret, but he had difficulty reading her after the morning’s ceremony. Had a trace of formality entered their exchanges? Charlie couldn’t be certain. It might simply have been the strain of the morning, of dealing with the security checkpoints and meeting the bill sponsors. The press, naturally, snapped a thousand photos of President Obama, and for someone unaccustomed to so much activity it might have felt overwhelming. Perhaps, too, Charlie thought, the morning signing ceremony had highlighted her husband’s condition, called him clearly to mind, and the events of the night before stood in contrast. Maybe she regretted having an affair with him, and so he watched her for signs, trying to read her, taking pains not to presume too much familiarity. It was difficult because he felt tremendously attracted to her, both physically and mentally, and he had to guard against his feelings propelling him forward too fast.
“Aren’t they amazing?” Margaret said when they finally reached the lion enclosure. A small family group lay in the sun, clearly enjoying the fine afternoon. The male lion had a particularly impressive mane. “Gordon would love to see this. I’m kicking myself right now that I didn’t bring him.”
“Did you consider bringing him?”
“He’s so young, I didn’t know if it made much sense. He doesn’t fully understand his father’s condition. I think he believes Thomas will wake up someday and walk back through the door. Anyway, he loves animals. He’d love this.”
They watched the lions for a minute or two and then Margaret asked if he wanted any more cotton candy. When he said no, she walked to a trash can and tossed it out. She used a napkin to wipe off her hands.
“Can we sit for a minute?” Margaret asked as she sat on a bench in the shade. “I’m not used to all this walking. And the heat! I’m afraid I’m a Maine girl through and through.”
“It’s pretty perfect weather. For Washington, this is about as good as it gets.”
“It’s a wonderful, perfect day.”
“And a nice zoo. It’s the national zoo.”
“I love this zoo,” she said, “but I meant you. You’ve been wonderful, Charlie. In every way.”
“Are we okay, Margaret? Do you regret anything about last night?”
She leaned across the bench and kissed him. It was a light, friendly kiss, with just a touch more beneath it.
“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” she said when she pulled back. “I didn’t want you to think . . . I don’t know . . . that last night was one thing and today is another. I mean, it is another thing today, but I remember last night. I’ll always remember it.”
“Me, too. I know what you mean. I wanted to kiss you all day, too.”
“I had such a funny day, Charlie. Meeting the president, and all those political operatives. Is that what they’re called? Well, anyway, the bill sponsors. I liked the woman from Illinois. What was her name again?”
“Gilden.”
“Yes, I liked her. She was very kind. And I liked the president. He took time with people. That’s what I noticed. But I couldn’t help thinking of Thomas. Naturally, I suppose. I thought about him and it felt like he was right there for a moment. He was a good man, Charlie. You would have liked him. This bill is necessary, of course, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but the fact of him, of Thomas’s life, well, nothing can help that.”
Charlie took her hand.
“And you’re mixed up in my head, too. I have such strong feelings about you. It’s silly, I know, and maybe it’s just that I haven’t been with anyone in so long . . . maybe I’m overreacting and if I am, if I’m being silly, you’ve been very understanding about it. I appreciate that. I talked to Blake this morning and she said I should simply enjoy my time with you and not question it and that’s what I’m trying to do. So I wanted you to know that I don’t have anything . . . I’m being inarticulate now, but I don’t hold you to anything, if you know what I mean. I just like you, Charlie. I haven’t any expectations at all. Not one. So that’s my little speech and I feel better for making it.”
“I’m so relieved. I thought you had decided it had all been a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake for me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you had to wonder about that,” she said and kissed the back of his hand. “I should have made myself clearer, but everything was jumbled up this morning. I’m sorry, Charlie. No, if anything I like you too much. That’s a bigger worry for me than if I didn’t really like you. You know what I mean. I don’t do this. I haven’t been with a man in over six years. I’m more surprised by it than anyone else could be. The worst part is, it feels incredibly natural. I feel as though I’ve known you for years. It’s strange. Do you feel that, too?”
Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) Page 9
