* * *
It was foggy. It was the first poor weather they had experienced, and Margaret tried not to take it as an omen. Last day. No, she corrected herself, last full day. They still had tomorrow morning. She looked out the window of the small breakfast café and watched the fog curl and wrap around the trees. The fog comes on little cat feet, she remembered from the Sandburg poem, but that was all she could remember. Teachers had always used it as an example of metaphor and she realized, studying the fog, that fog was not feline at all. It did not creep but swam instead, pooling and moving like a horror monster, like Dracula spinning and slipping beneath a door.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Charlie said.
He sat in front of a large bowl of oatmeal. She had an English muffin and pomegranate-orange juice.
“I was watching the fog,” she said. “Empty-headed right now. Not worth a penny, really.”
“It’s going to cut off a little of our sightseeing.”
She smiled and reached across the table and took his hand.
“I just like being with you, Charlie.”
“You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I’m starting to think about the outside world intruding. We’ve been in our bubble and I don’t want to leave it.”
“I thought you said it was the basket of an air balloon.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
“And you said no wishing time away, so shake it off. Be right here with me now.”
“I am. I guess I’m a little sleepy.”
“We haven’t found any blooms. We’re slacking.”
“We will today. I can feel it. This fog is an omen.”
“It might burn off later. But they’re calling for rain, too.”
She squeezed his hand. The waitress came by with more coffee. She was an older woman, gray and slightly bullet-backed, and her hands, Margaret noticed, had been twisted by arthritis. She appeared fierce at first: angular and sharp, with bright blue eyes that seemed to focus best when she glanced sideways. But she had a friendly way and the café was not crowded and she apparently enjoyed visiting with customers. She had already asked where they were from, were they down for the parkway, and so forth. Her name tag said June.
“You know, the cook told me the rhododendron was out over his way,” she said, topping off their coffee. “A big forest of it. Would you be interested if I could get you directions?”
“Absolutely,” Charlie said.
“At the higher elevation, you’re going to have trouble finding it . . . but down in the hollows, you should come across some banks. He said the azaleas are out, too. Could be real pretty.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Charlie said.
“Easiest thing in the world.”
Margaret finished her muffin and drank some juice. For a moment she pictured the morning routine back in Maine: Gordon waking, sleepy and soft, and Grandpa Ben tiptoeing in to check on him. It was Tuesday, so Blake would swing by to pick up Gordon and Ben, likely, would use the morning hours to patch or repair something. A piece of machinery was always down or up on the farm; fences needed perpetual mending; and water troughs collapsed and broke, sprung leaks, the cows stropping their heavy bodies against them to scrape away winter coats. She imagined the light finding the oak tree, climbing it slowly, and she could see the phoebe bobbing its tail in the early air. She would be back there tomorrow. It would be evening by the time she returned, but still she would know she’d returned by the smells and sounds. Home, she thought. Yes, it was Gordon’s home, and her home, too, although deep down it felt like Ben’s land. The property and houses would pass on to Gordon, but at times, when she felt down or blue, she wondered if she wasn’t an intermediary, a caretaker for a line of men. She wondered if most women didn’t feel that way: as onlookers somehow, not quite team members but managers instead, the outsider kid who was quick with a water bucket and a dry towel who did not get to play, precisely, but waited in attendance on those who did.
Gloomy thoughts, she decided, and shook herself. When June came back with a piece of paper Margaret was glad to get out of her own head.
“Gary got this for you off Google Maps,” June said, putting the paper down and offering more coffee. “He’s a big computer enthusiast, is Gary. It’s about five miles from here. You follow these directions and it will take you right there.”
“Thank you,” Charlie said. “And thank Gary for us, too.”
“I’ll do that. Now, here’s your check. You need anything else?”
“We should be all set.”
“Well, you two enjoy the rest of your trip. We might get lucky and get a little sun later. You never know this time of year.”
She moved on and Margaret finished her juice.
“We winning or losing?” Charlie asked.
“Winning.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, Charlie. I’m feeling a little sentimental about you already.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Yes, a very good thing. You know what I was remembering a little while ago? The music at the ball. When we got out of the cab you could hear it, and the lights were on in the embassy, and everyone was dressed so beautifully. The music made everything soar. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that’s how I remember it. See, I’m already nostalgic over us.”
He lifted her hand and kissed the back.
“Let’s find some rhododendrons,” he said.
“Yes, let’s.”
* * *
Charlie saw the glow of azaleas through the fog. It did not quite seem possible. Margaret’s concentration was fixed on the map in her lap, and Charlie, at first glance, thought they had come across an old sign, or a building, buried on the side road. He could not initially believe in the colors. Then the truth of what he saw came to him: a forest of pink and red blooms, pale and shimmering in the early fog.
“Margaret,” he said, “look.”
She looked up and instinctively reached across the console and put her hand on his knee.
“Awesome,” she said.
“There must be a pull-off.”
She sat up on the edge of her seat. The map slid partially off her lap.
“It doesn’t look real,” she said.
“I thought it was a building at first.”
“Oh, does it really look like this?”
“Here, I can pull off here.”
And he did. He eased the Jeep onto a dirt turnout and then switched off the ignition and did not move for a moment. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. He had not anticipated anything this vast. Margaret took the Google map and slid it onto the dash. She alternated between looking at the azaleas and looking at him. Each time their eyes met, their smiles grew broader.
“I had no idea,” she said, emphasizing the “no.”
“Do you think we’re finally getting far enough south? Is that it?”
“I don’t know. Come on, let’s get out. There’s a path.”
He followed her. Whatever had gripped her for a moment at breakfast fell away. She kept turning and smiling, amazed and wanting to share her amazement with him.
“The fog makes it better, doesn’t it?” she said. “It’s muted but more beautiful. Oh, Charlie, look at what we’ve found!”
“The mountains could be covered with these.”
“I read that azaleas and rhododendrons are both rhododendron. I know that sounds confusing, but it’s what I read.”
“I’m not sure the name matters.”
She took his hand and led him down the path. It was not a park or a prescribed path; it was a path made by people’s interest in the plants. At the edge, Charlie saw a few plastic soda bottles and the inevitable beer cans, but as they went farther the d
ebris disappeared. In its place a cape of flowers covered the forest floor. Though it was foggy, Charlie imagined dappled light would find the plants in most weather. It was exquisite. He pulled Margaret to him and kissed her softly.
“I’m glad I’m seeing this with you,” he said.
“It’s beautiful, Charlie.”
“Every spring this happens. It’s hard to believe.”
He let her go and followed her deeper into the plants. Azaleas, he thought. How strange to discover these plants existed on such a scale, that springtime for people in the area meant this profusion of beauty. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the scent of the blooms come to him. It reminded him of the poppy field in The Wizard of Oz. Snow on poppies, he remembered, that was what woke Dorothy and the others. The plants went on for acres. If the rest of the mountains held entire forests of rhododendron, it would be nearly too much to take in. He wondered how he had never had a sense of this before.
“This is crazy,” Margaret said and turned and laughed. “This is way more than I ever guessed.”
“You’re right about the fog. It makes them even more beautiful.”
“Sometimes the fog covers the entire plant and all you can see is the bloom. It looks like a floor covered with beautiful flowers.”
Then for a moment they stopped. Charlie felt an overwhelming love—yes, he could call it love now—for her. For Margaret. For this kind, good woman from Maine.
“This can’t be the end,” he said.
“Shhhhh,” she whispered and came into his arms. “Shhh, not now. Not now. Flowers, just be here.”
* * *
Blake found Grandpa Ben in the dooryard, the innards of his old Farmall tractor spread around him like an oily skirt. Oil covered his hands, too, and his cheek had a single slash of gunk that he probably hadn’t noticed. Blake didn’t know much about tractors, but she knew this one was famous for breaking down. When Margaret wanted to be a little naughty, she referred to it as Ben’s hobby. They needed a new tractor, of course, but the financing on farm equipment was paralyzing.
“See you’re working on your race car,” Blake said, climbing out of her Civic.
“Going to take it down to Daytona and make my fortune,” Ben said, looking up, his hands picking up a nut and trying to fit it to a bolt that didn’t want to receive it.
Blake stepped over the muddy dooryard and gradually gained better ground. The sun had worked clear of the morning fog and she found a blade of light and stood in it. She was greedy for sunlight. Everyone in Maine was greedy for it at this point of the year, but in a couple weeks, Blake knew, they would be complaining about the heat.
“Just checking in,” Blake said, “and Donny wanted me to ask you about that biosolids deal. He thought he might be able to use it on a field he has under contract up to the Davidsons’ place.”
“Emmett Davidson?”
“The one and only.”
“That northern pasture?”
“I guess. You’d know better.”
Grandpa Ben put down the nut and bolt he was fiddling with and pulled a rag out of his back pocket. He wiped his hands.
“What’s he want to do with that pasture?” Ben asked.
“Turf, I guess. Donny has the idea he can grow turf up here and sell it down in the Boston area or over to Portland. Suburbs, I suppose.”
“Well, people from Boston will buy just about anything.”
“That so?”
“It’s what I hear,” Ben said, giving her a dry smile. “But the biosolids might work on the Davidson place. It would make the turf grow pretty thick.”
“That’s what Donny was thinking. He figures it’s free fertilizer.”
“There’s a lot of that around here.”
“You guys doing okay? Is Gordon getting excited for Margaret’s return?”
“Oh, he’s pretty pleased. He has trouble calculating the time, but he knows it’s tomorrow. I haven’t talked to her much. How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine. She’s ready to come home, I guess.”
She watched him try the nut on the bolt once more. He wanted to be in the sun, too, she saw, and she marveled to realize that Ben, Grandpa Ben, had been a boy once, had been a young man, had had his days. Why had she never seen him in that light before? she wondered. When he looked at her again, he smiled.
“I’m glad she got away,” he said. “Life on a farm can wear you out unless you get away from time to time.”
“When do you get away, Ben?” Blake asked, seeing him clearly for a moment.
“Oh, not much. You take on livestock and it takes on you.”
“If you could go away, where would you go?”
“I don’t think about it much.”
“Where would you go, though? If you could get away?”
He shrugged and turned a little in the sun. Blake realized she saw the source of the great kindness in the Kennedy men. They did not want or yearn after things they couldn’t have. Gordon was the same way, just as Thomas had been. Was it contentment, she wondered, or philosophy? She couldn’t say in any final way, but she smiled to see it and she watched him fiddle with the bolt. She wished she could borrow some of his acceptance.
“You’d go see the Red Sox, wouldn’t you?” she said.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“You know, we could make that happen, Ben,” she said and felt a moment of great tenderness toward him.
“I’ve always liked a ball game.”
She smiled. She moved a little to remain in the sun. How funny the world was, she thought. How pretty in its unfathomable way. How good it was to have the warmth of the sunlight and to talk to Ben. She made a small promise to herself that she would see about Red Sox tickets. Donny knew someone who had an angle on them. She would mention it to Margaret, she decided, and she would volunteer to babysit if they needed her to. Or maybe, she thought, Ben would want Gordon with him. It was a male ritual to see a game with your dad, and Ben was as close to a dad as Gordon would have anytime soon.
“I should run,” she said, “and I’ll drop Gordon by later. So you’re saying the biosolids deal might work on that field?”
“If we’re talking about the same one, it’ll be right as rain.”
“Good luck with the tractor, Ben. When I come back I expect to see it running.”
“You can expect frogs to be princes, but that doesn’t make it so.”
He smiled and she smiled back. Then he picked up his bolt and turned and tried to fit it into the engine block. Blake walked slowly back to her car. She hardly wanted to move out of the sun. When she climbed in behind the driver’s wheel she was surprised to find the vehicle had grown hot in the short time it had been parked. Spring, then summer, she knew. For no reason she could pinpoint, she cried as she pulled down the driveway. For Ben, mostly. And for all of them, Gordon and Phillip and Margaret and Donny. And for Thomas living out his days in the home. Plants bending to the sun. That’s all anyone was.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Do you have any idea what kind of house you’ll have when you get posted?” Margaret asked.
They had been driving most of the morning, their journey marked by stops to see more and more blooms. It was as if, Margaret felt, they had unlocked the secret of the blooms by finding the first pocket. Now, through the rest of the morning, they saw them everywhere, most of them held by gray fog. Occasionally they spotted them on a hillside or down in a hollow, their individuality blurred by the fog until they appeared as clouds of impossible hues. Little low heavens, she remembered. Informally, she was responsible for the passenger-side outlook, while he watched on the driver’s side.
“They have pretty nice housing, I guess,” he said. “And I think most places come with a guard and a gardener and sometimes a cook.”
“Depends, I imagine. A couple years. Sometimes less. They don’t like to go to the expense to get you over there, then move you right away. It’s a whole world, I guess, the politics of moving and posting.”
“That should be exciting.”
“I’m looking forward to it. I’m pretty stoked. I like travel. That’s one benefit of the war. I learned I like to travel.”
“Even under the circumstances?”
“Well, not for the war, of course. But I like the perspective of seeing America from a foreign country. It sounds crazy, but it feels like a big vacation to me. I don’t know why. I guess part of it is in America everyone is running around after money and promotions, but when you step out of it you see it isn’t particularly important after all. The whole mall culture we’ve developed, the television shows, I don’t know. There’s something I enjoy about stepping out of it. It feels more real overseas sometimes. I think a lot of soldiers feel that way and they don’t know what to do with it.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“Have you been overseas?”
“No. I’ve wanted to go, but I haven’t done it. Thomas always said if you say you want to do something, but then don’t do it, maybe you didn’t want to do it in the first place. You think that’s true?”
“My dad used to say we all get exactly what we want. He said that’s a much more frightening proposition than the other way around. I never knew if I agreed with him, but sometimes I see what he means.”
“So I guess I have to accept that I didn’t want it as much as I thought I did.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?”
“I think we’re too high for blooms now.”
“It would be beautiful up here without the fog.”
“I feel like it’s our own little world. Like we’re living in a cloud.”
“Do you want to call Gordon soon?”
Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) Page 18
