by Peggy Webb
“Halbert, you don’t understand. Whatever feelings I had for you are over and done with. Unless I run into you somewhere in a public place, I won’t be seeing you again.” I stand up, offer my hand. “I wish you the best of luck.”
He’s surprised that I mean it, and he grabs my hand, hangs on as if he’s hoping I’ll change my mind. Instead, I lead him to the door.
“Goodbye, Halbert.”
After I close the door, I do a jazz step across the living room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Perched on my sturdy new railing, I tell Matt about Halbert’s visit, including the part where I used him to stick thorns under Halbert’s fingernails.
“You told him that, Maggie? That you’d made the gingerbread especially for me?”
“Yes.” I feel foolish admitting this, foolish that I’m wearing slacks in hundred degree weather just because I don’t want Matt to see how I look in shorts, legs white as a fish’s belly. Like Moby Dick, beached. Maybe I’ll lie on a quilt in the sun when I get a chance.
“Is it true?”
“Yes.” I wish a breeze would spring up and give me some relief, but I’m left to sweat, a sinner confessing her transgressions but feeling no remorse.
“And if I had it to do over again, I’d do the same thing, give Halbert store-bought cookies then brag about making gingerbread for you. I’m a shameless hussy.”
I prove what I say by staring at him. Matt, in cut-off jeans, laughing, looks like something you’d see in an ad for a trip to the Bahamas where you’re led to believe that tanned young men with bodies you’d like to lick all over are waiting for you on every beach.
He stares right back. “Halbert’s a fool, Maggie. If I were in his shoes I’d be out there in your front yard peeing on your trees.”
Later, lying in my bed, I picture Matt standing beside my pecan trees, an aggressive male animal, marking his territory. A wild animal.
I’m wearing my nightshirt that says, Give in to your animal instincts, but I’m not about to take the advice with a younger man.
Ten years younger, at least. Maybe more. But then again, maybe not.
Miffed at myself for wondering, I race outside to sit on my porch and look at stars. I spot Pegasus flying upside-down, his great wings stretched, sparkling, across the sky.
“That’s what I’m going to do.” I say this aloud, a wish, a promise. My life is slowly turning around, but I’m not going to wait for it become right-side up. I’m going to stretch my wings and fly, anyhow.
o0o
Matt’s going to be here any minute and I’m still in my nightshirt trying to decide what to wear. It’s another blistering day, and I don’t want to sweat in a pair of slacks. The next thing you know, I’ll be wearing long sleeves in summer to cover sagging arms.
“To heck with vanity.” I nab a favorite pair of shorts and a well-worn tee shirt emblazoned with Keep America Beautiful, Stay in Bed then hurry to the kitchen, barefoot, and put on coffee.
I hear his knock, a smart rap, and then the front door opens and he comes in bringing paint buckets and sunshine.
“Good,” he says, standing in the kitchen doorway with his mega-watt smile and his vitality and his charm. Oh help.
“Good?” I pour coffee into his blue mug and hand it to him. I feel a little shock when I touch his hand and I wonder if he notices.
“Yes. You dressed to paint.”
“Well, I didn’t. Not really.” I sip my own coffee, gazing at him over the rim of the cup. “I’m probably not very good at it.”
“I’ll teach you. We’ll be finished here in a few days, and you’ll want to remember how you helped paint your own walls in your own house.”
“You know me too well.” The thought makes me smile. Or maybe it’s just Matt, standing there so full of life.
“Probably not well enough,” he says, and I know I’ll ponder that when I go to bed. “But I’m enjoying the process.”
“I am, too, Matt. You’re a good young man and I’m glad I’ve had this chance to get to know you.”
“Wait a minute. That sounds like goodbye.”
“You’ll be leaving in a few days and I’m sure you’ve got some young woman out there who’ll be happy I’m not taking up your time.”
“That’s twice you’ve said young, Maggie.”
I notice he didn’t deny having a girlfriend, and I don’t know how that makes me feel. Confused? Sad? And for goodness sake, why?
“Aren’t you, Matt?”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
Oh help. I calculate the age difference, and it’s not pretty. Actually, it’s depressing. When I’m a doddering sixty-five he’ll still be a virile fifty-four.
Finally I manage to say, “That’s nice,” and he bursts out laughing.
“Sometimes it is, and sometimes it’s not.” He grabs me with one hand and a paint bucket with the other. “Let’s get painting, Maggie!”
The paint is the exact color of wisteria, and the minute I see a swath on my bedroom walls, I forget everything except how it feels to stand beside Matt swishing paint on my walls and listening to the jazzy tune he’s whistling.
Wonderful. Like rolling on spring grass in the sunshine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The lights are on in every room of my house, and it’s filled with music and laughter and people. This is my first party here, a housewarming, a chance to meet the neighbors, and a celebration of the completion of my renovation.
Lydia has come all the way from Texas. Not just for the party, though. She arrived last night bursting with news. She’s moved out of Beth’s house and is living temporarily in a garage apartment that belongs to one of Daniel’s customers, the widow of a Viet Nam veteran who survived prison camp and wrote a book called If Tomorrow Ever Comes. Lydia met her last spring when she went with Daniel to plant annuals in the woman’s flower beds.
“She’s the neatest lady, Mom,” Lydia told me when she got here. We were sitting in the middle of my bed, catching up. “You should hear the stories she tells about Mr. Bob. That’s what she calls her husband, Mr. Bob, and he called her Miss Emily. If you could meet her, you’d like her.”
I already do. Not only did she see Lydia’s potential and give her a break on rent, but she appreciates my daughter’s whimsical qualities. When Lydia dyed her hair purple, Miss Emily did, too.
“She said purple hair made her feel young,” Lydia told me.
I’m wearing a purple, too, a new dress I bought just for the occasion, not to feel young but because I like the color. I like the way the dress makes me feel, festive and carefree.
And I especially liked it when Matt told me it matches my eyes.
He’s here, of course, cornered by Jean and Lillian, but holding his own from what I can see. Naturally I invited him. When someone compliments me on my beautiful new home, I want him to take full credit.
“We’re out of pecan tarts, Mom. Do you want me to get some more?”
“I’ll do it. You stay and enjoy the party.”
Advice I don’t have to give to my daughter. Not only does she enjoy parties, she’s the life of them. Lydia’s a natural entertainer, and with little or no urging, she sits at the piano and belts out everything from country and western to light opera.
Dick complained bitterly. “I could pay off the national debt for what these music lessons are costing me. Is she planning on being an opera star or what? For God’s sake, Maggie.”
No, for pleasure’s sake, I could have told him, but I didn’t. Dick never understood pleasure.
Jean says something to Lydia, and she slides onto the piano bench. I go into the kitchen to replenish the pecan tarts
“Why didn’t you tell me Matt Graham is such a charmer?” Jean is taking off her shoes as she comes through the kitchen door, balancing first on one foot, then the other.
Lillian is right behind her, and I’m thrilled to see that she’s not panting. I think summer vacation has been good for her. I’m hoping on he
r next office visit, her doctor will say, I made a big mistake. Your heart’s going to last years.
“That’s what I want to know,” Lillian says.
She perches on one of the chairs I’ve painted purple. To give the house a festive touch, I told her and Jean on the telephone the day I bought the paint. For good measure, I added a pair angel wings fashioned with chicken wire, white netting and glitter.
“I don’t tell everything,” I say.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jean nabs a tart from the tray.
“No wonder you’ve been spending so much time at home.” Lillian takes the tray from me and sets it on the kitchen table. “You don’t have to go back in there yet. It’s been ages since the three of us were together like this.”
Jean snags her second tart. “If you have any of these left over, I want to take some home.”
“What I want to know is what’s been going on with Matt. Come on, Maggie, tell all.”
“There’s nothing to tell, Lillian.” I know that look they give each other, full of fond dismay. “It’s true.” I ease into a chair, slip off my shoes and eat three tarts without stopping. “Someday I’m going to learn how to make these.”
“Good, that means I won’t have to.” Jean closes her eyes in sheer appreciation. “This pastry melts in your mouth. Who made them?”
“My next door neighbor. She’s delightful - the tiny brunette in the white dress.”
“Mom?” Lydia sticks her head around the kitchen door. “Where are the tarts?” She spies them in the middle of the table and us with our shoes off. “Never mind, I’ll get some more from the fridge.”
“I like your hair,” Jean tells her.”
“Thanks, Aunt Jean.” She calls Jean and Lillian both “Aunt,” elevating their relationship, and they both dote on her.
“Did you use Miss Clairol or what? I’d like to do mine that color.”
“Don’t tell her,” Lillian says. “She’s hard enough to handle as a redhead.”
Lydia backs through the French doors, laughing, and Matt is the first to grab a handful of tarts off the tray, talking a mile a minute. I try to see if they continue the conversation but they’ve disappeared from view and I can’t tell what’s going on without being obvious.
“I think he likes her,” I say, still trying to spot them.
“Who?” Jean says, but I can tell by the look on her face that she knows exactly who I’m talking about, and that furthermore she’s not pleased.
“Matt. Don’t you think he likes Lydia?”
“No,” Jean says, then clamps her mouth shut.
“It’s you he like, Maggie.” This from Lillian, who shows no surprise whatsoever.
“How old is he?” Jean says.
I’m sorry she brought age up. “Twenty-nine.”
A long silence settles over the three of us, and we look everywhere except at each other. Even the tarts are neglected.
In the next room the party is going full force, with Lydia back at the piano playing an old Cole Porter song from the musical “Anything Goes.” Matt comes into view, leans one hip against the piano and starts to sing.
The song is from the thirties, and it surprises me that he knows the words.
Jean sees me watching him. “Be careful, Maggie,” she says, but Lillian is clearly disgusted by this advice.
“Go for it,” she tells me.
“Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to go for,” I say, but deep inside I wonder.
o0o
“What do you think of Matt Graham?”
Lydia and I are standing in the bathroom side by side removing makeup, and I ask this casually, as if the question hasn’t been burning in my mind all evening.
“He’s got great looking legs.” She tosses a cotton ball into the wastebasket. “But a terrible singing voice.”
“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”
“Mom, come on. He sounds like a bull moose in heat.”
The analogy she has drawn puts me on the defensive. “That’s not a nice thing to say. He’s one of the nicest young men I’ve ever met.”
I have to catch myself so I remember to add young which shows everybody concerned that this is a perfectly harmless conversation. I don’t know who I’m trying harder to convince, Lydia or myself.
“You’re the one who always worries about being nice. Not me.”
She pulls an old sleep shirt over her head then leaves her hair sticking up in purple spikes, like lupine growing wild along the coast of Maine. For the first time in memory I don’t have the urge to smooth it down.
I’m also not in any hurry to follow her into the bedroom for a cozy mother-daughter talk. I take my time with my face, paying particular attention to the wrinkle cream I’m smoothing on, making sure I use upward strokes instead of downward. Looking straight in the mirror at night with only one bathroom light on, I don’t look bad. Even without makeup.
I reach for the hand mirror and hold it under my chin to view myself from that angle, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Seen from below, everything I’ve got is sagging. Give me long floppy ears and I would pass for a Bassett hound.
“Mom?” Lydia is in the doorway. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Just checking . . . I thought I saw a hair on my chin.”
It’s the first time I’ve lied to my daughter, and I guess I should feel terrible, but I don’t. As a matter of fact I feel a bit liberated, as if I’ve suddenly defined myself as an interesting woman who has a life of her own, a life totally unconnected to such things as convention and public opinion. Even to children.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” she says.
“Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.” I close the bathroom door, reluctant to give up this new feeling I have, this vaulting sense of freedom. It will vanish the minute I immerse myself in Lydia’s life, and I selfishly take my time getting into my pajamas.
Turned sideways to the mirror I catch a fleeting glimpse of naked thighs and buttocks, but I don’t turn around to study myself. I dare not, for I know the path my mind would take.
Still, it’s hard not to think about my body, about the way the flesh settles around my waist no matter what kind of exercise I do. Under my clothes it’s hard to detect, but I know it’s there, like a peplum that has gone out of style.
“Oh, well.”
I turn off the bathroom lights. Lydia has already made a nest of pillows in the middle of the bed and she pats the place she’s saved for me.
“Guess what?” When she was a little girl she was always saying that to Dick and me. He used to say, The minute I hear her say guess what, and then see that devilish smile I want to head for the hills. Mostly, he did. Just vanished inside himself and left me to deal with Lydia’s latest schemes.
I fluff the pillows and plop down beside her, happy to note that I’m as limber as a teenager. Almost.
“Let’s see. You’ve joined a rock band and are headed to Argentina on tour,” I say.
“How did you know?” Her smile is playful and I feel a twinge of guilt for lying to her in the bathroom. But only a very small twinge.
“Actually, Mom, you’re not very far off the mark.” She waits for me to comment, but I don’t, partly because I know that nothing I can say will deter her from whatever course she’s set for herself.
“I’m leaving Houston.”
This is no surprise to me. She and Beth bicker, but that’s the way it is when one sister is from Mars. I know from my own experience. I also know without asking that it’s not the quarrels that are driving Lydia on, but her very nature. She’s a will-o-the-wisp, blowing in whatever direction whim takes her.
“And where are you going?”
“Wherever my ship takes me.” She laughs at the expression on my face. “I’ve signed on as entertainer for a cruise ship, Mom. The Texas Princess. We’re going to Veracruz first, and then to Merida and then, oh, I don’t know where all.”
In her exuberan
ce she’s a small child bouncing on the bed. As the mattress moves, I wallow in her wake, then catch my balance and learn to flow with her rhythm. It’s not unpleasant, this free-floating, airborne sensation. Soon I’m bouncing along myself, caught up in her excitement and in some strange and mysterious subterranean current of my own.
“My goodness,” I say. “When did all this happen?”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Why should I be?”
“I thought you wanted me to finish college.”
“I did. I do. I still think you’ll get there someday, but in your own way, your own time. Meanwhile, I think singing on a cruise ship will be a wonderful interlude for you.”
She gives me a funny look, and it takes me a while to realize that she’s stopped bouncing and that I’m the one making the mattress move.
“Well,” I say. “Well, now.”
“I’m glad you’re happy, Mom.”
“So am I. Are you happy, Lydia? Besides the new job, I mean?”
“If you mean, have I made up with Dad, the answer is no.”
I’m trying to think of a suitable reply when suddenly I realize that her relationship with her father is no longer my concern. My daughter is a grown woman, intelligent, savvy, and fully capable of handling her own affairs, personal as well as business. Perhaps I was the catalyst, but the rupture is between her and Dick, and they are the only ones who can repair it.
“My salary won’t be much,” she says, already moving ahead. “But the trips are free . . . Mom, just think of all the wonderful places I’ll be going.”
Me, too, I say, but not to my daughter. Only to myself.
A promise.
o0o
I am standing on my front porch, my arms around Lydia, saying goodbye. She’s been here three days, and already I feel how quiet the house will be after she’s gone.
“I wish Beth could see how happy you are now, Mom.”
“I do, too.” I lean back, cup my daughter’s face. “But don’t you worry about that. Have a great time, wow them on that cruise ship, and call me every chance you get.”
