“Gus invited me.” Richard said this complacently, like a kid flashing his hall pass.
Maggie’s jaw dropped again, and Diane told Richard, “Oh hell no. You didn’t just come for Gus. You came to stir up some shit.”
Richard held up his hands defensively. “No, I’m not here to cause any trouble. I just, I miss the old neighborhood sometimes. And I wanted to talk to Maggie alone for a minute. Just a minute, I swear.”
Diane glared down at Richard like an angry bouncer. To Maggie’s eye, Richard was as handsome and achingly fit as ever. But Diane had a good six inches on him, and—thanks to all her extensive fight training for the apocalypse—she might have been able to take him. She growled, “Say the word, Maggie.”
Maggie pictured Diane throwing Richard out onto the curb. The image had some appeal, but it didn’t seem very festive. She put a hand on Diane’s arm. “It’s okay, Diane. Just give us a minute.” Diane unfolded her arms, but did not retreat. Maggie clarified, “Alone, Diane.” Diane shot her a hurt look, then shuffled outside.
As soon as the front door shut, Maggie told Richard, “You have exactly one minute.”
Richard smiled. “Thanks, Maggie. I, um, I didn’t mean to wreck your Thanksgiving. Just the opposite. I was hoping . . .” He stepped closer to her, and she took a matching step back. “You see, I’ve been working with a sponsor, and . . .”
“A sponsor? You mean like in AA?”
“Yes, and no. It’s not AA. It’s a twelve-step group . . . for porn addicts. We’re trying to recover from porn addiction by relying on a Higher Power. Something greater than ourselves.”
Maggie’s brain snarked, You don’t need a Higher Power. You need oven mitts. But that sentiment didn’t seem very Christian. Maggie had an absurd urge to live up to her Puritan costume. Instead, she said uncertainly, “Oooh-kay.”
Richard cleared his throat nervously. “So, um, I’ve been working on my ninth step—the one where I make amends to all the people I harmed with my addiction. And uh . . . you’re at the top of the list. In fact, you are the list.”
Maggie repeated, “Okay?”
“Thanksgiving seemed like the right time to make amends. So, I wanted you to know: I. Am. Deeply. Sorry.”
Maggie waited in silence for a long moment, long enough to allow the sounds of her guests outside to filter back into her consciousness. Despite his solemnity, Richard’s apology seemed somehow inadequate, underproduced. An emotional popgun in a CGI world. Years of suffering and the loss of a marriage required something more than a single “I’m sorry.” Maggie managed, “Is that it?”
Sensing her letdown, Richard said, “No, I want to make it up to you.” He stepped closer again, “I want . . .”
He reached out to touch her arm, and Maggie stepped back, shaking her head. “Oh no. No touching. This isn’t Pat the Bunny.”
Richard exhaled, cooling his own jets. “Right. I understand. If you change your mind, I want you to know, I still . . .” But that was the problem. Richard didn’t “still” want her. “Still” implied that he’d never stopped wanting her, but he had. And that had broken her heart. Maggie shook her head emphatically. Richard pulled back. “Yeah, got it. But look, even if we never get back together, I know that I owe you real amends. If I can ever do anything to make things up to you, please let me know. Okay?”
Maggie nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you want me to leave? I can go home if you like.”
“No,” said Maggie. “I don’t want you to be alone on Thanksgiving. You can eat with us, but then you go home, all right?”
Richard nodded. He opened the front door to find Diane standing just outside it, looming. He walked quickly past her out to the tables. As the two women watched Richard take a seat—just a few spaces down from Danny—Diane asked, “How much did you tell Danny about Richard?”
Maggie gulped. “Too much.”
Diane eyed Maggie shrewdly. “You overshared during pillow talk, didn’t you?” Maggie nodded. Diane said, “C’mon, let’s go hack that turkey apart. You can pretend it’s your ex.”
The two friends carved the bird, then brought it out to the tables. Maggie took her time handing out platters of turkey. Then, like a child forced to go to her room at bedtime, she shuffled over to her seat between Danny and Diane. Lars, Jeannie, and Richard were there too.
Looking round the table, Maggie said with false brightness, “So have you all introduced yourselves?” Everyone nodded. Maggie said, “Good. Let’s eat.”
For the next few minutes, everyone at Maggie’s table said nothing as they methodically shoved turkey into their maws. Laughter and snippets of chatter wafted to them from all directions, making the conversation blackout at their table ever more awkward. Once again, Diane came to the rescue, saying cheerfully, “So I was reading an article on all the stuff you’re not supposed to discuss at Thanksgiving dinner: who prays to what god, who screwed who, who’s pulling down the most cash. Sure was a looooong list, of course you can’t talk health problems either ’cause nobody wants the nitty-gritty on how Uncle Merle’s colostomy bag works.” Diane laughed too heartily at this, and Maggie felt a pang of love for her friend.
Jeannie chipped in, “And politics is out. These days, talking politics is too scary. It makes me feel like a kid with one of those old jack-in-the-boxes. Turn the crank over and feel your stomach flip because you just don’t know when the freaky clown’ll pop at you. Only this time, the clown’s your old friend spouting off about guns or gays.” Jeannie shuddered.
Danny said gamely, “Anybody seen any good movies lately?”
Everyone shook their heads. Lars snorted. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen any, Richard. I thought watching movies was your favorite hobby.” Danny sucked in his cheeks and breathed deeply—stifling a laugh. Under the table, he gave Maggie’s thigh a friendly pinch.
Lars’s jab landed, but Richard answered good-naturedly enough, “That used to be my hobby, but not anymore. I’ve moved on to other things.”
“What? They got sexy holograms now?” quipped Lars.
Seemingly oblivious, Jeannie said, “What? You mean like a hologram of Mae West?”
Danny said, “I saw a hologram on an award show once. It was Michael Jackson, I think.”
Still glowering at Richard, Lars mumbled, “Another pervert.”
Maggie shot Lars a pleading look, and Lars frowned and squirmed a bit, like a kid who’d been caught out. Silence fell, and Jeannie marched into the breach. “I saw a documentary on the Pilgrims last night.”
“Did you?” said Diane.
Jeannie nodded. “Yes. It was one of those cheesy ones where they use reenactors. Ohmigawd, I love the way they light reenactments—all soft and gauzy. I wish they’d light me like that in real life. So anyways, it turns out the Pilgrims were a gloomy bunch. I guess predestination has a way of doing that to people.”
Diane said, “Predestination? Sounds like airport talk.”
Launching into teacher mode, Jeannie explained, “Predestination is the belief that even before you are born, Gawd has already decided whether you are going to heaven or to hell. It’s like he’s preaddressed your spiritual envelope.”
Diane objected, “But if God’s done that, why bother to be good?”
Jeannie answered, “To show everyone—yourself included—that you are going to be saved. The more virtuous you are, the less anyone can doubt you’re headed for the pearly gates. The most virtuous Pilgrims were called ‘visible saints.’”
Diane smiled. “Visible saints, like those alpha moms on the PTA.”
Danny said, “Or Gwyneth Paltrow.”
“Not like Gwyneth,” said Jeannie. She frowned at Danny as if he were a student who’d burped loudly during story time. “The Puritans weren’t smug. They thought if they made even a single misstep, they’d spend all eternity burning in hell. Terror kept them vigilant to their shortcomings. They were humble people.” Jeannie focused on Danny as she said this. She had obviously conclu
ded that he was not big on humility.
Danny said, “Hmm. I don’t think I believe in hell.”
“I do,” said Lars. He glared at Richard again.
Danny went on, “It’s just, if there is a God, I can’t imagine him deep-frying people.”
Diane lurched off subject. “I love deep-fried food. Those fried Oreos at the fair were . . .” Diane smacked her lips together.
Suddenly, Maggie leaped to her feet. “Oh God, the pies.” She’d left two pies in her lower oven. She rushed over to her house.
One of her elderly neighbors, Fern, was in her kitchen. “I brought back one of your platters, sweetie.” She patted Maggie on the shoulder, evidently oblivious to the smell of overbaked pies. As Fern exited, Maggie mitted up and fetched the pies, setting them out to cool. The pumpkin pie looked fine, but the apple pie’s edge had burnt slightly, so Maggie went to work trimming off the burnt bits of crust. Then she felt a pair of arms circle her waist from behind.
Danny whispered in her ear, “Hey, beautiful.”
Maggie leaned back into his chest for a moment. He started to kiss her neck, and her arms went limp. She let her knife fall onto the counter. She closed her eyes and felt a minor riot in her groin. His kisses deepening, Danny cupped her breast, and Maggie roused herself from her horny stupor. “Not now, Daniel.”
He gently turned her round to face him. He kissed her deeply, then set back to work on her neck, murmuring, “Yes, now.”
Swimming upstream, Maggie said lazily, “Nnnno. We can’t. Jeannie could come in. And what about the old people outside?”
Leaning into her so as to physically trumpet his erection, Danny said, “We’re not old people.”
Maggie bit down on her lower lip. She reached for a counterargument, but her rational mind had flipped its “WE’RE CLOSED” sign. “I’ve got guests coming in and out of here. We can’t . . .”
Danny kissed her again. “Not in the bedroom.”
“Yes, there too. Fern is gonna be back in here any minute to fetch those dopey party favors she stowed there.”
“Well, that is a problem.” He caressed her arm, then took her hand and led her down the hallway.
Maggie couldn’t imagine Danny throwing open the front door to show off the enormous khaki tent his penis was making. She asked foggily, “Where are we going?”
“On safari.” Just off the foyer, he turned and threw open the side door into the garage. He shut the door behind him and made a great show of flicking the lock. Then he took her in his arms.
What happened next literally came in a blur. His hands were up her black Pilgrim dress, easing down her non-Pilgrim panties. They kissed, feeling their way around each other and the garage’s cluttered space. She leaned against the passenger side of her car, unzipped his pants, and yanked down his briefs, freeing his good-to-go penis. Still kissing her, he moved her round to the front of the car, and tilted her back onto the hood. Then he entered her personal parking space.
Soon, Maggie was lying spread-eagled, black boots dangling off opposite sides of the car as if she were the star of some erotic Pilgrim yoga video. Daniel moved inside her slowly at first, then quickly and with greater force as the car bounced on its tires. Maggie moaned and threw out an arm, hitting a tall stack of boxes. An old, long-forgotten basketball rolled off the top of the stack, bounced off the floor, and then smacked against the garage door opener’s button.
Maggie registered confused panic on Danny’s face as the door began to loudly roll back up on its hinges. Stuck on sexual autopilot, his hips continued to thrust forward, and he climaxed seconds later in full view of the twenty elderly guests out in the cul-de-sac.
He and Maggie froze, trapped in a spotlight of stunned silence. Then she heard Jeannie say, “Well, I guess we know what she’s thankful for.”
26
THE SCARLET LETTER
When the curtain rose on Maggie and Danny, Diane was too shocked to move. Jeannie’s quip—which Diane would giggle at later—roused Diane from her stupor. Diane ran over to smack the gray garage control panel on the side of the house. As the door rolled noisily back down, Diane called out, “All right, show’s over, folks! Back to our G-rated dinner!” A few people guffawed at that, and Diane hoped Maggie wouldn’t take it too hard. These people needed a few giggles after seeing their sainted neighbor getting her turkey basted. Besides, it could have been worse. Three of the guests had heart conditions. Maggie was lucky the geezers’ personal second hands didn’t freeze forever when her and her boy toy’s bodies yelled “Surprise!”
As the guests finished the last of their turkey, Diane recruited Jeannie to help fetch the desserts. Jeannie plated pie slices, and Diane handed them out, smiling her best “no-crazy-shit-to-see-here” smile—the smile a flight attendant gives you after your seatmate has thrown up all over your tray table. Diane had always liked flight attendants. If “visible saints” really did exist, Diane figured flight attendants would be God’s first draft pick.
Eventually, Maggie’s guests shuffled off to their houses. Jeannie threw out the paper plates and ran the rest of the food back into Maggie’s kitchen while Diane bagged the now-dirty tablecloths. And a Thanksgiving miracle occurred as Lars worked cheerfully alongside Richard to fold and stack the chairs and tables for their trip back to the rental place. Watching them work, Diane grew wistful, reflecting on how it takes a village to clean up after an impromptu porn show. She loved her dad and hated Richard a little less for working together to help Maggie in her bizarre moment of need.
When the four finished clearing the cul-de-sac, they stood awkwardly together on Maggie’s lawn. Suddenly, Maggie’s house seemed intimidating, almost scary, as if the place were haunted by the ghosts of porn past, and in a way, it was—first by Richard’s oeuvre and now by Maggie’s unsavory debut.
Brushing his hands against his pants, Richard said, “I better be going. Tell Maggie I said thanks for . . . Um, tell her, uh . . .”
Diane supplied, “Dinner?”
Richard gulped. “Yeah, that.” He walked a few steps away, then turned. “Diane?”
“Yes?” asked Diane.
“Take care of her, okay?” He looked at her pleadingly, and Diane remembered that she’d once liked this man.
Diane nodded, and Richard drove off—leaving three little Indians behind.
Lars jutted his chin and shot a look at Danny’s black Tesla on the curb. It had a “DANNYZ” license plate, and Diane knew her father was thinking Danny must’ve gotten it from some Assholes’ Accessories catalog. “Is that Zelinsky fella in the house?”
Diane said, “Nah. Danny slipped out the back and took an Uber back to his hotel.”
Lars frowned. “Real chivalrous.”
“Don’t look like that, Dad. Maggie asked him to go. He has a big conference tomorrow morning. Besides, she’d rather hide in her bedroom by herself.”
Jeannie said, “Cowering is not a group activity.”
Diane added, “Plus, she probably didn’t want us to think she was in her bedroom fooling around with him.”
Lars frowned. “After what we’ve seen, who cares? In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“So anyway, Dad, let me look in on her, and then I’ll drive you back home.”
Jeannie stepped forward, telling Diane, “No, you should stay. I’ll drive Lars home.”
Diane asked, “You got time for that? We live all the way up in Vista.”
Jeannie said darkly, “I’m a sixty-five-year-old divorcée and it’s Thanksgiving. Trust me, I’ve got time.”
Diane thanked her and watched as Jeannie led Lars over to her car. Lars made a business of looking sour about the travel arrangements, but Diane saw him smooth his shirt and check his reflection in the car mirror. For Lars, that counted as primping.
Diane waved them off and then went inside the house. She knocked on Maggie’s bedroom door. “It’s Diane.”
A groggy voice said, “Come in.”
Diane entered to find Maggie
under the covers, a box of tissues in her hand. Maggie’s Pilgrim bonnet was knocked akimbo, and her eyes were puffy. Not meeting Diane’s gaze at first, she said weakly, “How bad was it?”
Diane lied, “Not that bad.”
Maggie looked at Diane searchingly, and Diane flashed her best flight attendant smile. Suddenly, Maggie collapsed into tears again. “Ohmigod! It was a fucking catastrophe!”
Diane sat down on the bed and took Maggie in her arms. Rocking Maggie gently, Diane said, “Oh. It’s not that bad. Look on the bright side, at least there were no kids out there, just geezers.” This prompted even louder sobs from Maggie. Diane flailed. “Who knows, they might forget all about this. They’re old. Like you said before, half of ’em can’t remember where they left their car keys.”
Maggie drew back. Rubbing her nose with a tissue, she said, “This is not car keys. People forget car keys. Nobody forgets a Pilgrim lady getting humped on the hood of her car.”
“It was quite a picture. I’ll give you that.”
Maggie sniffed. “I can’t imagine what those people must be thinking.”
“I know what they’re thinking. They’re shocked, titillated, and feeling superior—it’s an emotional trifecta. This is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to them in a long time.”
Maggie put her face in her hands again. “And Richard, poor Richard!”
“Oh, give me a break. Poor Richard’s seen wayyy worse than that. Your sideshow was pure Merchant Ivory compared to the stuff on his computer. And I should know, I’m the one who found that stuff.” Diane shuddered. Maggie pulled out a fresh wad of tissues and blew her nose loudly. Diane pointed to a box of Godiva chocolates on the nightstand. “Want a chocolate?”
Maggie shook her head and said huffily, “No, I don’t want a chocolate.”
Diane shrugged. She grabbed the box of chocolates and propped it open on her lap. She popped a chocolate into her mouth. Her mouth full, Diane said, “You sure you don’t want one?”
Maggie frowned. “No. What about Jeannie? Do you think she’ll talk about this to the other teachers?”
The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield Page 16
