She looked at her watch and sighed. They had decided to meet at eleven, so she still had plenty of time, but for God’s sake, why today, why now? But there was nothing to do about it, so she took out her phone, checked her e-mails, answered one or two of them, again checked to see what was going on outside, went back to her phone and played a game called Pet Rescue, checked the time again—ten thirty—turned the radio back on even without the motor running—Debussy—wrote another couple of e-mails—thought about Peter—and then decided she better call his cell. There was no answer, so she left a message: “You’re not going to believe this, but there’s a jumper on the bridge. I might be late. Please go ahead and order. Oh, I miss you!” Then she got out of the car and walked over to the guy who was still standing on his roof of his SUV.
“Anything happening yet?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“It seems to me if you want to kill yourself, go ahead,” she said.
“Yeah, but what if it’s some teenager? Or your brother or husband or sister?”
“Don’t you think people should be able to do what they want?”
“You really believe we should let troubled people kill themselves?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said to mollify him, but what she was really thinking was, Hitler was troubled. Should we have stopped him from committing suicide? In any event, for her the question had been settled, and as she walked away she began to imagine what Peter would do when she finally arrived at the Mountain Home Inn, how his eyes would light up at the vision of her walking through the door, and how he would rise and embrace her and say, “I was so worried about you, darling,” and how they would then sit across the table from each other, there on the sun-warmed deck that looked out over the mountains and all the way to the ocean. They would have eyes only for each other, his hand resting on her forearm, hers, under the table, on his thigh. But it was getting late and nothing was moving and even though the weather was beautiful, her nerves at this moment made it hard for her to enjoy what was actually in front of her—the panoramic city sparkling in the bright sun, the white sails on the gray waves, the flocks of gulls soaring over the waters, the endless blue of sky kissing the edge of the sea.
* * *
People just like to kill themselves at Christmas, she thought. It’s a tradition, like drinking Tom and Jerrys. And we should let them. Christian charity and all.
As far as she was concerned there was something very stupid about Christmas, and not just the jumping off of bridges, and not even because Christmas was so commercial. She actually liked the commercial part, the window-shopping, the trees and houses strung with lights (although she was getting bored with the all-white-light thing and wouldn’t mind a little color). She had no problem with the comforting old movies on TV, the magazine ads with automobiles wrapped in big red bows, the phony carolers at the mall, the bell-ringing Salvation Army Santas whom she assumed were mostly crackheads trying to stay clean, at least until the weekend. One could even experience a passing revival of religious feeling, fall in love with the Baby Jesus all over again and she was fine with that. No, it was that everyone put so much into it. That’s what bothered her. As if all this crap really mattered. Everyone spent so much time thinking and worrying about Christmas and what to buy and where to go and whom to be with and if you were invited or not invited. And God forbid if you weren’t jolly. It was a nightmare!
Perhaps she hadn’t always felt this way, and, in truth, her cynicism made her cringe a little. Partly because it wasn’t attractive, but also because she knew it wasn’t entirely healthy. And indeed, there was a time when the holidays thrilled her. She even had a set of Christmas dishes in a box somewhere. Spode. With holly encircled by adorable little old-fashioned toys. She wanted to be that person again, the one who loved Christmas, the one who bought goofy china and silly ornaments and Santa place mats. They still had a tree, of course. Well, a little one. A silver one. Impossible to say what it was made of. Sat on the lowboy in the entry hall. Came with the ornaments already on it. Naturally Henry complained about it when she first brought it home, but he complained about everything. He couldn’t abide change. But she knew he’d get over it because he got over everything.
They used to go up to Tahoe the week of Christmas. Not to ski, just to feel Christmasy, with the snow clinging to their boots and watching their breath plume in the icy air. They had to make reservations almost a year in advance. She reminded him to do it a million times until she realized she’d have to do it herself. Why fight? One year it was a cabin at Alpine, another it was a chalet in Kings Beach on the far north side of the lake. It was always so beautiful there. One could imagine oneself in a storybook or a movie. They even tried roasting chestnuts on an open fire. Never worked. Too mushy.
If the person is going to jump they should just get on with it! she thought. She did wish she had more patience, but it was hard on a day like today. Time, time was the precious thing.
Out over the bay, the sailboats seemed like stones set in a Zen garden, even though she knew they were actually moving, cutting and bouncing their way through the chop. It struck her that this disparity was really quite beautiful, the way distance makes things stand still, steals the life from them, the individuality, makes them part of some great tableau as the gods perhaps might see it. People might be making love down there on those boats, or fishing, or eating lunch, and it would seem so important to them and so real. But from this distance all the distractions of life evaporated like the fog that rolls in every morning—the obscuring fog of passion—and then is gone and what was left was a kind of preternatural clarity, a stoppage of time, an end to time, a vision of perfection. Although she wouldn’t have minded one bit if the traffic started moving.
Just then her phone started ringing—she had left it on the seat of the car. She rushed to pick it up. Peter! At last!
But it was only her brother, Arthur.
* * *
“Oh God, Margaret!” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Hello, Arthur,” she said.
“Oh, Margaret!”
“Calm down, sweetheart,” she said, “and tell me what happened. I’m sure it’s nothing so terrible.”
“She broke up with me.”
“Who? Who broke up with you?”
“Rita.”
“Rita? What happened to what’s her name—Lucy?”
“Lucy’s still here.”
“You were seeing Rita and still living with Lucy?”
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“Jesus, Arthur.”
“Actually, Lucy broke it off.”
“So it’s Lucy who left.”
“No, no, Rita. Rita broke it off, too. She’s highly moral. She doesn’t want to be responsible for wrecking my relationship with Lucy. You would not believe how ethical she is.”
“I see.”
“When we made love it was like two souls joining. It was like the whole world stopped and we were at the center of the universe—”
“I’m sure that’s true, Arthur, but honestly, too much information.”
“Maggie, we made love outside, under the stars, for hours and hours—”
“Arthur!”
“—in the woods, on the pine needles, looking at the Milky Way—”
“I really, really don’t need to hear this.”
“Well, we talked, too, if that’s any help. For hours and hours. Oh, it was so much more than sex!”
“So, what you’re saying is, you had sex with Rita in the woods—”
“In the backyard, actually.”
“—and you told this to Lucy?”
“I wanted to be honest!” he said. “You know, ethical. Rita is incredibly ethical.”
Margaret groaned, as she so often did when talking to her brother. “Well, maybe it’s for the best,” she said.
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Not now, but it will, my love.”
“
Oh, Margaret! I’m so unhappy.”
“I know, dear.”
“Can I come stay with you?”
“Oh, Arthur . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Just for a few days.”
“It’s not the best time.”
“She kicked me out, Margaret. Out onto the street.”
“But it’s your apartment, Arthur.”
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“Just go to Lucy and tell her you want your apartment back.”
“It’s not Lucy. It’s Rita.”
“Rita has the apartment?”
“She won’t let me back in.”
“Arthur, it’s your apartment.”
“I could never kick her out. I wronged her. I have to protect her. You don’t understand. Not that you should. How could you? How could anyone?”
“I think I can manage it. Just tell me.”
“Come on,” he begged. “Can’t I just stay with you? It’s Christmas, Margaret. It’s Christmas.”
“All right, all right. Calm down,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I can come?”
“You’re my brother, aren’t you?”
“Bones will be okay with it, won’t he?”
“Of course he will, Arthur. He loves you.”
“He doesn’t love me. He hates me.”
“That’s not true. He loves you. We all do.
“I love you, too, sis,” he said.
So now she had to figure out a plan. First, she called United—she was Premier Platinum, so she used the direct line—and in ten minutes had him on a flight. Then she called him back and told him when to be at the airport—as it turned out he was already there, since he had no place else to go—and then Margaret had to face the unpleasantness of telling Henry. Unpleasant because she knew how he felt about Arthur, unpleasant because Bones hated surprises, unpleasant because she didn’t want to ruin her day any more than it had already been ruined, and also unpleasant because she’d have to lie to him yet again. She didn’t like lying. It was wrong. Although it did give her a little thrill. As usual, when she called his cell there was no answer and no voice mail, either, because he’d turned it all off. Only Henry turns off his voice mail. So after several tries she was forced to call the office line and face the scorn of Gladys, that idiot receptionist, and of course Gladys couldn’t get through to him either, and with a tone of supercilious commiseration offered to transfer Margaret to voice mail. The voice mail that was off. “No! I’ve tried him three times. Go find him!” she commanded. And when he finally did pick up, he was such a pill. Why he had to put up such a fuss about everything was beyond her. As if going to the airport was such a big deal. And as for Arthur’s alcoholism, that was total bullshit. He wasn’t an alcoholic. And he wasn’t “psychotic,” as Bones was always insisting. He’d just made a few bad decisions and had a bit of bad luck. It was the women he chose. Like that Lucy. What a slut.
She noticed to her horror it was eleven fifteen, which meant that even if the traffic started flowing that instant, she wouldn’t get to the Mountain Home Inn till almost noon. She’d been on the bridge for more than an hour. She tried Peter again, but still no answer. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel until they were numb from tapping. She checked her e-mails again and then again. Nothing. She looked at the time. She texted Peter. No response. She looked at the time. Eleven thirty.
Half their day gone because some stupid asshole decided it was okay to tie up the entire bridge with her angst. Well, guess what? Everyone has angst. I have angst! The guy standing on his Toyota has angst!
She bolted from the car, vaulted over the traffic barrier, bulldozed her way through the bleating crowd on the walkway, grasped the railing with both hands, leaned out as far as she could over the icy waters, craned her neck in the direction of the inept gaggle of police and firemen and medics, and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Let the fucking bitch jump!”
Her words echoed off the sea and bounced off the towers and cables, and from the crowd there rose such a roar of approval, such a loud round of applause, that the Golden Gate Bridge itself shook with laughter.
* * *
But it was still another half an hour before they’d talked the bitch down and the traffic started moving again, and then only one lane at a time.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
12:04–12:52 p.m.
When she finally emerged from the bridge, the traffic opened up as if there were never a problem, and she felt a charge of renewed pleasure as she climbed the Waldo Grade past the headlands. Once out of the tunnel, with its rainbow colors painted over its arched entrance like an upside-down smile, she began the descent into Sausalito. Marin County was a breath of fresh air, with its green vistas and forested hills. Its very strangeness brought her out of herself, reminded her she could be someone new. But why would she want to be someone new? What was wrong with the old Margaret? she wondered. Well, not wondered, exactly, because to wonder about oneself implied some sort of judgment. No, she simply wanted to examine. Examine and observe. And what she observed was that, at least of late, she had been incredibly nice to her brother and horribly bitchy to her husband.
Henry suddenly appeared in her mind and said to her (in the way only Henry could): Gosh, do you really think that’s fair? Meaning, why be nice to Arthur and not to him? This was something worth pondering because Margaret did sense there was something weird about it.
The truth was, if anyone in the triumvirate of Henry, Arthur, and her were a bit—let’s say, off—it had to be Arthur. Yes, he was brilliant, no question about it—but he was also a college dropout who made his living mostly as a bartender. She firmly believed he’d dropped out because he was too smart for any ordinary undergraduate school. Why he didn’t get into an Ivy she’d never understood, but that stupid George Dimwit University? She asked him a million times why he even applied there. Henry always rebuked her, saying you can get a good education anywhere. All you need is a library, and the teachers are just as good, too, and it’s not Dimwit, it’s Dinwoodie. But, honestly, all that was so besides the point. Arthur was advanced. Period. And because of one stupid miscalculation he never got to explore his deeper side. Their mother was partially to blame for that. She should have been much firmer with him. Should have taken him by the hand and made him do his damned applications.
Between Arthur and Henry it was like having two babies, and she could barely take care of one. At least Arthur was in Florida.
But God, he’d been a good-looking kid. The ladies even now swarmed all over him. He knew a million jokes. He could crack you up even if you’d heard them before. He’d recite entire scenes word for word from his favorite “golden age” movies (The Godfather, Taxi Driver, Young Frankenstein), and although sometimes it seemed to her he was hopelessly stuck in the ’70s, it really was very entertaining. But the thing about Arthur that was most attractive—and most frustrating—was that he was a hopeless romantic. The quintessential optimist. Which one might think was a good thing. But it also meant he fell for a new bimbo every other week. She was always the one. The perfect love. Happy, happy, happy, forever and ever and ever!
And yet, Arthur could always make Margaret feel wonderfully good, incredibly special, as if she were the only person in the world. He did it with everyone, she knew that. But so had their father. It was a special gift. And no matter how bad things got, there was always some new horizon, some new opportunity just around the corner. “One door closes, another opens,” Arthur always chirped when it seemed things could get no worse. Hadn’t he encouraged her to become a real estate professional in those days when she felt horrible about herself? Hadn’t he encouraged her to take those courses in Spanish? And sushi making? And pottery? Lately she’d been thinking of horseback riding, English, of course. He e-mailed her all kinds of links about it. Henry couldn’t care less. And when she confessed rather sheepishly that she’d been shopping at Wilkes Bashford and Valentino, didn’t
he remind her how much she deserved it? Even if it was a lot of money, it was, after all, Valentino. “It’s not like there won’t be any more paychecks coming in!” he chided her. She never told Henry, but not because he’d put up a fuss. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t. It was something else that stopped her, and she truly didn’t know what. Henry went on and on about being a writer back when they first started, but nothing came of it. Arthur, on the other hand, wrote really good poetry, mostly about his girlfriends, and mostly lamentations, but he did write one for her once, on the occasion of her thirty-fifth birthday. He entitled it “Sister,” and she cried when he read it to her. It was rhymed and everything.
* * *
Henry, on the other hand, used to bring up the guitar and croon out some carols on those Christmas weekends in Tahoe. Back then she hadn’t the heart to tell him how bad his voice was. It was even possible she liked his singing—thinking it kind of sweet and romantic. Rose-colored glasses, she supposed. He used to make up stories, too. Or tried to. Delusions of creativity. Although when she thought about it, a measure of tenderness and even longing came over her. He would try to retell A Christmas Carol by replacing the characters with people they knew. His boss, for instance, was Jacob Marley and her brother was Tiny Tim and that woman they both hated who lived downstairs when they were on Mason Street, the old Italian lady—she became the Ghost of Christmas Past. The more he went on, the more absurd and convoluted and stupid it became. Then he’d switch to fairy tales. The one that always came to mind and even now brought a shudder to Margaret, was the one about the little orphan girl who was really a princess (named Margarita, of course) and all the wonderful and magical things that happened to her and how the frog or the stable boy would be freed from his curse by her kiss and how then he would be the knight (it was always Sir Henry) who restored her to her throne, only something about it made her feel queasy every time he got to this part.
The Heart of Henry Quantum Page 8
