Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

I
t had never occurred to Charlie how strange the Lincoln Memorial must appear to children, but to see a school group like the one that walked before them approach, their eyes up, their faces confused, forced Charlie to see the statue in a different light. How odd it was, really, to have this enormous man seated in a gigantic chair, his face pointed down in understanding and amusement at human folly, greeting strangers and inviting them nearly onto his marble lap. Without context, without knowing who Lincoln was or why he merited a statue, it might simply be frightening.

“I hadn't realized how formidable it is,” Margaret said, seeing the children, too, Charlie thought. “Just the size is impressive.”

“It's a lot of stone.”

“Much more than I realized,” Margaret said.

A man with a small rat terrier walked down the stairs in the opposite direction. The dog went to the end of its leash to smell a wedge of pizza. The man yanked the dog gently away. Finally Charlie climbed the last few steps and stood in the shade almost directly under Lincoln's shins, Margaret beside him.

“The Lincoln Memorial,” Margaret said. “I have to say, it looks just like I pictured it.”

“It's more impressive at night, I think.”

A male docent wearing a maroon jacket with a National Park Service emblem on it patrolled at the northeast corner, keeping an eye on the school group. It wasn't very crowded for a Sunday morning.

“Did you believe in the war, Charlie?” Margaret asked softly, her eyes studying the statue.

“Which one?”

“Is there a difference, really? I suppose there is. I'm cynical. After Thomas, I don't have much faith in any of it. I imagine I did at one point. We were told so many lies and I believed them. But now . . . Anyway, it's not my business, but I was curious. I'm sorry if it's the wrong question.”

“I think a lot of my friends still believe in the cause,” Charlie said, not sure himself where he was heading with it, “because to go back on it now makes us . . . what? Murderers? Professional assassins? I've had trouble with it. Plenty of trouble. That's part of the reason I went to grad school. I studied the background and sources and whatever else I came across. I don't know, honestly. We can't be forever at war. That's certain. Everything you can say about the war, about either war, sounds like a bumper sticker. It's sad.”

“Was it worth it? Your leg?”

“No,” he said, giving voice to a thought he had shared with only a few people, “I don't think it was. Deep down, I don't think so.”

“I don't think it was worth Thomas's life, either. I'm probably wicked for thinking that. That's a horrible thing to have in your mind . . . that your husband's condition was preventable and unnecessary. I don't dwell on it and I never talk politics, but with you, standing here . . . I don't know. They always say there's a victim on each side of a bullet.”

“I guess once I got there I concentrated on being a good soldier and protecting my friends. That's the irony, isn't it? You travel halfway around the globe and put yourself in danger and all you can worry about is watching out for your friends. That becomes the mission and you don't ask the bigger questions because they don't have much meaning at the time. It's only when you come back that they start to stack up in your head. Did Thomas talk much about what he was doing there?”

“He was on an escort team . . . ,” she said and stopped.

Then she shook her head.

“I don't think he had a clue about the bigger picture,” she said. “Do you know, when it became clear he was going to be sent neither one of us could find Iraq or Afghanistan on a map? Not easily, anyway. Isn't that horrible? To go give your life to a place that has so little weight or meaning in your existence that you don't even know where it is? I'm ashamed of that. I bet a lot of people who celebrated Bin Laden's death in the street couldn't find either country on a map.”

Charlie took her hand. She turned and looked at him. He imagined she was talking to herself as much as to him.

“I'm sorry to bring this up,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “It's been on my mind and I can't really talk about it with anyone at home.”

“They're fair questions, Margaret.”

“If Thomas had had an opinion about it all, it would have been easier somehow. If he had believed in some sort of cause, I guess I could rationalize that even if I didn't agree with it. He was patriotic, I don't mean to say he wasn't. But he joined to help with the mortgage and I hate him for that. I hate that our society makes war an attractive job for young men and women. I hate that we can't think of a better way to employ them than to put them in uniforms and send them off to a foreign country that wants nothing to do with them. I hate that when they come back we look for ways to cut costs on their medical benefits. And now I'll be quiet. I've said my piece. I'm sorry if it's out of line.”

“No, not at all. I like your passion in saying it. If you don't have the right to speak, who does? But we should get going,” he said gently and put his arms around her. “Terry will wonder where we've gotten to.”

“I'm sorry to get on a bandwagon. I had to ask, though.”

“I don't mind. And I honor your husband's act. War reveals character, they say. If that's true, Thomas is a brave man.”

“He was a good man,” she said, and Charlie noticed the change in tenses.

The docent passed by on a perpetual lap.

* * *

“So you're Margaret! No wonder Charlie has been in a tizzy! You're beautiful!”

Margaret felt herself blush, and at the same time Terry—it had to be Terry, didn't it?—leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Margaret kissed her back, and it felt like kissing a bird. Yes, a bird, Margaret thought, watching Terry pull back, her face somewhat angled, her hair in a bun, her black silk trousers and white blouse elegant and chic. Terry smiled and glanced over at Charlie—who carried a rack full of gowns on his index finger—and went up on her toes to peck his cheek.

“Well, she put you to good use,” Terry said, her hand draping a length of one of the gowns that had tangled in its cleaner bag. “You can hang those in the hall closet. We'll look after them later.”

“Thank you so much for letting me wear one. They're all beautiful.”

“Oh, glad to do it. You wore the black, right? That's my favorite, too. I also like the cream-colored one, but I've worn it out. They're all hand-me-downs from Trish.”

Charlie had the closet door open and he pushed back clothes while Terry gently scolded him and told him what to do. Margaret used the moment of confusion to glance quickly around the foyer and the expansive living room that stretched out behind Terry. It was exquisite. Had she ever wondered if the magazine spreads in
Country Living
or
Better Homes and Gardens
existed in genuine homes, she now had proof that they did. In the quickest perusal, she saw a grand piano positioned near a long set of French doors, air moving the shimmery white drapes in and out; on the other side of the piano, she saw a brick fireplace, expansive and wide, and above the mantel a portrait of a man staring out at them. The man wore a black frock coat and a prominent white collar and he did not smile. Light and air moved through the room, and the deep blue of an enormous Oriental carpet lent the room a liquid feeling. No, Margaret corrected herself, it was not a water feeling, but a sense of the sky brought lower. She remembered a tiny snatch of poetry, nearly the only thing she recollected from all her years of schooling:
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush / Thrush's eggs look little low heavens
 . . . but she could not bring the poet's name to mind. Yes, that was what the blue carpet gave to the room. The light turned into a little low heaven, and Margaret turned her attention back to Terry, the woman who had designed such beauty.

“There, all stowed away,” Terry said, closing the closet door after Charlie had vacated it. “You're learning, Charlie.”

“Your house is beautiful,” Margaret said. “Just wonderful.”

“I wish I could take credit for it, but it's been in our family for ages. I'm merely the latest tenant.”

“I'm sure it takes more than that.”

“Well, sure, it's demanding at times, but thank you. Now, come through. We're eating out back. I don't know what terrible lies Charlie might have told you about us, but we're simple folks. Our Sundays are casual and we have a moratorium on political talk. Any other subject in the world is welcome, but no wrangling over politics. I won't stand it. We even pull out the editorial pages from the newspapers. We read the sports pages and the arts section and maybe real estate, although real estate can be thorny, too.”

Margaret followed Terry through the living room and out onto the back veranda. The beauty of the house continued into a gracious garden, expansive and lined with gravel walkways, that spread and led the eye to the river beyond it. It complemented the house perfectly, and it gave way in time to a spacious lawn that rolled down to the water. Lovely, Margaret thought. She liked, too, that children seemed at home running and darting around the yard. Someone had constructed a tree fort in an old, hollowed oak, and Margaret spotted three boys looking out the window. Then she received a surprise: one of the boys leaped onto a zip-line and rode a hand trolley down to the earth, his legs spinning as they took to the ground. Somehow the sight of the children and the free way they explored the garden and grounds made her feel at home.

The adults—Margaret counted eight in her initial assessment—sat at a wide white table overlooking the water and the lawn. The table rested beneath an enormous catalpa tree; the leaves on the tree shimmered like small bells in a soft breeze. The table had not been set up in a fussy manner. People seemed to sit every which way, some reading the paper, others simply taking the spring sunlight on their skin. A small buffet arrangement waited on a second table ten paces away from the first. Margaret smelled food and counted five heating trays stationed over chafing dish burners.

“Now, please, help yourself to something to eat,” Terry said, guiding them toward the food. “I never do introductions on Sunday morning. It's up to you to mingle and to eat and to have a mimosa if you care to. I'm holding you responsible for her welfare, Charlie. Everyone, say hello.”

People looked up and said hello while Margaret smiled and made a small, embarrassed wave that she immediately regretted. She wasn't sure how to navigate from a standing position to a place at the table. For an instant she felt vulnerable and nervous, but then she felt Charlie's hand touch the center of her back, leading her to the buffet table.

“I'm starving,” Charlie said, “I'm always hungry around you. Why is that?”

“I'm hungry, too,” Margaret said.

She selected scrambled eggs, home fries, a bowl of fruit, and a cup of tea. Charlie followed her in line and helped himself to a generous plate of bacon and eggs. She realized, as she watched him close the top on the serving tray containing rye toast and pots of oatmeal, that she did not know what he liked to eat. It struck her as strange that she wouldn't know more, but how could she?

“Here, you two,” a tall, thin man said, clearing papers away from a spot near him. He reminded Margaret of a heron, a bird with patience and stature, but one that looked at the world somewhat sideways. “I'm hogging three spaces. You can sit if you know the answer to ‘Cleveland third basement who stopped Joe DiMaggio's hit streak.' Starts with a
K
, probably.”

“No idea,” Charlie said, putting his plate down and leaving a spot next to him for Margaret. “I was always a Reds fan.”

“John is obsessed with the
Times
Sunday crossword,” a woman on the other side of him said. She was the man's opposite, broad where the man was thin, and she had an open, honest face, perhaps rounded by hope. “Don't sit near him unless you're ready to be plagued by questions and clues. He will not give up until he finishes the puzzle, and he's certain the whole world shares his passion.”

“How about,” the man asked, ignoring the woman, his heron face pecking at the folded puzzle in front of him, “‘Film about Japanese mortuary arts'? Second letter,
E
.”

“His name is John Philbrick, and I'm Alicia, his wife,” the woman said, leaning across him. “We haven't met, have we?”

Charlie made the introductions.

“She exaggerates,” John Philbrick said about his wife, finally looking up and pulling away from the puzzle, “but I do like the puzzle. I only do puzzles edited or created by Will Shortz. He's my dope pusher.”

“Do you do the whole week?” someone—a short, dark man with tremendously thick glasses—across the table asked. “I refuse to even try Saturday's puzzle. It used to take the entire day and I just couldn't stand it. I'm Lenny, by the way. My wife's around here somewhere.”

Margaret smiled and ate, happy to sit in the shade on a sunny day and look out at the river. She listened to the conversation around her, feeling not shy, but content to observe and take things in. She watched Charlie—how easily he mixed with people, unlike Thomas who had never been at his best in social situations—and she saw immediately that people liked him. The admirable traits she found in him, his humility, his innate kindness, his gentleness, became clear to each person who interacted with him. In a different kind of man, his ability to put people at ease, while, at the same time, making them interested in his views, might have led to power or a seedy corruption. But he did not have that bone, as her mother would have put it. He answered the heron-man's crossword questions as best he could and took a genuine interest in Lenny's job—Margaret had difficulty following the table talk, filled as it was with government acronyms, initials for agencies that meant nothing to her—but she enjoyed watching Charlie navigate it; and she concentrated on her food.