Promises (42 page)

So came the same explanation that Margaret had had to give to every questioner in the teachers’ room.

“I won’t hear of it,” Nina said. “It’s a criminal shame to deprive that girl of what she earned. I’m going to lend her that money.”

“Nina, you’ve no idea what it costs.”

“Yes, I have. I’ve got some savings that will take care of one year at least, and we’ll cross the rest of the bridges when we come to them.”

This optimism, this confidence, and this generosity were so like Nina!

“Nina, you’re a dear, but I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re a working woman, and all alone.”

It took almost half an hour to win the argument with Nina.

From Adam came a letter to Megan with a five-hundred-dollar check enclosed. It was meant to be moving. Perhaps it was moving, thought Margaret, depending upon how you saw the whole situation.

I send this letter
, he wrote,
because you will not talk to me, which I understand. When you are older, much older, perhaps you will understand. Maybe you will not, but I hope you will at least try. In the meantime, need I tell you how proud of you I am? If I could do more for you than this, God knows I would.

“I’m going to tear it up,” Megan said with flushed face and eyes filled suddenly with tears.

“What, the check?”

“The whole thing. The check too.”

“Don’t be foolish. You need clothes,” Margaret told her, thinking that here were five hundred dollars that Randi wouldn’t get.

The next day at school a message from Fred was delivered to Margaret.
Will you drive to my house this afternoon? I want to talk to you in private, and we can’t do it at your place.

Meeting Megan in the corridor, she told her casually about the message. “I might be late getting home. Fred wants to see me at his house. I have a hunch it’s about you. What else could it be?”

“Mom, if it is about college money, I don’t want any. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“I wouldn’t either. But,” Margaret said curiously, “you’ve always been so fond of him.”

“If he were my real uncle, or even a stepfather—” Megan stopped.

“He’s neither, honey, so don’t worry about it.”

She was stepping into the car, the old “jalopy” with the new transmission that was still going strong, when Megan’s advisor, Mr. Malley, hailed her. “Is it true that Megan’s not going to Harvard?”

An invisible sigh rose and fell as, for what might be the twentieth time, she had to answer that question. And she made the answer very brief.

“Money,” she said.

With decent tact he asked no more but murmured only as he moved on, “Too bad. She’s a true scholar.”

“Why am I going to Fred’s?” she asked herself as she drove away. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, it will only be more of the same.”

It was unseasonably warm, and he had put up the awnings. Broadly striped in green and white, they overhung the porch, giving to the space, with its white wicker chairs and hanging baskets of ferns, an old-fashioned, friendly aspect that spoke of Sunday afternoons, leisure, and comfortable prosperity. He had put out a pitcher of iced tea, and they sat down.

“Dan told me about Megan,” he began.

“Dan should be a town crier,” she said.

“Well, maybe you need one. Why didn’t you tell me yourself?”

“Fred, I’m not going to run to you with all my troubles.”

“The only time you ‘ran’ to me was when your roof leaked. Have I complained?”

He looked injured. And, as often during this last year,
Margaret had the feeling that he was chastising her as one reprimands a beloved child.

“What are you going to do about Megan?” he demanded.

Again there came that invisible sigh, rising and falling. “You know,” she replied.

“You cannot do that to her,” he said sternly. “You cannot.”

“It won’t be the end of her world,” was all she could say.

“No, certainly not. Nevertheless, she has suffered enough. She has had a dreadful time, even worse, I think, than Julie has. Megan is an adult. She holds it all back.”

It surprised Margaret that Fred had made so subtle an observation. One thought of him as being competent, righteous, and strong whenever right had to be enforced. But subtle, never.

“That’s true,” she admitted. “Still, she must face reality.”

“She deserves to have something wonderful happen for a change, particularly since she has earned it for herself.”

“Still, that has nothing to do with reality,” Margaret said mournfully.

“My reality is this. Life has been good to me, in one respect at least. I have money. I want to use it for Megan, for what she needs.”

“Fred, please don’t. Don’t make it hard for me.”

“Then I’ll leave you out of it. I’m going to give it directly to Megan. You won’t have anything to do with it, and you can’t stop me.”

The words were gruff; nevertheless, when she looked
into his eyes, she saw that his own words had moved him. His hands trembled on his glass, and he set it down. The little dog Jimmy leapt on his lap, and he stroked it.

“Megan will be in heaven when she hears this,” she said. “But I don’t think I can bear so much kindness.”

He stood up. “Come. Let me show you the garden.”

Glad to follow into the open afternoon, she went with him. Hundreds of daffodils had been scattered in a copse under the pines. And she stood there quite still with the words in her head:
A host of golden daffodils.
White, too, they were, airy and clean under the dark trees.

“It’s a little paradise here, isn’t it?” said Fred at her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll ever ask for much more.”

“Yes, it’s perfect.”

“Margaret, I know this isn’t quite the time yet,” he began, when suddenly a rabbit, fooled into boldness because they were not moving, scuttled through the grass near their feet and stopped to chew.

Margaret laughed. “It’s not nice, I know, but one of the gym teachers chews like that and somebody nicknamed him ‘Rabbit.’ ”

He did not answer. She had spoiled the moment for him, and she was sorry. But she was not prepared for anything decisive or profound.

“Fred,” she said earnestly, “I need to say something. Since you are determined, I must be determined about one thing. I want to sign a note, an IOU. Somehow, someday, either I or Megan, or both of us, will repay you for your unheard-of generosity.”

“If you insist,” he replied in a flat, courteous tone.

Yes, she had hurt him. And contritely, she reached up
to kiss his cheek, declaring, “You are the best man who ever lived.”

He put his arms around her. “Oh, Margaret,” he murmured.

She understood that he knew she was not ready yet for emotion. And as if to confirm his understanding, he said gently, “I’m not in a rush,” and smiled and let her go.

The slight embrace had not displeased her, nor had it activated any feeling other than a very deep affection, the same affection she had always had for him. Or somewhat deeper, maybe?

On the homeward drive she worried, asking,
How shall I ever be able to repay?
And at the same time she seemed to feel a strange conviction that ultimately she would marry Fred, as people told her she ought to have done in the first place. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps, even though marriage was far from her mind, it was inevitable. He was intelligent and manly, clean and kind and good. Quite obviously, he wanted her. Besides, her children loved him.…

I
n the bedroom on Memorial Day, Adam sat staring out of the window at the radiant afternoon. On the bed Randi lay in a defeated sprawl, with arms and legs flung out. The pregnant belly, not much larger than a basketball, was round and tight.

When he made a move as if to rise from the chair, she objected, “No, stay here with me.”

“Maybe you’ll fall asleep if I leave you alone.”

“I can’t sleep. I’m miserable. Can’t you see? I’m disgusted with everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He had made this reply so many times that it came automatically.

“Anyway, you only want to be with your kids, as usual. You’re thinking they should be outdoors on a day like this, not sitting inside watching television.”

How well she knew him! If he believed in mind-reading, he would swear that she could read his mind. But he was too tired to argue. There had been too much arguing, so he sank back into the chair.

And he tried to understand why Randi was so irritable.
Her ankles were swollen, and now, in her seventh month, she still had occasional bouts of morning sickness. She wanted him to wait on her, which he tried to do. A woman expected a certain amount of homage given to her pregnancy. But it was difficult for him to live with, probably because he had never experienced it before: Margaret’s three pregnancies had been cheerful, even euphoric, for her, and so, quite naturally, for him too. However, people were not all the same, so he could hardly blame Randi for her condition.

Torn between exasperation and sympathy, he gave a sigh of fatigue. He looked at his watch. It was still too early to drive Julie and Dan back home; he wouldn’t want them to feel as if they were being shoved out. This had already been a disappointing visit, for Randi had really been cross with them. Somehow, he must make up for it, maybe stop off for ice cream on the way back. No, that was foolish. They weren’t babies to be compensated with an ice cream cone for poor treatment.…

It had been a terrible year so far. He could only hope that the second half of it would be better. Of course, he was lucky to have found a new job, even with a cut in salary. But the commute, a sixty-mile round trip, was exhausting in bad weather. He had suggested that they sell the house and move to something closer to his work, something, incidentally, less expensive. And she had gone absolutely wild.

“It’s not as if you had always lived here and had some loving attachment to the place,” he had argued.

And she had gone wilder still. “Oh, you have to live in your great-grandfather’s house to feel love for it, is
that it? Well, excuse me! Sorry I’m not an aristocrat like some people, but I love my home too.”

So he had dropped the subject.

Money worries still gnawed at him, gnawed and clawed in his dreams and when he awoke at night. What if he should lose this job too? Every day the newspapers reported more downsizing, thousands of men in midlife losing the jobs that once seemed so secure, so permanent. Maybe, he thought, it would be prudent to make some friendly, social connections within the new firm. Maybe if he had done so before, had “cottoned up” to Jenks and Ramsey, or to Hudson, he would not have been among those outsiders who were tossed away.

Yet he realized now that it was too late for that sort of thing. These new people, like the ones at ADS, were conservative types, family people who would not look favorably on this household, this separated man—he had written “separated” on his job application—with his pregnant companion.

Then something else came creeping slowly into his thoughts as he sat there by the window. These new people were not like Randi’s friends, all those natural, wholesome, unselfconscious folk with whom he had been so comfortable lately. These new people wouldn’t care for Randi’s casual way of displaying the top half of her breasts as she bent or leaned, nor would they care for her blatantly uninhibited remarks, her four-letter vocabulary.

Surprisingly enough, there had been some recent occasions when he had found himself wincing with discomfort because of the things that she said in company. Had she always done that and had he just not noticed?
It was all confusing and dispiriting. He could hardly believe his own treacherous thoughts. He felt—he felt uprooted.

He looked at his watch again and stood up, whispering, “I hate to wake you, but I have to tell you I’m going to leave now to take them home.”

“I’m not asleep. I’m just lying here thinking.”

“About what?”

“About,” she said, rising on her elbows, “how secretive you are. What’s the matter? Were you afraid to tell me that you’re sending your daughter to Harvard?”

He was dumbfounded. “I?” he said. “I’m sending her—where the hell did you get that idea? I’m not even aware that she is going to Harvard.”

“Yeah. Sure. It’s funny that your kids know. They told me while we were in the kitchen.”

“It can’t be. Unless she got some sort of scholarship. And still, that wouldn’t be enough. Or unless Margaret borrowed the money somewhere. I can’t imagine where. No, it can’t be.”

“You’re not even a good liar. ‘Borrowed it “somewhere.” ‘ The somewhere is named Adam Crane.”

“You’re out of your mind. I only wish I had it to give, let alone lend. Get real, Randi.”

“I am real, and I don’t believe you. You’re a pushover for that family of yours. I didn’t marry you, I married you and your three kids.”

He could have reminded her that she wasn’t married to anyone at present, but he had no heart for hurtful jibes, no will to push a confrontation to the edge. He was a swimmer startled into awareness that the water beneath him is fathoms deep.

“And her too,” Randi resumed, “with her paws in
your pockets. She’s a bloodsucker, that’s what. You think I don’t remember that insurance policy you told me about?”