Chapter 7 The Definition of Fun
The Definition of Fun
The trip to New York had been more successful than Margaret could have imagined. Not only had she made inroads with Leonard
Clement, but she’d also received a backstage tour of a national magazine and star treatment from its publisher, all of which
seemed to bode well for the future of her little column.
But that walking-on-air sensation she’d known upon exiting the building faded when she saw Charlotte pick that piece of lint
from Ahlgren’s lapel. And the ravenous, almost wolfish look in the painter’s eyes as he watched Charlotte walk away left Margaret
feeling unsettled.
They came very close to missing the train. Charlotte led the way, pushing through the morass of humanity churning through
the grand concourse. The sound of their heels echoed as they ran through the elegant marble hall, then descended to the lower
level in a less elegant stairwell that smelled of urine and axle grease. After running across the platform, they hopped onto
the nearest car only a breath before the train lurched forward. Then they made their way through four other cars before flopping
into their reserved seats.
Margaret was sweaty, out of breath, and relieved. But Charlotte seemed elated, almost giddy. Her green eyes glistened as she
pulled a pack of Newports from her handbag.
“Well! That was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Fun?” Margaret blinked. “Are you kidding? We were that close to missing our train.”
“But we didn’t miss it, did we? We made it! By the skin of our teeth, but we did. That’s what fun is: putting yourself into a situation where everything could go horribly wrong, then somehow dodging the bullet.”
Margaret rolled her eyes, and Charlotte laughed. “Oh, Maggie, you have got to loosen up. A drop of danger makes life more interesting!” She lit her cigarette. “And it was only a train. If you miss
it, you simply catch the next one.”
“I know, but Walt—”
“Stop,” Charlotte said, blowing smoke and cutting her off. “Not another word about Walt. I only want to talk about you. How
was your meeting with cranky Mr. Clement? I bet you charmed the pants off him.”
“Not quite.” Margaret’s smile spread slowly. “But almost.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Charlotte took a triumphant puff from her cigarette. “Tell me every little detail. Don’t leave anything out.”
Margaret didn’t. Charlotte kept interrupting to exclaim her congratulations, ask questions, and press for more, so they were
halfway to Philadelphia before she got through the whole story. Margaret, happy for an opportunity to relive the experience
and cement her memory of it, didn’t mind. But upon wrapping up, she thought of Charlotte and Ahlgren on the corner, and the
unsettled feeling returned.
How long had they been standing there before she arrived? Had they run into each other by chance? Or had their meeting been
arranged beforehand? Perhaps long before?
“Enough about me,” Margaret said. “What did you do today?” She glanced at the empty seat next to Charlotte. “I don’t see any
shopping bags. Didn’t see anything you wanted?”
“Not a thing,” Charlotte said, shifting her gaze from Margaret’s and lighting another cigarette, her fourth.
“And as it turned out, I didn’t have much time for shopping.
I was standing outside Bergdorf’s, hailing a cab, thinking I’d try my luck at B.
Altman. And who should step out of that cab but Lawrence!
” Smiling, she took a quick drag, then rounded her lips as she exhaled.
“He asked me to lunch, then insisted on coming to the station to see me off. Can you believe it? Such a crazy coincidence.”
It certainly was.
Margaret couldn’t guess the odds of two particular people running into each other in Manhattan on any particular day, but
they had to be long. Still, it could have happened. Improbable wasn’t the same as impossible.
“How did you meet him anyway?”
“Lawrence? Oh, gosh. It was so long ago that I can hardly remember. Let me think.” Charlotte took another drag, narrowing
her eyes. “As I recall, we first crossed paths at a gallery opening for some not very talented artist in the Village—eight,
ten years ago? We got to chatting, and then he asked if I wanted a drink. We went to some horrible little dive—filthy, full
of beatniks wearing turtleneck sweaters and earnest expressions—and talked until two.”
“Two in the morning? What did your husband say?”
Charlotte tipped her head back, exhaling smoke and laughter.
“Oh, Margaret! You are precious. Don’t look so scandalized. Manhattan isn’t Concordia, you know. And Lawrence is just a friend,
a dear old friend. I do think he’s a little in love with me,” she said, then shrugged. “But what can you do?”
For reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, Margaret found herself blushing, which made her feel silly, afraid that Charlotte would
laugh again, accuse her of being unsophisticated and provincial. Still, the situation didn’t sit right with Margaret. It felt . . .
not wrong necessarily, but unwise, even dangerous. Margaret liked Charlotte too much not to point that out.
After all, Charlotte was a wife and mother. Though she might think of flirting with danger as a bit of harmless fun, when
mothers were careless or failed to think things through, it was children who bore the scars, sometimes for a lifetime.
“But Charlotte, if that’s true, if this man is in—” Margaret stopped, unable to utter the word love because the look on Ahlgren’s face told her it was the furthest thing from that. “If this man has feelings for you, was it
really a good idea to go to lunch with him, and all alone?”
The green flame in Charlotte’s eyes sputtered and went dark, cutting the connection between them. Margaret started to backpedal
but couldn’t bring herself to drop the subject completely.
“I’m sure it was all perfectly innocent like you said. Still, don’t you think you might be giving him . . . well, the wrong
idea?”
Instead of answering the question, Charlotte crushed out her cigarette butt.
“I am desperate for a martini,” she said, and got to her feet.
Margaret stood too, then followed her to the club car, which was filled with cigarette smoke and raucous, boisterous businessmen
who shouted over one another to be heard.
It was no place for conversation.
After the second martini, Charlotte popped another pill, slouched into a club chair, and slept for the rest of the journey.
When they got back to Washington, she was still so groggy that Margaret took her keys and drove, arriving home a few minutes
later than promised because she had to walk from Charlotte’s house.
Walt was in the den, watching baseball on television. A bowl of popcorn and five empty beer bottles were sitting on the coffee
table. He lifted another bottle to his lips as Margaret entered the room.
“Everything okay?” she asked, coming up behind the sofa and putting her hand on his shoulder. “Did the kids go to bed on time?
Did Beth do the dishes like I asked?”
Without taking his eyes from the screen, he said they had but that Beth had left a roasting pan in the sink to soak.
“That’s all right. I’ll wash it in the morning. What about you? Did you have a good day? How was work?”
“It was work. Same as always.”
Margaret stood there for a moment, waiting for him to ask about her day. She couldn’t tell if he was mad at her for being late or for going in the first place, or was just absorbed in the game. It didn’t matter. She took her hand from his shoulder.
“Guess I’ll go to bed. You coming?”
“Later,” he said, and tipped back the beer bottle.
* * *
Margaret was exhausted. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, only to wake a few minutes later after
hearing a strange noise, a crack like a gunshot, from below. She got up, thinking she should go downstairs to investigate.
But when she opened the bedroom door, instead of the upstairs landing that would have brought her to the wide staircase with
its white-painted railing, she stepped into a small living room with low ceilings, a redbrick fireplace, and a wooden floor
with narrow planks of honey-colored oak. The floor was clean and shining, as if someone had recently given it a good scrub
and a fresh coat of wax. The sight caused Margaret’s shoulders to tense and her jaw to clench. A tight knot of emotion twisted
insider her—apprehension, dread, fear that verged on panic, and a desperate wish to be somewhere else.
She turned to leave, but the door she had just come through was now gone, replaced by a dark, narrow, and silent hall. She
walked down the corridor, opened her mouth to call out a name, but found herself unable to speak. The cries were trapped in
her throat, but they echoed in her brain, ringing louder with every step. They made her ears hurt and her heart race.
And then she was standing in a sparkling clean kitchen with white cabinets, dark green linoleum floors, and a squat, old-fashioned refrigerator.
Margaret turned in a slow circle, searching, the unspoken name still ringing through her mind.
Stopping in front of the white icebox, she felt the knot inside her tighten.
She stretched out her hand, wrapped her fingers around the cold metal door handle, opened the refrigerator door, and looked inside.
The strangled cry broke free from her brain, her body, her throat, flooding the room with shouts and anguish.
Then, suddenly, there was a bright light in the room, two hands on her shoulders, shaking her hard, a voice demanding she
open her eyes. Walt’s face was close to hers, frightened and frowning, telling her it was only a dream and that everything
was all right, that she was all right.
Margaret blinked over and over, adjusting her eyes to the bright overhead light in the bedroom. She took three long, slow
breaths to steady her pounding heart. Walt was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt untucked and the whites of his eyes
tinged pink. He smelled of beer. Margaret looked up at him.
“Did I wake the kids?”
“No, they slept through it. Was it the old dream? The one you used to have?”
Margaret nodded. “So strange. I can’t think of what triggered it. I haven’t dreamed that dream in years.”
“Well, I can. The stress of this job—it’s too much for you. You never have that dream unless you’re upset about something.
This stupid column has brought back the nightmares.”
Margaret pushed herself up into a sitting position.
“It’s not that.”
“Of course it is,” he insisted, shifting his body backward, opening the distance between them. “What else could it be? Nothing
else has changed around here.”
“It’s not the job. If anything, that’s the one thing that’s going right for me at the moment.”
Walt stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She lay back down and curled onto her side, deciding it wasn’t worth it. “Are you coming to bed?”
“The game went to extra innings.”
“Fine,” she said, then shut her eyes.
He stood his ground for a few seconds. Even with her eyes closed, Margaret could feel his presence, feel him watching her. Then he turned away. His footsteps made soft whooshing sounds as his shoes brushed against the shag carpet.
“Would you mind turning out the light?”
The room went dark. She sat up, spoke to the husband-shaped silhouette in the doorway. “By the way, yes, I did have a great
time in New York. My boss likes me, the publisher gave me a personal tour of the office, and it lasted so long that Charlotte
and I nearly missed the train. It was lots of fun. Thanks so much for asking.”
Walt shut the door softly.
Margaret grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest, crushing handfuls of cotton-encased feathers in her fists, wishing he’d
slammed it.