Chapter 14 Most Important Meal of the Day #2
“King? What did you cook these eggs in?”
“Just the bacon grease that was left after I made my breakfast.” Bitsy put down her fork, and King rolled his eyes. “Oh, for
heaven’s sake, Bits. Don’t look at me like that.”
“But I told you, I don’t want to eat meat anymore.”
“I understand that,” he said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t understand at all. “That’s why I didn’t make any bacon for
you. But a little grease won’t kill you, and the pig’s already dead. Why let it go to waste? Two weeks ago you wouldn’t have
batted an eye.”
“I know. But I told you before that this is something I’ve been thinking about for a while now, and I feel very strongly—”
King cut her off by flinging his arms as if he was throwing her words to the four winds.
“I swear, I can’t win for losing around here. I just wanted to do something nice for my wife. But you act like I’m trying
to poison you. Or compromise your morals!”
“Honey, I’m not. It’s just that—”
“No matter what I do or how hard I try, it’s never enough for you.”
King wasn’t listening. Bitsy pushed back her chair and went to stand beside him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, resting her hand on his chest. “You were just trying to be kind.”
“I was.” He slumped his shoulders, pouting.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
When Bitsy pushed herself up onto her toes to give him a conciliatory peck, King twined his arms around her body, pulling
her close, kissing her deeply, seeming to forget what he’d said earlier about his busy day. Bitsy had not forgotten. She didn’t
have time for this. She didn’t want it either. But she didn’t feel she could push him away, not after she’d hurt his feelings.
Just as Bitsy was thinking she had no choice but to acquiesce, King groaned and pulled back.
“You are a temptress,” he said, sighing. “But I really do have to see a guy about a horse.”
Bitsy took a step back. “I understand. Me too.”
“Bitsy? Sorry about breakfast. Next time I’ll use butter.”
She shrugged. “It’s all right. Like you said, it won’t kill me, and the pig’s already dead.”
Bitsy walked him to the door and stood on the porch, waving as he backed his battered green 1954 Willys Jeep Station Wagon
out of the driveway.
When the car was out of sight, she went back into the kitchen and scooped one of the eggs into the dog bowl. Zeke gulped it
down in two bites. Then she cut the other egg into tiny pieces, left the plate on the table where Zeke wouldn’t get it, and
called the cats.
* * *
The alarm jangled promptly at six. Margaret pulled the pillow over her head and nearly went back to sleep.
But when Bobby started pounding on the door of the hallway bathroom, demanding Beth give somebody else a turn, she rolled over reluctantly and pushed herself into a sitting position.
She felt like she’d been hit by a bus. There was a reason she never stayed up past eleven on weeknights.
By the time she came downstairs to make breakfast, Walt was on his way out the door. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and
his briefcase in the other, but he stopped to give her a kiss goodbye and to thank her for the book. He looked into her eyes
when he spoke, something he didn’t do nearly as often as he used to, and sounded as if he meant it.
“You’re welcome. I remembered you used to like Hemingway.”
Walt nodded. “Can’t believe I missed this one. Maybe because it was published in ’52 and we were already married with a baby
by then. Never enough time, you know?” He looked at his wristwatch. “Anyway, thanks. Love you, Maggie.”
Margaret stood on the stoop to watch him drive away. She didn’t feel tired anymore.
They were all out of frozen orange juice, so she mixed up a pitcher of Tang, scrambled half a dozen eggs, and toasted English
muffins before packing the kids’ bag lunches. The childish argument over the bathroom made its way downstairs, and the bickering
was so intense that Margaret threatened to revoke their TV privileges. Finally, they wolfed down their eggs, grabbed their
brown bags, and ran out the door just in time to avoid missing the bus.
Once they were gone, Margaret had a second cup of coffee and a slice of leftover German chocolate cake.
Her plan for the day was to take the books she’d borrowed back to Babcock’s—except the copy of Herland, which Bitsy had taken home with her—then come home and write.
But first she walked out to the mailbox.
Her copy of A Woman’s Place normally arrived on Saturday, but she’d been checking first thing in the morning all week, hoping the issue with her first
column might show up a few days early.
Margaret thrust her arm into the maw of the mailbox and pulled out a pile of letters, bills, and advertising circulars. Her heart beat a little faster when she spotted two magazines in the pile, but sank when she saw they were Good Housekeeping and McCall’s.
Then, under the magazines, she saw a manila envelope with a New York postmark and was so excited that she let go of the rest
of the mail. It fell from her hands and landed in a heap at her feet. She bent back the envelope’s metal clasp and tore open
the flap, feeling the thrum of her pulse in her eardrums as she slid the magazine from the manila sleeve, flipping to the
pages that someone had bookmarked for her. The first was the letter from the editor, which made mention of her column and
her name. David Miles had written a brief note on the page—“Welcome to A Woman’s Place, Margaret!”—signed in his own hand.
The second bookmark brought her to an article that sounded like a Cinderella story: the tale of an ordinary housewife who
had been plucked from obscurity to become the newest columnist at A Woman’s Place. It included photographs taken during Margaret’s tour of the magazine—one of her posing with Mr. Miles, one of her shaking
hands with the “Selma Says” columnist, and one of Margaret leaning over the shoulders of an editor working on a layout. The final photo was a setup shot
of her sitting at a typewriter with a pencil tucked behind her ear, pretending to write. It was, as Mr. Miles had said, a
great angle.
On the opposite page, topped by a cartoon illustration of a smiling woman who looked a lot like Margaret but not quite, was
her column.
Margaret had read it so many times before that she could recite it by heart. But she stood there in the street, a pile of
litter at her feet, and read it again, savoring an emotion she hadn’t experienced in a very long time—pride.
It was her name in the byline, her words on the page, her work that had accomplished this. And when she flipped to the third bookmark near the back of the magazine, she found a windowpane
business envelope containing a twenty-five-dollar check.
Pay to the order of Margaret Ryan.
And no one else.
Margaret didn’t hear the sedan approaching or realize it had stopped until Barb Fredericks rolled down her window and called out, “Margaret? Margaret, are you all right?”
“Hmm?” She looked up. “Oh yes. Fine. How are you, Barb? How’re the kids?”
Barb frowned, looking confused.
“We haven’t seen you at the coffee klatch recently.”
“I’ve been busy. I’ve got a part-time job now.”
“Oh.” She nodded toward the envelope Margaret was holding. “Bad news?”
“What? Oh no. Not at all.”
Margaret slipped the envelope and check into her jacket pocket and smiled. Barb looked more confused than ever.
“But . . . Margaret, you’re standing in the street, so absorbed in whatever you’re reading that you didn’t even hear me drive
up. Are you sure you’re all right? Because if you have a need to talk to someone . . .”
Margaret gave an inward eye roll. Were she in distress, Barb Fredericks would’ve been the last person she’d confide in. Everybody
in Concordia knew that the fastest way to spread neighborhood gossip was to telephone, telegraph, or tell Barb.
“I’m fine, really.” Margaret lifted the magazine so Barb could see it. “I started reading a magazine column and got a little
caught up, that’s all.”
Barb gave her an incredulous look. “Must be some terrific column.”
Margaret grinned.
“It is.”