Chapter 22 Argument Interrupted
Argument Interrupted
Even though Margaret hated confrontations, everyone has their breaking point—and she had reached hers. Still, she couldn’t
pick a fight with her husband in public, especially not at a party, so she had no choice but to swallow her anger until they
left.
As she and Walt were making their exit, Margaret stopped to thank Charlotte, who had finally come downstairs looking pale.
When she’d said goodbye to Denise, Denise had gripped her hand so tightly that Margaret’s wedding ring pressed painfully into
the flesh of her fingers.
“You’ll keep your promise?” Denise asked, her eyes dark and serious.
“I will. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
Though Margaret still harbored some anxiety about making herself responsible for Charlotte, she was pleased to see that Denise
recognized she would miss her mother. Some daughters didn’t figure that out until it was too late. However, once she and Walt
got into the car, Margaret’s thoughts immediately turned to other matters. The moment Walt turned over the ignition, she let
loose.
“What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“Don’t you dare play innocent with me, Walter Ryan.
You know what! That snarky comment about my ‘jobette.’ Look, I realize that nobody’s going to nominate me for a Pulitzer, but I work very hard on my columns, and you know that.
But you made it sound as if I’d taken up some cute little hobby, like doubles tennis or painting teacups! ”
Walt rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Margaret. You know I didn’t mean it that way. I was teasing, that’s all. Why are you being
so touchy? Can’t you take a joke?”
“It wasn’t funny. And you weren’t joking.”
During the drive, Walt refused to apologize or back off his claim that it was simply a joke. Arriving home, they sat in the
driveway, snapping and snarling at one another, tossing barbs and dodging them. At some point, the argument inexplicably veered
in a different direction, with Walt complaining about how ridiculous she was making him look and how ungrateful she supposedly
was. “Whatever I do, no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough for you!”—as if he were the injured party instead of her.
As Margaret was getting ready to storm into the house, she heard a knock on the car window. She looked and saw Beth standing
there, staring at her parents through the glass.
How long had she been there? How much had she heard? Probably too much, judging from the somber look on her face. Margaret
rolled down the window.
“You have to stop fighting and come inside,” Beth said.
Margaret’s face colored and she exchanged a glance with Walt, who frowned and licked his lips before trying to explain.
“We weren’t fighting, honey. We were just—”
“Having a discussion,” Margaret said. “You know, sometimes parents—”
Beth shook her head. “I don’t care. You need to come inside. Grandma is on the phone, calling long-distance from Ohio. She
told me to come out here and get you.” Beth looked past Margaret, speaking directly to Walt. “Something happened.”
* * *
It was Walt’s father, Jerry.
He’d collapsed while mowing the lawn and had been rushed to the hospital by ambulance. Walt held the phone out so Margaret
could also hear the conversation with his mother, Bernice. The doctors were still conferring but thought it was a stroke.
“It looks bad,” Bernice said, her voice hoarse. “Please come, won’t you, Wally? I just . . . I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll come, Mom. Just as quick as I can. You just hang on, okay? Tell Dad to hang on too.”
“I will. But hurry, son. Please, hurry.”
Walt hung up the phone. The argument was forgotten.
While Walt called his boss at home to explain the situation, Margaret started ironing extra shirts and packing Walt’s bag.
Then they switched places, Walt taking over the packing and Margaret getting on the phone to Northwest Orient Airlines to
check on flights between DC and Cleveland. Then she called to find out about train timetables. In either case, Walt wouldn’t
be able to leave until the morning, and the tickets were expensive. Margaret said they could use what was left of her savings
to pay for a ticket, but Walt shook his head.
“Thanks. But if I can’t leave until tomorrow, it makes more sense to drive. If I leave now and drive through the night, I’ll
be there by morning.”
“Do you want us to come with you?” Margaret asked.
He furrowed his brow and made his lips into a line, considering her question. “Probably better for me to go alone. I don’t
know what’s going to happen, and by the time we get the kids ready—”
“No, you’re right,” she said, lifting a hand to indicate he didn’t need to explain. “You finish packing. I’ll make sandwiches
and a thermos of coffee for you to take along.”
He nodded and turned as if to leave, but stopped short.
“Maggie? What I said at the party . . . I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not important now,” she said, shaking her head. “Just go. It’s all right, really it is.”
He reached for her hand. “I love you, Maggie.”
“I know,” she said, and she did. “I love you too.”
* * *
Walt called Margaret from a hospital pay phone to let her know he’d arrived.
“I’m not sure if he even knows I’m here,” Walt said.
“He knows,” Margaret told him, though she wasn’t sure either.
Jerry hung on for two more days but never regained consciousness. Walt called again to let Margaret know what happened. They
discussed the possibility of Margaret and the children driving to Ohio for the funeral but decided it would be too distressing
for the kids. According to Walt, his mother was an emotional basket case, and his sisters were squabbling, which was nothing
new.
“I miss you all, but I think it’ll be easier for everybody if you stay home. I’ll need another week to sort things out, and
honestly, I’ve got my hands full.”
He sounded tired and a little detached, almost numb. Margaret was worried about him. She felt guilty about not being there
to support him and her mother-in-law but agreed this was probably the wisest course of action.
Naturally, the children were sad about their grandfather’s death. Beth, who had spent more time with Jerry than the others
and was one of the few people who could make him laugh, was upset about missing the funeral. Margaret suggested they plant
some rosebushes in his honor—raising roses had been Jerry’s only hobby—and that seemed to satisfy her.
Margaret had never had an especially affectionate relationship with her father-in-law—Jerry was gruff and often critical,
and drank more than was good for him—but his sudden death was a reminder of how fragile life can be, and how brief.
For the last few months, writing the column had taken much of Margaret’s time and focus.
How could it not? Juggling deadlines and domestic duties wasn’t easy, and trying to write with three boisterous, often bickering children in the house would try the patience of a saint—and Margaret wasn’t a saint.
Still, before she knew it, the kids would go out on their own, flying the nest, just like Denise had done. Margaret wanted
to savor this summer with her children, to create memories they would look back on fondly. She wanted to spend her days taking
them to the pool, the park, and the library, playing board games and baking cookies, sitting on a lawn chair at dusk to watch
them catch fireflies, or helping them chase down the ice cream truck, not hollering at them to shush because Mommy needed
to work. Yet she did need to work. Mr. Clement and her deadlines didn’t care if it was summer.
And so, she started doing something she truly despised: getting up very, very early.
When the alarm jangled at four thirty, she’d throw on some clothes, stumble groggily into the kitchen, brew some coffee, get
Sylvia out of the closet, then sit down to write. Most days she’d get in three or four hours of writing before the kids wandered
in, which was great.
Much as she despised having to rise so early to meet her deadlines, she knew she really couldn’t complain. At least she didn’t
have to show up at an office.
Honestly, she didn’t know how Viv did it, especially being pregnant and having such a long commute. Viv never complained.
That was partly because she loved nursing so much, but also because, as Viv told her when she brought some of her kids over
to play, she and Margaret really had no right to.
“You and I work because we want to, because we love it. But so many of the moms I meet at the clinic work jobs they hate because they have to. They’d give anything to have what we have, the choice to stay home and take care of their kids.
If they don’t work, those kids don’t eat.
Being a woman is never easy, but . . .” She took a breath and let it out with a sputter.
“Since I started at the clinic, I’ve thought a lot about Betty Friedan. Her book sparked a lot of conversations, but it’s
really only directed to people like us, isn’t it? Women with choices. What if, in addition to all those Vassar coeds and suburban
housewives, Betty had interviewed some of my patients? They’re widows, divorcées, single women, married women whose husbands
don’t earn enough to pay the rent, women who never had a shot at college or didn’t finish high school. They might look different
than us, but they want the same things. It bothers me that Betty left them out of the conversation. I mean, don’t they deserve
choices too?”
Viv had a point. Dawn patrol or not, Margaret had no right to complain.
After a bit of nose-holding, she’d figured out a way to work diet gelatin into a column after all. Margaret still thought
the piece was a ridiculous bit of fluff, but Clement was thrilled, and it was nice to finally be in his good graces. Though
it felt a little odd to say so under the circumstances, all in all, things were going well.
She missed Walt but had decided that might be a good thing. Maybe the old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder