Chapter 22 Argument Interrupted #2
was true. He seemed to be missing her too, because even though calling long-distance was expensive, he phoned nightly. The
conversations weren’t very long or deep; the phone was located in the foyer, and Bernice could overhear their calls. But it
was good to hear his voice and know he was thinking of her, and Margaret was happy when, a week after the funeral, he said
he was coming home.
“I’ve got to take Mom to run errands, then mow the lawn and do some chores before I go. Probably won’t arrive until the wee
hours, but definitely before breakfast.”
“And I’ll make a good one—eggs, bacon, the works. Then you can go back to bed and catch up on your sleep. I’ll tell the kids to keep quiet.”
“Bacon and eggs sound great, but I need to go to the office tomorrow.”
“After driving all that way? Oh, Walt, you must be joking.”
“Wish I was. The boss called day before yesterday, ostensibly to offer his condolences but mostly to let me know he wants
me back at my desk pronto.” He lowered his voice, as if trying to make sure his mother couldn’t hear him. “And since I may
need to come back in a few weeks, I’d better get on his good side.”
“You’re going back?”
“I’m not sure yet, but probably. Mom is . . .” He sighed. “She’s lost without Dad, and the girls are no help. I was hoping
we’d be able to take the kids to Virginia Beach this summer, but it looks like I’ll need to use what’s left of my time off
to come back here. Sorry, Maggie.”
“It’s okay. If she needs you, she does. Maybe we’ll all go, take a vacation to Ohio.”
“Doing yard work and teaching Mom how to light the pilot on the furnace doesn’t sound like much of a vacation to me. But we’ll
see. Anyway, I’m just glad to be heading home. How are the kids? And you?”
“Everybody’s fine.”
“Everybody?” he asked, a smile coming into his voice. “Even Charlotte?”
“Yes,” she said, stretching out the word to let him know she got the joke. “Even Charlotte. In fact, I got a note from Denise
today, thanking the Bettys for the pen and saying she’d arrived in Paris. I wrote right back, told her that Charlotte’s doing
just great.”
“Thank heaven for that,” he said. “I hadn’t been able to sleep for worrying.”
Margaret didn’t blame him for teasing her, but no one, not even Walt, could fully understand how seriously she’d taken her
promise.
Thankfully, her worries seemed to be in vain.
Though the kids were keeping her busy, Margaret was still popping over to Charlotte’s place when she had time, then calling
her when she didn’t. She phoned almost every day, and sometimes twice a day—so often that Charlotte told her to knock it off.
“Enough already! How am I supposed to get any painting done with you calling every five minutes? I’m fine,” she said, laughing.
“Really I am.”
And she did seem fine. Better than fine.
If only Margaret could get herself to truly believe that and quit waiting for the other shoe to drop, maybe she’d quit having
the dream.
* * *
It was the same every night.
Margaret walked through the front door of the house, the little bungalow on Cedar Street where she’d grown up, carrying a
satchel. Usually it was stuffed with books, but sometimes it was food—apples, oranges, or loaves of bread. Once it was filled
with baby bottles, another time with kittens. Who could say why?
In the dream, Margaret always set the satchel down on the worn brown sofa that sat near the window, then headed toward the
kitchen. The house was strangely quiet. The only sound was the tick-tick-tick of a jade-green wall clock and the echo of her footsteps as she walked down the hall and into the empty kitchen.
The kitchen cabinets were pink. Shortly before the war, Margaret’s mother had seen an article with cupboards just that shade
in Better Homes and Gardens. She took the magazine to the hardware store and supervised the color matching personally, then brought the paint home and
did the job herself. Everything looked the same as it always had, and yet not the same.
At first Margaret couldn’t put her finger on what was different. Then it came to her.
Everything was clean.
The counters were clear of clutter, the sink devoid of dishes, the floor swept and mopped.
Before and during the war, even when Mom worked long hours turning out airplane parts, it had always looked like that, tidy and organized.
After the war, things changed. The kitchen, the house, the woman who had been told to turn in her tools and put on her apron, started looking unkempt and uncared for, sad.
Now, in Margaret’s dream, everything was as bright as a new penny. It was oddly disquieting. Margaret called for her mother
but received no reply. Where could she be?
The clock kept ticking. Margaret was hungry. She opened the refrigerator. The blast of cold air made her shiver. It, too,
was clean and sparkling.
The gleaming metal racks and glass shelves were stacked with lidded glass containers of food—casseroles, soup, a meat loaf,
a chicken. Each container had a note taped to the front with heating instructions and a day of the week, meals for the next
seven days. It was the kind of thing the woman who once had been her mother—the woman she’d been before the war ended—might
have done prior to leaving for a journey, making sure her family could manage without her once she left.
A tight, cold ball of fear lodged in Margaret’s middle. Still shivering, she closed the door.
She walked through the pantry, living room, and dining room, then opened the door to the cellar, searching for her mother.
Margaret approached the stairwell. The ticking clock became louder and faster, echoing the rising, rapid pulse of her heart.
As she climbed the stairs, dread fell upon her like a heavy blanket, suffocatingly close. She gripped the banister the way
a mountain climber grips the rope that could save her life or cause her to lose it, making the slow, careful, painful ascent
to the closed door of her parents’ bedroom.
She pressed her ear against the dark wood, hoping to detect some sound from within, fear spreading through her like spilled ink. She wished the door would open, that her father would come home so she wouldn’t have to be the one to turn the knob and see what was on the other side.
But her father was gone, and it was her responsibility. She had promised.
Margaret stretched trembling fingers to the doorknob, turned it, and cried out.
* * *
“Maggie, wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up, sweetheart. It was only a dream, okay? Just a dream. You’re safe now. I’ve got
you.”
Margaret was still gasping, sobbing. She always woke up before the door opened. But it was still terrifying, more frightening
now than on the day it had actually happened.
Back then, a strange unsettled feeling had come over Margaret when she saw the contents of the refrigerator and the bizarre
preparations her mother had made before taking her own life—as if the only thing they might miss later would be the absence
of hot meals she would have provided. Margaret had not known what she would find when she opened the door that day. Now, she
did.
It was a sight a seventeen-year-old girl could never unsee—she who had blithely promised her father to keep an eye on her
mother while he was away was blissfully ignorant of what could happen if she failed in her duty. Though she had somehow learned
to live with the guilt and fear, it would never leave her entirely. In her dreams it was even worse because now she knew what
awaited her on the other side of the door.
“Come here,” Walt said.
The room was dark. Walt was sitting on the edge of the bed and his suitcase was sitting on the floor, as if he’d only just
come in. He pulled Margaret toward him, scooting so his back rested against the headboard, scooping her up and into his lap
as if she’d been Beth or Suzy, holding her close. When her body quit shaking and her tears subsided, he kissed the top of
her head. “Better?”
Margaret nodded, pressing her cheek against his chest.
“You take on too much, Maggie. You can’t take care of everybody. You know that, don’t you? But I do admire you for trying.”
Margaret looked up at him. He kissed her again, on the lips this time, but lightly.
“Listen,” he said, then cleared his throat, frowning. “About the party, and how I made fun of your writing. It’s really been
bothering me ever since I left, and—”
Margaret covered his mouth with her fingertips. “Not now. Not tonight.”
He nodded. “Sorry. It’s late. You’re tired.”
Looking into his eyes, Margaret shook her head and started to undo his shirt buttons.
“I’m not tired,” she whispered, then pulled him down on the bed with her, wrapping her arms around his neck and melting into
him like warm wax, thinking how much she missed this and how much, how very much, she missed him.