Chapter 23 The Way Things Are
The Way Things Are
When the first light of dawn filtered through the bedroom curtains, Margaret slipped out from under the covers and crept down
to the kitchen to cook Walt’s breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. She even made hash browns.
Walt walked in about forty minutes later, wearing a suit, tie, and surprised expression.
“Wow, Maggie! What got into you?”
“Nothing,” she said, smiling as she took bacon slices from the pan and set them on a paper towel. “I promised you a proper
homecoming breakfast, remember?”
He crossed the kitchen to stand next to her, took the tongs from her hand, and put his hands on her waist. Then he turned
her body so they were facing one another.
“Not that. That,” he said, tilting his head in the general direction of their bedroom. “You were a tiger last night. Seriously, what got
into you?”
“Dunno,” she said, twining her arms around his neck. “Guess I just missed you.”
“Yeah? Maybe I should go out of town more often.”
“Please don’t. Not unless you have to.” He bent his head as if to kiss her. “Your eggs are getting cold,” she reminded him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you get home.”
While Margaret filled their plates, Walt put the silverware on the table and poured the coffee. He pulled out her chair before
she took her seat and then pushed it back in, as if they were kids on a prom date instead of an old married couple with a
mortgage and three kids.
Margaret almost asked what had gotten into him, but the expression on Walt’s face when he sat down told her the moment for teasing had passed. Though it seemed he didn’t
quite know how to begin, Walt clearly had things on his mind.
“My dad . . .”
Margaret locked her eyes on his and bobbed her head so he’d know she was listening. Instead of going on, he took a breath
and swallowed hard, blinking back tears. She reached across the table to touch his hand.
“Such a shock,” she said. “Jerry was still so young, not even sixty. You’ve been so busy helping Bernice that it’s probably
only now sinking in. But he was a good man, and I know he—”
“That’s not true,” Walt said, shaking off the threat of tears as he interrupted her. “My father was not a good man. You know
it, and so do I. He was an angry, bitter, controlling, critical, miserable man who did his damnedest to make everyone around
him miserable too.”
Walt’s lips pressed in a grim line. “And I’m turning out to be just like him.”
“That’s not true! Honey, you are nothing like your father—”
“Oh yes I am. Maybe not a carbon copy, but heading in that direction. Ironic, isn’t it? Part of the reason I lied about my
age and signed up to get shot at was because I wanted to get away from him. I figured the Germans couldn’t be worse than my
old man. Turned out I was wrong about that, but still . . . I promised myself I’d be nothing like him. Yet here I am.”
He picked up his coffee cup. Margaret watched him drink, wishing she knew how to make him feel better, wishing she could truthfully say she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Walt wasn’t just like his father. But he wasn’t the same optimistic, buoyant man she had married either.
He put down his cup, looking at her.
“I really missed you, Maggie. But I’m kind of glad you didn’t come to Ohio. Driving alone gave me time to think, to figure
out where I went wrong and if there’s a way to change direction before it’s too late. To start with, I think I need to cut
back on the booze. Dad got meaner when he drank too much, and I think it’s doing the same thing to me.”
Margaret couldn’t say she hadn’t been concerned about how much Walt had been drinking lately and how it impacted his mood.
But it was hard to see him like this, sad and self-recriminating. She tightened her hold on his hand, hoping he felt love
in her grasp.
“You’re not mean, Walt. Never mean. More like . . . morose.”
He smiled wryly, as if to say he appreciated the nuance but wasn’t quite buying it.
“Well, maybe that’s the difference between bourbon and beer. I still want to cut back. A couple help me relax. A six-pack
makes me . . .” He lifted his eyebrows. “What was the word?”
She returned his smile. “Morose.”
“Right. Also, I want to stop thinking about the stuff I don’t have and be more grateful for what I do have, including three
terrific kids and a smart, talented, gorgeous wife. I mean it,” he said. “I love you, Maggie.”
Margaret’s eyes welled, not because Walt never said he loved her, but because it had been a long time since he’d said it quite
like that.
“There’s something else, Margaret. What I said that day at the party—”
“Oh, Walt.” She swept her hand in the air as if to bat away his words. “That was almost two weeks ago. It’s water under the
bridge. Honestly. You don’t need to say anything more.”
“Yes, I do. Because I acted like an absolute jerk. And because I knew exactly what I was doing. I wanted to bring you down a notch, embarrass you.”
Though Walt’s intentions that day came as no surprise, hearing him admit to them did.
“But why would you do that to me? Especially in front of other people?”
“Because I was jealous,” he said. “I know how stupid it sounds, but I was. I’m sorry, Margaret. You didn’t deserve that. I
know how much the column means to you.”
Walt sighed the kind of sigh that people do when they look in the mirror and are disappointed by the sight of the person who
looks back. Margaret’s eyes went wide.
“Jealous? Honey, that’s crazy! Yes, I love writing, but nothing like the way I love you. Or the kids. You know that, don’t
you?”
“Not that kind of jealous,” he explained. “‘Jealous that you’re so special, that you found a way to get paid for doing something
you love and are so good at. As opposed to me, a mediocre man stuck in a mediocre job.”
She stared at him. Mediocre? He didn’t really believe that, did he? He couldn’t.
In spite of everything, Walt was the love of her life. Didn’t he know that? Margaret pressed her lips together, shaking her
head inwardly. On the one hand, she wanted to wrap him in her arms and tell him he was her hero. On the other hand, she wanted
to give him a good shake, slap some sense into him.
Walt was a lot of things, but mediocre was not one of them.
“Don’t say that, Walter Ryan. Don’t you ever say that. I had other offers. Don’t forget. But I picked you. It was the best
decision I ever made. You’re the glue that holds this family together. Without you, we wouldn’t be a family. You work so hard, taking care of everybody, making sure we have everything we need—food, clothes, Beth’s braces,
and our dream house.”
“That’s why I do it,” he said. “Because I want you and the kids to have the things you want, the life you deserve. But there’s nothing special about that. It’s a man’s responsibility to provide. If that means doing a job he hates . . . so be it.”
Margaret felt pulled up short. “But . . . you don’t really hate your job, do you?”
“Are you kidding?” He huffed out a laugh. “Of course I do. Anybody would. I spend my life filling in forms, calculating debits
and credits. Now and again, I have a meeting with a client or some flunky from the IRS. Most of those guys are dull as dishwater,
yet it’s still the highlight of my week. The rest of the time, it’s just me and the paperwork.”
He took a bite of his bacon, then picked up his fork and started in on the eggs.
“The only good thing about my job is the paycheck. But what can you do?” he asked, shrugging before taking a sip of his coffee.
“Somebody has to pay the bills, Maggie. That’s just how the world is.”
* * *
After Walt left for the office, Margaret cleared the table and washed the dishes, thinking about their conversation.
When she first met Walt, the handsome, bright-eyed young man who skipped meals so he could buy himself a guitar, the spark
between them had been undeniable. Three dates in, she’d found herself writing Mrs. Walter Ryan in the margins of her notebook instead of listening to a sociology lecture, just to see how her future signature might look.
And yet despite their mutual attraction, she had concerns. Walt was good-looking, fun-loving, kind, and intelligent—the only
man she knew who read books for pleasure. But he also seemed a little aimless, which worried her.
Many girls on campus set out to bag themselves a future doctor, lawyer, or banker in the way big-game hunters stalked their prey: stealthily and with a great deal of cunning.
But that wasn’t Margaret’s style. What did it matter what neighborhood she lived in or how nice a car she drove if she didn’t love her husband? Love was important.
But love couldn’t be the only criteria when choosing a mate. A girl needed to be practical, choosing a man of character who
would be faithful, a good provider whom she and their future children could depend on. Despite her growing feelings for him,
Margaret wasn’t completely convinced Walt was that kind of man. Not only did he seem uncertain about his future profession;
he couldn’t even settle on a major.
When Eugene Buckman, a business major whom she’d been dating, surprised her with a proposal, Margaret said she needed time
to think about it. Walt heard about it somehow. He tracked her down in the library, declared his love, and told her he’d decided
to study accounting. “I know I haven’t always been the most serious guy, but I’m serious about you. We might never be rich,
but I can take care of you, Maggie. I swear I can. Just give me a little time to prove myself.”
The following year they were married.
The early years hadn’t been easy, but Walt had made good on his promise. Leaving Ohio had been hard. After all, they’d spent
their whole lives there. But the salary for the new job was too good to pass up. Finally, they would be able to buy a house!
And not just any house: a beautiful new house in Concordia with sidewalks, playgrounds, and a pool, near lots of families
in the same stage of life as them.
After so many years of scrimping and saving, they were living the American dream. Until today Margaret hadn’t fully appreciated
just how expensive that dream was, or that the cost was measured in more than mere currency.
She’d always known Walt wasn’t crazy about his job. His standard cocktail party joke poked fun at the dullness of the profession.
“What’s the best sleeping pill?” he’d ask the other guests before providing the answer himself. “An accountant discussing
his work.”
It always got a laugh, with Walt laughing hardest of all.
But Margaret hadn’t realized he hated his job. She wanted nothing but good for Walt; the idea that he woke up every day and trudged off to a job he despised was
painful to her.
Still, Walt was right. Somebody had to pay the bills.
She gladly would have turned over her paychecks if it could have eased his burden, but what difference would it make? Fifty
dollars a month for writing two columns had seemed like a small fortune to Margaret, but it still wasn’t enough to cover their
monthly grocery budget.
Of course there was always the possibility of her going to work full-time. But apart from babysitting as a teenager and clerking
part-time at Woolworth’s in high school, Margaret had never worked. Any job she got now would likely pay the minimum wage
of a dollar and a quarter. It wasn’t much, especially after deducting expenses for clothes, commuting, and taxes. And what
if one of the kids got sick? She’d either have to pay a babysitter or call in sick herself and run the risk of getting fired.
Margaret rinsed suds off the orange juice glasses and put them in the rack. No, she thought to herself, working full-time
wasn’t the answer. Maybe they should move?
Margaret loved this house, but there was no denying that buying it had stretched them financially. Still, they had to live
somewhere, and the bills kept coming every month. Somebody had to pay them. The only one who earned enough to do that, who
could earn enough to do that, was Walt.
It did indeed seem to be the way things were.
Margaret opened a drawer, so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t know she’d reached for the catchall drawer instead
of the one where she stored the tea towels. Inside, among capless pens, tape dispensers, partially filled Green Stamp booklets,
rubber bands, and ragged-edged recipes torn from magazines, Margaret saw her dog-eared copy of The Feminine Mystique. She flipped through the pages, remembering what Viv had said about people who’d been left out of the conversation, and wondering if husbands shouldn’t be added to the list.
In a lot of ways, Walt was just as trapped as she was. The invisible fence of rules and mores that confined women to a small,
carefully defined patch of human achievement impacted men as well, required them to carry the bulk of a family’s financial
burden, even if it meant doing work they disliked. It occurred to Margaret that Walt, too, must sometimes feel as if he were
living a life that belonged to someone else—a life that was so much less than what Margaret wanted for him.
She put the glasses away in the cupboard, then stood statue-still in the middle of the kitchen, ears cocked for the sound
of children. They hadn’t come downstairs until eight thirty the day before. With any luck, today would be the same. If she
hopped to it, she could still squeeze in at least an hour of work.
An idea floated into her mind, one with the potential to be just as funny as diet gelatin but far more meaningful—a column
that might make people think as well as smile, one she could feel proud to have written.
She took Sylvia out of the closet. After feeding a sheet of paper into the roller, Margaret hovered her hands above the typewriter
keys, wiggled her fingers to loosen up her knuckles, then started writing.