Chapter 27 Simultaneous Circumstances
Simultaneous Circumstances
Three days after the incident in Georgetown, Margaret picked up the phone and dialed Charlotte’s number, intending to apologize
again, as abjectly as was necessary.
She’d gone too far, pushed too hard. Of course so had Charlotte. But somebody had to make the first move, didn’t they? Now
that they’d both had a chance to cool off, Margaret hoped that her regrets would be reciprocated and that she and Charlotte
would put the whole thing behind them.
Seconds into the call, Charlotte had cut her off midapology.
“Yes, all right. But I really don’t have time to talk now, Margaret.”
“Oh. Well, what are you doing tomorrow? Maybe we could meet for lunch at the drugstore? My treat.”
“Thanks, but I don’t have time. I’m just very busy.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
“No. But thank you.”
“Okay, then . . . I guess I’ll see you at book club?”
“Not sure. Depends on how things go.”
And that was that. After thanking Margaret for calling, Charlotte said she had to run and hung up without saying goodbye.
Two weeks passed, and Margaret hadn’t talked to Charlotte since. Viv and Bitsy hadn’t heard from her either, not a peep.
“Quit worrying,” Viv said when Margaret called. “She’s probably immersed in some new project, decided to start a painting or wallpaper the dining room. You know how she gets.”
Margaret did. By this time they all did. But this felt different. Normally, when Charlotte went off on a tear, she sounded
upbeat and full of energy, almost giddy.
“How did she sound this time?” Viv asked.
“Intense. I wish I knew she was all right,” she said, biting her lip and thinking of her promise to Denise.
“She is all right,” Viv assured her. “Just yesterday I saw her driving out the gate when I was driving in. She waved and smiled
and seemed perfectly fine.”
Margaret nodded. She’d altered the route of her evening walk to go by Charlotte’s house over the last few days and had seen
lights in the windows. She’d seen Howard’s car in the driveway a couple of times too. Physically, Charlotte was fine.
“She’s probably still mad,” Viv said. “She’ll get over it. Give it some time, and try to think about something else.”
Easier said than done. Margaret wasn’t just worried about Charlotte; she missed her too. She was hoping beyond hope that Charlotte
would show up for the book club meeting at Bitsy’s later that evening. This afternoon, however, she had other fish to fry.
Margaret lowered herself into a too-small, too-low, engineered-for-discomfort hard chair that was stationed directly in front
of a black-and-gold desk plaque reading “David K. MacGruber, Assistant Principal.”
Concordia Junior High was less than two years old, yet the air was already permeated with the odors of floor wax, hamburger
grease, chalk, rubber, and sweat. The junior high school she’d attended as a child in Dayton had smelled exactly the same.
When the office door opened and David K. MacGruber entered the room, Margaret wondered if public school assistant principals
were standard-issue too.
With beady eyes, a striped bow tie, a cheap gray suit, and a crew cut that made his already blocky head look even bigger, Mr. MacGruber looked so much like her old assistant principal, Mr. Fosdick, that Margaret did a double take.
The resemblance was uncanny. Hopefully Mr. MacGruber would turn out to be a little less rigid.
MacGruber sat down and folded his hands on the desk.
“Good afternoon, uh . . .” He flipped open a manila file folder, glancing at the form inside. “Mrs. Ryan. I understand you
want to talk with me?”
“Yes, I do. It’s about my daughter.”
He glanced down again.
“Elizabeth. She’ll be joining us in September?”
“Beth,” Margaret corrected. “Yes. She’s already enrolled in her classes, including band.”
MacGruber’s thin lips drew back, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “Wonderful! I’m pleased to hear it! This will be our first
year offering band, but we’re expecting big things. I interviewed and hired Mr. Hoover personally. He’ll be a fine band teacher.”
“Yes, I’m sure. He’s the reason I’m here. He said I had to talk to you.”
MacGruber tugged at his tie. “I see. About what?”
“When the children came to pick up their instruments so they could start practicing over the summer, Mr. Hoover said Beth
could choose a flute, piccolo, clarinet, or oboe.”
“That’s right. Is there a problem?”
Margaret scooted forward in the chair, which was making her lower back hurt, and smoothed her skirt over her knees. “There
is. Beth doesn’t want to play any of those instruments. She wants to play the trombone.”
“She wants to play the trombone?” Mr. MacGruber widened his eyes. “Why?”
“We saw The Music Man at the movies, and Beth fell in love with the trombone.” MacGruber stared blankly. Margaret lifted her eyebrows. “You know,
‘Seventy-Six Trombones’? The Music Man? Robert Preston played the bandleader? Shirley Jones was Marian the librarian?”
“Mrs. MacGruber and I don’t go to the movies,” he said, his tone of voice and facial expression suggesting that not only did he and his wife not go to the movies, but also they disapproved of those who did.
Apparently assistant principals were standard-issue.
“Ah. Well, it was excellent. And because of it, Beth wants to play the trombone.”
“So you said, but . . . why? Why would a girl want to play the trombone?”
Margaret tilted her head to one side. “Well, why would a girl want to play the flute? Or the clarinet? Because she does. Because
she likes the sound, or the music, or Robert Preston. I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
“It’s just very unusual. We’ve never had a girl trombone player before.”
“You’ve never had a band before either. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
He clasped his hands together more tightly, shook his head, and leaned forward. His black glasses slid to the midway point
on his nose.
“Mrs. Ryan, I’m concerned about how this will impact Beth from a social standpoint. Conformity is important at this age. Don’t
you want your daughter to fit in with the other girls?”
Margaret paused, thinking about roles, roadblocks, and the Bettys.
“Believe me, Mr. MacGruber. When it comes to my daughter, fitting in with the other girls is the last thing I’m concerned
about.”
* * *
At the same time as Margaret was exiting Concordia Junior High School, having gained Mr. MacGruber’s reluctant approval for
Beth to play the trombone—obtained only after a painstaking search of district policies turned up no rules or guidelines prohibiting
it—Viv popped her head through the door of Dr. Fran’s office.
“Just wanted to say goodbye.”
The doctor looked up from the stack of charts she’d been perusing and pulled a sad face, blinking her brown eyes like a dejected basset hound. “Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay till the baby’s born? Give you a raise? A lifetime supply of tongue depressors? A longer lunch break?”
“I’ve never had a lunch break. Neither have you.” Viv stepped inside the room. “You’ll be fine. I’m leaving you in good hands, the patients
too.”
“You’re right,” Fran said, getting to her feet. “Earlene was a find. She’s a good nurse.”
“The best,” Viv agreed. “Smart, efficient, dedicated, and friendly. The patients have warmed right up to her. I’m so glad
I had the chance to work with you, Doc. It’s meant more than you’ll ever know. But Earlene lives right in the neighborhood
and can work full-time. Let’s face it—she’s the nurse you hoped to find in the first place.”
Viv tilted her head sideways, as if daring the doctor to deny it. They both knew she couldn’t. When Fran came out from behind
her desk, Viv put out her hand.
“Feels weird,” Fran said, “just shaking hands and walking away. Maybe we could run up to the coffee shop for a donut before
you go?”
“You don’t have time. Mr. Agosti is in exam room 2. His ulcer is acting up again, and I’ve got to get going too. My book club
is meeting tonight.”
“Ah yes. The infamous Bettys. What are you reading this month?”
“Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own.”
“Did you like it?”
“More than I thought I would. For one thing, it’s short. Definitely a plus.” Viv laughed. “I probably would have related to
it better if I was a writer like Margaret. But the idea that a woman needs something of her own, the chance to shine a little . . .”
Viv bobbed her head but didn’t finish the sentence. Fran nodded too, signaling her understanding of the things left unsaid.
“Well. I should probably get going.”
Fran opened her arms and took a step forward to give her as much of a hug as was possible in consideration of Viv’s blooming
belly.
“I’m going to miss you, Nurse Buschetti.”
“I’m going to miss you, Dr. Giordano. I’m going to miss this.”
Viv sniffled. Fran took a step back and ducked her head so she could look her in the eye.
“I’m serious. If you want to stay on for a few more weeks, it’s fine with me.”
Viv shook her head. “You can’t afford to pay two nurses. Besides, I’m excited about getting ready for this little one,” she
said, stroking the curve of her belly affectionately. “And getting to spend more time with my kids. Vince is planning to enlist
right after high school, so this’ll be our last summer together. I don’t want to miss it.”
Fran reached out to rest her hand on Viv’s shoulder.
“I think you’re making the right decision, at least for now. You’re a terrific nurse, Viv. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be back
someday.”
“We’ll see. At mass on Sunday, Father Valenti quoted a verse from the book of Ecclesiastes in his homily. He said, ‘There
is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens.’” Viv patted her stomach. “Maybe it sounds
silly, but I couldn’t help but think it was a message just for me.”
Dr. Fran smiled. “I think you might be right.”
* * *
And as Viv left the clinic for the last time, Charlotte walked out of Union Station, carrying a leather portfolio with two