Chapter 29 Day of Jubilee
Day of Jubilee
Margaret slid some fish sticks into the oven for the kids, then opened the refrigerator door and studied its contents, trying
to decide what she should bring to book club.
There wasn’t much to work with, but she didn’t have time to go to the market. Nor was she willing to subject herself to another
of Bitsy’s experiments in vegetarian cooking; the memory of cauliflower and kidney bean croquettes still made her gag. Finally,
she pulled out a couple of apples and a block of slightly green cheddar that, once cleared of its moldy spots, would work
just fine for a fruit and cheese platter.
She was washing the apples when she heard Walt’s car in the driveway. The kids were thrilled he’d come home early and practically
knocked him over when he walked in the door.
“Daddy! Daddy! Dad!”
Bobby flung himself onto Walt’s leg like an offensive lineman going after a tackle dummy, begging him to come outside to play
catch and help break in his new baseball glove. Suzy jumped into his arms, kissed him, and said she’d baked brownies in her
Easy-Bake Oven. Did he want one? Beth tugged his arm to get his attention, telling him about how Margaret had “told off Mr.
MacGruber.”
Walt shifted Suzy to his hip and pulled Beth into a one-armed hug. “Oh, did she now?” he said, and tossed Margaret a wink.
“You’re early,” she said.
It wasn’t that Margaret wasn’t glad to see him, but Walt never came home from work early, never. She worried something bad had happened. Mr. Ackerman had been piling on even more work since Walt’s return from Ohio, punishing
him for the sin of taking time off. Had Ackerman decided to inflict the ultimate punishment? Had Walt been fired? Or maybe
Walt just wasn’t feeling well. He did look a little flushed.
“You’re not coming down with something, are you?”
“Nope. Ackerman is out with a gout attack, so I snuck out a little early.” He leaned forward to give her a kiss. “I’ve been
thinking about you all day.”
The kids were talking all at once, clamoring for his attention. Walt shushed them.
“Guess what, sports fans? I’ve got four tickets for the Senators game tonight. Don’t worry about dinner. We’ll get some hot
dogs at the stadium.” The kids cheered, and Walt set Suzy down. “You kids go get ready, okay? I just need to talk to Mommy
alone. Honey?”
He jerked his head, indicating that Margaret should follow him. As they climbed the stairs, the sick, sinking feeling in her
stomach sloshed and swelled. She could think of only one reason he would need to talk to her alone.
He had lost his job. How much did they have in savings? Enough to pay the mortgage? How long would it take him to find work? What
if they lost the house? What then?
Walt opened the bedroom door to let her pass, followed Margaret inside, and clicked the lock. She turned to face him.
“What happened? Is it Ackerman? Did he—”
He stopped her questions with a kiss, then scooped her up in his arms. Margaret let out a whoop of surprise and a gale of
giggles as he carried her across the room to the bed.
“I told you,” he said, grinning and stretching out next to her, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
* * *
Thankfully, Beth pulled the fish sticks out of the oven before they burned. By the time Margaret showered and dressed again,
there wasn’t time to make a cheese platter. She trotted down the sidewalk with a copy of A Room of One’s Own tucked under her arm, smiling broadly. When she arrived at Bitsy’s, Viv was standing on the stoop.
“Charlotte’s not here?”
Viv shook her head, and Margaret felt a blip of disappointment. She’d really hoped Charlotte would come to the meeting so
they’d be able to put the argument behind them.
“She might just be late,” Viv said. “Or already be inside. Although I’m starting to wonder if anybody is in there. I rang
twice already, but nothing. Are we sure this is the right night?”
Viv pushed the bell again. Finally, a grim-faced Bitsy opened the door. But she didn’t invite them in or say a word. She just
stood there, looking pale, almost stunned.
Before they could ask what was wrong, King came tromping down the hall with boots on his feet, a hat on his head, and a suitcase
in his hand. He pushed past the three women without speaking, tossed the suitcase into his Jeep, and climbed in after it.
“He’s gone,” Bitsy said as he drove away. “For good. We’re getting a divorce.”
Margaret and Viv gasped simultaneously.
“What? Bits, you’re kidding!”
“Oh, sweetheart. Are you all right? What happened?”
“He walked into the house, said he was leaving me, and packed his suitcase,” Bitsy said, her voice and manner so detached and devoid of emotion that Margaret thought she must still be in shock.
“There’s another woman, a cocktail waitress.
You remember when he disappeared? While I was staying at the barn, taking care of Delilah? ”
Viv and Margaret nodded. How could they forget?
“Apparently he went to drown his sorrows after he stormed off, and met Sally Ann. Now she’s pregnant, and King’s going to
‘do the right thing,’ as he put it, by divorcing me and marrying her, preferably before the baby is born.”
“Baby!” Viv exclaimed. “What about your baby? Didn’t you tell him you’re pregnant too?” Bitsy shook her head, and Viv gave
her an indignant look. “Why not? You were here first!”
“Because I’m not pregnant anymore,” Bitsy said softly, then shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I never was. Apart from being late
and feeling a little worn out, I really didn’t have any other symptoms. Either way, my period came this morning.”
Bitsy stared into the middle distance, her gaze dull and unfocused, her tone musing. “Weird, isn’t it? How your whole life
and your whole perception of yourself can change in a few hours. Yesterday I was a wife and an expectant mother. And today
I’m . . .”
Bitsy’s voice trailed off. Margaret exchanged a worried glance with Viv.
Poor Bitsy. Not only had King walked out, but she’d lost a baby too. Or maybe just the idea of a baby. Either way, it had
obviously come as a shock. Just as Margaret was about to suggest she sit down, have a glass of water, Bitsy gave herself a
shake and looked at her two friends. The color came back to her cheeks.
“Today I’m . . . free,” she said slowly, in a tone that mingled disbelief with wonder. “As of this minute, I’m nobody’s wife
or mother or anything. I’m just . . . me!”
Bitsy’s mouth split into an enormous, delighted grin.
“Isn’t that wonderful?”
* * *
Though the Bettys had already been through a number of collective highs and lows, they’d never experienced one quite so pronounced—a roller-coaster plunge into a potential crisis that, seconds later, became a jubilant celebration of emancipation.
Bitsy let out a whoop and hugged her friends, then marched into the living room and threw open the doors of a well-stocked bar that had been King’s but now, presumably, belonged to Bitsy.
“Now, where did he put the vodka? I’m making stingers for everybody!”
After that, the party was on.
Viv mixed the drinks. Margaret went into the kitchen, found bread, cheese, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce, and made Welsh
rarebit. Bitsy turned the radio up as loud as it would go and danced around the kitchen, twisting and gyrating to “Wipe Out.”
She grabbed Viv’s hands and pulled Margaret away from the stove, insisting they join her. If Margaret lived to be a hundred,
she would never forget the sight of a very pregnant Viv bopping around Bitsy’s kitchen floor, jerking her arms up and down,
doing the monkey.
They did settle down and talk about the book eventually. Everyone liked it, but for very different and very personal reasons.
The discussion was lively.
Not surprisingly, Margaret identified with Woolf’s arguments about the hurdles that make it harder for women writers to fulfill
their potential. The chapter about Judith Shakespeare, an imaginary sister of William, really struck a chord. There was no
question about it; had a writer with talent and drive equal to William’s been born a woman, the world would have been robbed
of one of its greatest literary voices.
Viv agreed but had a bone to pick when it came to the imaginary Judith’s ultimate fate.
“Just because she got pregnant, did that mean she couldn’t write anything? Not ever? I’m not saying it would be easy. But
I don’t buy the idea that suicide was her only option.”
“Remember,” Bitsy said, lifting a hand to signal her entry into the conversation, “Judith was forced into marriage at a very young age. That’s a lot to deal with all by itself.
But then to find out you’re going to be a mother?
That must have been overwhelming, especially if she thought motherhood would mean the end of her writing.
“I’ll be honest,” Bitsy said. “Realizing I wasn’t pregnant after all was a big disappointment. But it was also a big relief.
I really would like to have kids and a family someday, when the time is right. But right now?” She shook her head.
“And I’m not arguing with that,” Viv said, leaning in. “A woman should have an opportunity to chart her own course. When it
comes to career and family, there will always be some trade-offs. But that’s not the same as having no choices, is it? Okay,
sure. Motherhood might not have left Judith time to finish all the plays. But at least she could have written the sonnets,
don’t you think? That ain’t nothing, am I right?”
Viv reached for her cranberry juice and started to laugh.
“Oh, for the love of Mike. Will you listen to me? Getting all worked up over an imaginary character. I’m starting to sound as crazy as the rest of you bookworms. Ha!”
* * *
Margaret and Viv walked home together.
Though it was past nine, the summer sun had only just dipped below the horizon, streaking the twilight sky with shadows of
pink, orange, umber, and violet. The children of Concordia were still outside jumping rope, riding bikes, playing freeze tag,
and roller-skating.
When the streetlights flickered on, it was as if a factory whistle had blown that only they could hear, signaling the end
of the shift. The games came to an abrupt halt. Children turned on their heels and headed home, running across spongy green
grass or hard cement sidewalks and disappearing through doors. Within moments the streets were empty and quiet.
Viv looped her arm through Margaret’s.
“That was fun,” she said.
“It was. But it does make me sad knowing Bitsy will probably be moving away.”
Viv frowned. “Oh, gosh. I hadn’t thought of that. But not right away, do you think?”
“No, probably not. But eventually. Concordia’s not really designed for singletons.”
“Guess not. Hey, what if we fix her up? I mean, somebody around here must be getting a divorce. We could scoop up a rejected
husband and hand him off to Bitsy so she’d stay.”
Margaret gave her a side-eye. “Umm . . . weren’t you the one who was just making a speech about letting people chart their
own course?”
“Fine,” said Viv. “You’re right. Change is inevitable, I guess. Even if Bitsy moves away, I think we’ll always be friends,
don’t you?”
“Always.”
They walked in silence for a time, hearing only the chirrup of crickets and their own footsteps.
“I wish Charlotte had come,” Margaret said as they reached the corner. “She’d have loved tonight. Maybe we should drop by.
Tell her about Bitsy and King, and what we’re reading next month.”
Viv stopped walking and turned to face her. “It’s time to let it go, Maggie. Charlotte will either come around in her own
good time or she won’t.”
* * *
Walt and the kids were still at the baseball game when Margaret entered the unlocked door and went into the kitchen to get
some water. As she was filling her glass, the phone rang.
There was a lot of static on the line. After a moment, an operator said she had an international call for Mrs. Margaret Ryan
from Miss Denise Gustafson and asked if she could connect it. Margaret stood by as the operator performed whatever magic was
required to let two people separated by an ocean talk to one another.
Margaret had never received an international call before but knew they were expensive. Why would Denise spend that kind of money to phone her, especially at this hour? It must have been two in the morning there. Or three?
Finally, the call was connected. Though Margaret could tell Denise was practically shouting, she still sounded very far away.
“Mrs. Ryan? It’s Denise. Can you hear me?”
The line still crackled with static. Margaret pressed the receiver more tightly to her ear.
“Yes. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, barely. Have you seen my mom today? I’ve been calling all day and all night. She isn’t answering.”
“No,” Margaret said, raising her voice, hoping Denise would be able to hear. “Not today. I saw her car in the driveway a couple
of days—” Margaret stopped. Though it might just have been more static, it sounded like Denise was breathing heavily or even
crying.
“Denise, are you all right? Did something happen?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m fine. But something did happen. I took some photographs at my party. I sent Mom a picture of Howard
and a woman. They were alone in the bushes and . . .”
Denise didn’t finish her sentence, but she didn’t have to. The girl’s anguished tone of voice and the memory of the way Howard
had been flirting with the women at the party was enough to help Margaret fill in the blanks.
“Denise! Why would you do something like that?”
“I don’t know. I just—I thought if she was confronted with hard evidence, maybe she’d stop looking the other way and find
the guts to finally leave him. But I shouldn’t have done it. It was a stupid idea. So stupid! Now I keep getting a busy signal
and she’s not answering the phone and . . . Oh, Mrs. Ryan! What have I done?”