Maggie #2
Rhonda looks ahead. “I think Jacob was working late, and I was just lying there in bed. I didn’t have the energy to stand up and change the channel, and one of those boring nature documentaries was on, and I just kind of tuned it out and lay there in sheets that hadn’t been changed in a long time, an old nightgown on, kind of like this one,” she says, and pulls at her fabric.
“Anyway, they were talking about ants. And I just thought this is my life now. This is my God’s honest life, and I’m just going to have to wait to die.
The quiet, the boredom, the lack of excitement.
I mean, those girls were electric. Sometimes I’d be upstairs ironing their school clothes for the next day, and they’d be playing checkers or taking a string and letting our cat chase it around, and the laughter just bubbled up.
I used to stand there with the iron and think how lucky I was, to live in a place where there was so much…
life.” She flicks a strand of hair out of her face.
“Anyway, I was so bored, so despondent, and even the thought of the boats in Paris didn’t bring me any joy.
And I found myself watching these stupid little ants.
Their queen ant—did you know they have a queen like bees do? ”
“No,” Maggie says.
“They can carry so much more than even their weight. The narrator of the documentary said when their nest gets destroyed, do you know what they do?” She raises her eyebrows and snaps her fingers.
“They immediately start to rebuild. Like within seconds. They look for another trail if they can’t stay in the same place, and they move the queen and the eggs or whatever.
They go back and rebuild their nest, piece by piece.
” She shakes her head. “I sat up a little. I decided to take a bath, and I said, ‘Surely I’m as good as any damn ant.’ And I focused on moving pieces around.
“And just now with that cinnamon roll, I thought, that was one tiny piece. Taffy is a piece. My dear, you’ve got to focus on the pieces.
We will never forget what we’ve lost, we will never be the same because of it, but we can build something new.
That’s the key. That’s what your brother taught me.
Remember what’s lost, but try to build something else. ”
Maggie hugs herself and stares out at the gray sky. “Do you remember anything else about him?”
Rhonda purses her lips. “He was charming, kind. Fun. Brave. He got so sunburned doing landscape work and never complained.” She cocks her head to the side. “Your brother was an excellent harmonica player, too,” she says, and she winks at her and keeps driving.
Rhonda drops her off at the end of the driveway. “Give me a call if you need a ride back. I can come first thing in the morning.”
Maggie looks toward her house. “Thank you so much.”
“Or if you need more time off, just let me know.” Rhonda looks down the long driveway. “What a sweet place. It makes sense that you and Chip came from here.”
Maggie waves as the yellow Cadillac pulls away.
As she gets closer, she sees their home in a different light, as though the time away has made her objective.
It feels different from when she used to finish a shift at Millman’s or when Tommy used to drop her off, saying, “Sure you don’t want to just stay with me?
” When she’d decline, he’d say under his breath something like, “I don’t think they’d care,” and she would stare straight ahead and not wave to him as he turned around and pulled away.
The lawn has been mowed, and the hedges trimmed. The flower beds look tended to, and there is a hanging fern on the porch.
Their white house (some paint chipped, one crooked shutter) doesn’t look polished the way some houses do, but it looks okay. Like it has endured. She doesn’t remember a wreath on the door, or the oak bench on the porch looking wiped clean. Is she imagining this? Does distance do this?
Her mom’s car is in the driveway. The front door is locked, so she takes the key from under the mat.
She expects Birdy Girl to run out from the kitchen, tail wagging furiously, but there is silence.
She calls for her parents, but the house echoes.
They are probably working—maybe her dad dropped her mom off—but where is Birdy Girl?
She crosses her arms and walks slowly into the house, setting her purse on the chair by the front stairs.
She looks for a note on the kitchen table, but nothing.
The refrigerator is well stocked, and her mom’s cup of tea from this morning (maybe?) is in the sink.
The afghan her dad always puts over his legs when he watches TV is folded on his chair, and the mail and newspaper are on the kitchen table.
The house doesn’t look bad. It doesn’t look like her absence has distressed them.
She takes out their house notebook and pages through it, and the note she left when she went to Red Maple is the last thing there.
She looks around and sees the pile of sympathy cards on the sideboard they received months ago and never got around to opening. A big stack of so many colors. She has often wondered who all the cards are from, but it seemed pointless to start opening them.
And then the back door opens and Birdy Girl comes charging at her.
“Hey girl!” Maggie says and crouches down, kissing her head and petting her. She looks up and is shocked to see who’s standing there.
“Maggie!” Cat Ayers says, holding Birdy Girl’s leash. She wears big hoop earrings and has her hair tied back in a scarf. “What a wonderful surprise.”