Too Good to Be True(71)
“If I tell you, then it doesn’t count,” Margaret retorted. “It’s like planned spontaneity, Stuart. An oxymoron.”
“You want me to be unexpected and surprising,” Stuart said, his voice suddenly hard. “Would you like it if I ran na**d down Main Street? How about if I started shooting heroin? Shall I have an affair with the cleaning woman?
Would that be surprising enough?”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse, Stuart. Until you figure it out, I have nothing to say. Goodbye.” Margaret closed the door and leaned against it, then, a second later, peeked out the transom window. “Goddamn it,” she muttered. I heard the sound of a car motor starting. Apparently, Stuart was gone.
Margaret caught sight of me, crouched at the top of the stairs. “So?” she asked.
“Margaret,” I began cautiously, “he loves you and he wants to make you happy. Doesn’t that count, honey?”
“Grace, it’s not that simple!” she said. “He’d love it if every night of our life was the same as the night before.
Dinner. Polite conversation about literature and current events. Sex on the prescribed days. The occasional dinner out, where he takes half an hour to order a bottle of wine. I’m so bored I could scream!”
“Well, here’s what I think, roomie,” I said, my own voice growing hard. “He’s a decent, hardworking, intelligent man and he adores you. I think you’re acting like a spoiled brat.”
“Grace,” she said tightly, “since you’ve never been married, your opinion really doesn’t count a whole heck of a lot right now. So mind your own business, okay?”
“Oh, absolutely, Margs. Hey, by the way, how much longer do you think you’ll be staying?” Sure, it was bitchy, but it felt good.
“Why?” Margaret said. “Am I cutting in on your time with Wyatt?” With that, she stomped back into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, feeling that I really should have control of my own house and shouldn’t have to hide in my bedroom, I went downstairs. Margaret was standing at the stove, stirring her pasta, tears dripping off her chin.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.
“Sure,” I sighed, my anger evaporating. Margaret never cried. Never.
“I do love him, Grace. I think I do, anyway, but sometimes I just felt like I was suffocating, Grace. Like if I started screaming, he wouldn’t even notice. I don’t want a divorce, but I can’t be married to a piece of cardboard, either.
It’s like we work in theory, but when we’re actually together, I’m dying. I don’t know what to do. If just once he could move outside the stupid box, you know? And the idea of a baby…” She started to sob. “It feels like Stuart wanting a baby means I’m not enough anymore. And he was the one who was supposed to adore me.”
“Which he does, Margs!”
She didn’t listen. “Besides, I’m such a bitch, Grace, who would want me for a mother?”
“You’re not a bitch. Not all the time,” I assured her. “Angus loves you. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
“Do you want me to move out? Stay at a hotel or something?”
“No, of course not. You know damn well you can stay with me as long as you want,” I said. “Come on. Give us a hug.”
She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed fiercely. “Sorry about the Wyatt crack,” she muttered.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, squeezing her back. Angus, jealous that there was love and it wasn’t directed at him, began leaping and whining.
Margaret stepped back, breaking our hug, grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Want some dinner?” she offered. “I made enough for us both.”
I looked at what she called dinner. “I try to avoid eating rope,” I said, getting a little grin in response. “I’m actually not hungry. Think I’ll just sit outside for a bit.” I poured myself a glass of wine, patted her shoulder to assure her I wasn’t mad, and went out with my dog into the sweet-scented night.
Sitting in an Adirondack chair, I looked around my yard. Angus was sniffing the back fence, patrolling the perimeter like the good guard dog he was. All the flowers I planted last year were coming up beautifully. The peonies along the back fence were heavy with blooms, the sugary smell of their blossoms heady in the night.
Bee balm waved over near pine trees that shielded me from 32 Maple, and on Callahan’s side, the irises rose in graceful lines, white and indigo, vanilla and grape scented. The lilacs along the eastern side of the house had faded, but their scent was indescribably lovely, calming and invigorating at the same time. The only sound was of the Farmington River, full and fast at this time of year, gushing over the rocks. A train whistle sounded somewhere, its melancholy note underscoring the loneliness that shrouded my heart.
Why couldn’t people be happy alone? Love took your heart hostage. I’d sell my soul for Margaret and Natalie, my parents, Julian, even sweet little Angus, my faithful friend. As proven by my recent actions, I’d do anything to find someone who’d love me with the same wholeheartedness I wanted to love him. Those distant days with Andrew seemed like they’d happened to someone else. And even if I did find someone, what guarantee was there that it would last? Look at my parents, so pissed off with each other all the time. Margaret and Stuart…seven years crumbling away. Kiki, Julian and me, all floundering.