A Portrait of Marguerite Page 17

  “Yes, it’s better than good.” he said with conviction. “In fact, it’s excellent.”

  I felt like dancing a jig or letting out a whoop. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this kind of satisfaction.

  At that moment the telephone blared. I decided to ignore it. There was no one else I wanted to talk to—not even Rob. But when Henry’s gaze shifted to the phone, I answered it.

  “Are you sitting down?” Phil asked, his voice charged with electricity.

  I knew Phil liked to make a big deal out of things. “No, I’m standing up, and I’m busy. Can’t this wait?”

  “No, it’s too important.”

  What could be so monumental? Then I realized he was probably calling to announce his engagement to Darla. I felt like hanging up, but doing that would only delay the inevitable. Better to swallow the bitter poison all at once.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “There’s no easy way of breaking this to you. Andrea’s pregnant.”

  My legs giving way, I leaned against the counter. Had I heard correctly? No, it must be a mistake, some mix-up.

  “Margo? You still there?”

  “Yes.” My voice came out barely a whisper.

  “They’re getting married in a couple of months, so it’s going to be okay. Hey, we’re going to be grandparents!”

  I dropped onto a chair. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s still early in the pregnancy, but yeah. She’s been tested by a doctor.”

  My hand wrapped around my throat.

  “Andrea’s parents had a fit, as you can imagine,” he said. “But they’re grateful she didn’t get an abortion.”

  I let the knowledge pour over me, but my every fiber rebelled against it. “How will they live? They’re just kids themselves. They can’t take care of a baby.”

  “I’ll help them. Rob’s going to stay with me until we figure out what to do. Next quarter, maybe he can enroll in junior college and work part-time.”

  “You know the chance of their marriage working out. Even my folks are ready to split.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I like your parents, even if your dad thought I was a bum.” Phil chuckled. “Hey, he was right. You were way too good for me.” He sounded happy, which made the conversation even more absurd. Had he lost his mind?

  I hung up and sat with my forehead in my hands.

  “Are you all right?” Henry asked.

  I’d almost forgotten he was in the room with me. I looked up and said, “It’s Rob’s girlfriend. She’s pregnant.” There was no point in trying to cover up what Phil would eventually tell him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know Phil’s your friend, but I could kill that man.” It might be worth facing the death penalty.

  “I’m sure you’re upset, any parent would be. But how is this Phil’s fault?”

  “Of course it’s not. It’s just that he’s acting like Andrea’s pregnancy is the greatest thing on earth.”

  “I doubt Phil thinks that. He’s probably trying to make the best of a difficult situation.” He laid a hand on my shoulder for a quiet moment. “Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

  Too exhausted to answer, I nodded.

  “Your son will be in my prayers,” he said as he prepared to leave. “The Lord can change your darkness into light.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. How could anything but heartache come from this?

  Rain splattering against my bedroom window woke me. It was already seven in the morning. In spite of everything, I’d rested soundly for almost nine hours.

  Entering the kitchen, the first thing I saw was my painting. I stood staring at it as if a stranger had moved into the house while I was sleeping. With its flowing brush strokes and areas of dappled color, it looked unlike anything I’d ever done. In college, I would have considered using a magazine shot for a subject the cheap trick of a lazy artist. And a little boy and his mother would have seemed too sentimental for a proper subject. But as a grown woman, this scene filled my heart with gladness. On closer scrutiny the boy looked remarkably like Rob as a toddler. Without setting out to do so, I had painted my son.

  As Rob was growing up, I’d tried extra hard to be a good mother. I’d read all the recommended parenting books, was home after school to assist him with his homework, attended all his games. I’d hovered over my son, but apparently it hadn’t been enough. I’d always assumed that he was an exceptional child—not the type to be a college dropout with a teenage wife and an unplanned baby. What about his aspirations to become a dentist like his Grandpa Vern? Or were those only my dreams?

  There had to be something I could do to make things better. Should I call Andrea’s mother? I remembered meeting the girl’s parents, Joe and Lucille Walker, at Rob’s high-school graduation in June. Four months later, I knew little more about the couple than I had known then, except that Joe was a big-time attorney with the reputation of being a bulldog in the courtroom, and Lucille was a homemaker. Over the summer I’d chatted on the phone with Lucille several times while trying to track down Rob, and the woman seemed pleasant enough, but distant. Our calls usually ended quickly, with Lucille saying she needed to get back to her housework or run to the store.

  As I walked toward the phone, a wave of dread grabbed my stomach. Lucille would be furious and probably blame the pregnancy on Rob. If Andrea were my daughter, I might do the same thing. Not that Andrea hadn’t been a willing participant, I reminded myself. The girl could have said no.

  I moved to the sink and filled the coffeemaker with water. A moment later, as I measured grounds into a filter, my hand shook, strewing dirt-colored particles across the counter. I felt like screaming or breaking something. Wasn’t there any way out of this nightmare? The thought of Rob and Andrea in bed together sickened me. If only Rob had never met the girl. If only he had controlled his lust.

  I grabbed the sponge and began wiping the coffee grains into the sink. My thoughts orbited to Phil; our conversation from the night before droned in my ears. How could he be happy about this catastrophe? If only his call had been a prank, some sick joke. In the old days it would have been just like Phil to manufacture the whole story to drive me nuts. Maybe he was hitting the bottle again. Since when did I believe anything he told me? He was the most unreliable person I knew. No, in spite of his almost intoxicated elation, Phil had been deadly serious.

  I strode over to the phone and punched in Rob’s number. When he answered, I said, “It’s your mother,” sounding like a middle-school principal.

  “Hey, Mom,” Rob said in a garbled voice. “What time is it?”

  Containing a tidal wave of anger, I gnawed the inside of my cheek for a moment. Finally I said, “Do you have something to tell me?”

  I heard the rustle of fabric; he was probably in bed and pulling himself up to a sitting position. “Dad called you?”

  “Then it’s true?”

  His voice grew childlike. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

  Trembling inside, I felt like a coiled snake, ready to spew out venom. I wanted to say, “How could you be such a fool?” but I curbed my tongue. Lambasting him wasn’t going to help anything. And those cutting words could never be retracted.

  Finally I said, “How do you know you’re the father?”

  “Andrea’s not that kind of a girl.”

  “I’d say she is.” I could kick myself for not warning him about feminine guiles, and about women like me.

  Later that morning I found Lois in the back room of the office leaning over the copy machine. Clad in a Chanel-style suit emphasizing a trim waist, she removed a printed page from the copier and looked it over.

  “Hello,” I said, and she noticed me.

  “My quarterly newsletter,” she said, her face awash with pride. “I like to keep in touch with my clients. Don’t want them forgetting me.” She pressed a button, and the machine began to stir, then spit out more copies. “By the way, the Troutman-Henrick sale is dead.”

>   I attempted to hide my shock, but frantic words tumbled out. “That’s impossible. What happened?”

  “The couple buying the Troutmans’ home had their inspection yesterday and found out the electricity and plumbing needs to be updated. They bailed out, don’t want to buy the Troutmans’ house anymore—which is just as well since there’s no way the Troutmans can move right now.”

  “But the Troutmans made a deal with the Henricks.” My words sounded like mush, like my mouth was clogged with oatmeal. “They can’t change their minds now. The Henricks are buying their new home on the contingency that they sell their old.”

  “Yes, I know.” Her face remained composed, her voice like velvet. “The Troutmans are willing to let the Henricks keep their earnest money and just bag the whole thing.” She eyed her newsletter again; the corners of her mouth turned up. She glanced back to me. “Win some, lose some. Right?”

  I couldn’t stand on the sidelines and do nothing, not after all the hours and work I’d poured into this sale. I inched toward the door. “I’ve got to call the Henricks.”

  “Don’t bother. I just spoke to Sherry a few minutes ago. She said it would be bad karma to force an elderly couple to buy their house, and wasn’t it cool she and Wayne made all that money?”

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “I’m afraid not. The sale just isn’t going to fly.”

  All I could think about was how much I needed the commission money. I felt like running out the door and never returning. Tears were threatening the backs of my eyes, but I willed them away. Lois was the last person I would want to see me fall apart.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  “Sure.” I tried in vain keep my bottom lip from quivering. I sucked it in and held my breath. I couldn’t admit that I barely had enough cash in the bank to cover my mortgage payment. What was I going to do for food and gas?

  “Come on.” Her eyes probed mine. “You should be used to this sort of thing by now. It’s all part of the real-estate game.”

  In an effort to save face, I said, “I’m having some other difficulties in my life.”

  “I know how that goes. In a few minutes I’m making my mandatory daily visit to see my mother.” The copier crunched to a halt, and a light started blinking, indicating the machine was out of paper. Lois yanked out the paper tray. “Father and I put her in an Alzheimer’s unit a few weeks ago.” She stuffed in more paper and rammed the tray back into the copier. “She’s never been a very nice person to be around.” She stabbed the start button. “Now she’s impossible, tells me she hates me.”

  “I’ll bet she doesn’t mean it.”

  “If you only knew my mother.”

  It was the first time I’d seen anything but self-confidence radiate from Lois’s symmetrical face. “I’m sorry.” I stepped closer, into a zone I’d never before entered. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you know a way to keep me from growing old and losing my mind. My grandmother had Alzheimer’s too. How’s that for crummy genes?” Her eyes became glassy. “I don’t want my Walt getting stuck with a loony wife.” She spun around, as if to check the copy machine, but I could see her dabbing the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. I reached out to touch her shoulder and felt rocklike hardness.

  She jerked away as if I’d hurt her. “I’m all right. I must be coming down with something.”

  I thought of my own parents, how important they were to me. “I’d like to help,” I said. “I could fill in for you if you want to take that vacation you were talking about.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t leave my father alone right now.”

  How unfair, I thought. I remembered Henry’s futile attempt to comfort me. If his God could change darkness to light, why would he let Lois’s mother’s brain decay?

  Through the driving rain I could see my mother’s aged station wagon sitting in their carport. Since Mom loved Rob almost as much as I did, I figured she would be the best person to offer support and advice.

  Opening the car door, I squinted as blobs of water dampened my face. I zipped my jacket to my chin, then strode up the walkway. Ahead, by the front door, three large crows darkened the branches of the rhododendron. The birds cawed as I approached. In an effort to frighten them away I waved my arms, but they stared back with shiny black eyes. I clapped my hands, and they finally flapped their wings and hopped to the neighbor’s yard.

  I pushed the bell and heard the familiar ring, but no one came to the door. I used the knocker and still got no response.

  Thinking my mother might be out back, I trotted around the side of the house. I scanned the small yard and noticed the grass needed mowing. Mom’s prized rose bushes growing under the kitchen window needed pruning, and weeds had assaulted the perennial beds beneath them. Mom had always prided herself on her gardening ability, but maybe this neglect was all part of growing old.

  I took care not to slip on the wet boards as I climbed the porch steps. Peering through the backdoor window, I could make out the silhouette of my mother slumped at the kitchen table. Weird.

  “Mom,” I called, rapping on the glass. I watched her slowly pull herself to her feet, move across the room, and open the door. Clad in her bathrobe, she looked terrible. Her eyelids were swollen, and her greasy hair lay flat on one side.

  She was an early bird; she never slept in. “Did you just get up?” I asked, checking my watch and reading eleven thirty. I entered the room and inhaled a bitter cloud of burnt coffee.

  Mom said nothing. She went to the sink, trickled water into the kettle, and placed it on a burner.

  I took off my wet jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “I’m glad you’re home.” I reached around her hip to turn on the burner.

  She fell back onto her chair and propped her chin in her hands. I sat across from her.

  “Are you coming down with the flu?” I leaned over and felt her cool forehead.

  “No.” She shook her head in slow motion. “Nothing like that.”

  I listened for the sound of the TV in the living room or my father’s footsteps, but the house stood silent. I hushed my voice. “I need to talk to you in private.” I wasn’t ready to tell Dad about Rob and Andrea yet. I couldn’t face my father’s criticism. “Where’s Dad?” Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen his car on the street.

  “He moved out.”

  The image of him literally moving out refused to gel in my mind. “If that’s a joke, it isn’t funny.”

  She shook her head again. I hadn’t witnessed such sorrow on her face since her sister died.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “You two had a fight?” Dad probably went to cool off someplace. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.”

  “He packed two suitcases.”

  “You watched him leave and didn’t try to stop him?”

  A tear leaked from her eye and slithered down her cheek. “Why should I?”

  “Because he’s your husband. Because you love him.” I sprang to my feet. “I’ll call Dad and get him to come home. Where is he?”

  “I have no idea. Probably at Alice’s house.”

  “No way. He’d never go there.” Would he?

  The kettle spewed several blasts of steam, then began wailing. I got up and lifted it off the burner. I stared at the kettle’s chrome surface. Mom had used this kettle to boil water for as long as I could remember. This kitchen had always been the hub of the house, an oasis of safety and love where the real family conversations took place. Until recently, I realized, my siblings and I had done most of the talking—sharing our problems or triumphs—and Mom listened, throwing bits of advice our way when we were done.

  She pulled a crumpled mass of Kleenex out of her bathrobe pocket and blew her nose. Between snuffles she said, “You came over here with something important on your mind, and I’ve been doing all the talking.”

  “It’s nothing. We’ll discuss it later.”

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nbsp; Minutes later I plodded out to my car. Again, the crows cawed. In the mood I was in, I might have opened fire on them if I’d owned a shotgun. I dumped myself in the driver’s seat and nosed the car away from the curb.

  I’d left Mom cocooned under a blanket on the couch. Her eyes shut and her lips moving, she was praying. A lifetime of her prayers had fallen on deaf ears, I thought. Either there was no God, or Mom wasn’t good enough to get his attention. That thought made my skin itch, feeling like prickly sun rash. If Mom wasn’t good enough, no one was.

  Steadying the steering wheel with my knee, I whipped out my cell phone, called the office, and asked the receptionist to look up Alice Foster’s address. I scribbled the numbers on a scrap of paper, then headed south toward Madison Park not knowing what I would do if I found my father.

  I tailgated the compact car in front of me until it turned onto a side street, then I flew through the next intersection just as the amber light shifted to red. A motorist off to the right honked, but I didn’t bother to look, not caring if someone was mad at me. Whoever it was had better keep out of my way.

  Several blocks shy of Lake Washington, I took a left, entered a neighborhood of smaller homes, and found Alice’s address affixed to the porch of a pink-colored bungalow. Yuck, I thought. What kind of a woman would paint her house that color? I didn’t see Dad’s car, but a late-model beige-metallic Cadillac Deville sat out front. Next to the house stood a garage with its door closed; anything could be hidden in there.

  As I came up behind the Cadillac and jammed on the parking brake, I tried to recall what little I knew about Alice, only remembering she was single—not whether she was widowed or divorced.

  I got out and marched across the edge of the lawn. The grass, I noticed, was clipped short enough to be a putting green. I tromped up the front steps. On either side, window boxes filled with fading geraniums sat under lace-curtained windows. In the mail slot next to the door, I saw outgoing stamped envelopes waiting for the mailman’s arrival. Macy’s, Nordstrom. Who was paying for all this? I wondered. Was Dad supporting his mistress? Had he bought her a nicer car than his own wife?