A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  Laurie picked up her order, then trotted over clutching a tall mocha latte and a scone. At five-eight, five inches taller than I, she seemed able to consume practically anything and remain her gorgeous trim self, while I needed to watch my calories. And she was a head-turning blonde—almost my opposite in hair color and skin tone.

  She sat across from me, wriggled out of her red quilted jacket, and bit into her scone.

  “Sorry if I’m not very good company,” I said, recalling my depressing 8:00 a.m. sales meeting. It seemed like every other realtor in my office was enjoying a dynamite month but me. And the past few months hadn’t been much better. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Don’t fade out onme yet,” she said. “I’m too pumped to go home and watch Dave vegetate in front of the TV or deal with the kids’ homework.” She tasted her latte and left fuchsia lipstick on the cup’s rim. “Mondays will be ladies’ night out, okay?”

  “I’m still not sure a night class is going to work for me.” I had to find a way to get out of going again. “The real-estate market’s hopping, and I want to be free to meet with clients.” No need to mention I’d nearly run out of prospective buyers.

  “You’ve got to keep coming. It would be terrible to miss even one class.”

  “Sweetie, I only went to keep you company. You’ll do fine without me.”

  “But it wouldn’t be half as much fun.” She watched me rip open a packet of sugar substitute. “You’re lucky you can already draw so well. How come you never do it?”

  “I guess I don’t feel like it.” As I stirred the white crystals into my drink, my brain searched for the true reason. “No self-discipline maybe.” The past twenty years whirred by in my mind like a one-star movie on fast-forward. “Somehow when Phil and Rob showed up in my life, I lost interest. It’s just as well, because it’s almost impossible to earn a living as an artist. I should have gone to the school of business instead.”

  “I love that painting in your living room.”

  “Thanks.” My Morning at Cannon Beach, the only painting I still owned, hung above my couch. I supposed some might have called it well crafted or even quite good, but I’d completed the piece so long ago I felt as though someone else had painted it.

  “I wish I had your talent,” Laurie said. “But I had fun in class, and I think our teacher’s a doll.”

  “I’d better warn you, any friend of Phil’s is probably a flake.”

  “Maybe. But that older lady knew Henry from church. He might be a good Christian man.”

  Let me tell you, the word Christian grated in my ears. “Some very wicked people have called themselves Christians,” I said, hearing anger amplify my words. I glanced around the room and was glad nobody at the surrounding tables had heard me. I lowered my voice. “That’s the last trait I’m looking for in a man.”

  “There are worse things.”

  At that moment an orange-haired youth with a ring in his nose sauntered across the room.

  Laurie chuckled into her hand. “Don’t you agree?” she said.

  “I suppose.” I sipped my latte to avoid continuing our conversation. I knew she attended church every now and then, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But as far as I was concerned, religion served as a pacifier for the ignorant and the weak.

  “Hey, what happened to the cute accountant you brought over for dinner a few months ago?” she finally said. “He looked like a keeper.”

  “He was boring. No sense of humor.” I yawned with drama. “I fell asleep every time he opened his mouth. And he drove like a little old lady. I couldn’t wait to get home.”

  She tossed me an exasperated look. “I’ve heard a list of complaints about every man you’ve dated.”

  “I don’t care. I have Rob and my girlfriends and work to think about. Now, if I could find someone like your husband, Dave—a cute, successful businessman—I’d marry him on the spot.”

  “No way. I see you with an intellectual, a scholar.”

  “I tried that head-in-the-clouds type once, and we know how that ended. Since the divorce I’ve learned to rely on the logical side of my brain.” I sighed as I remembered how innocent I’d been, and how stupid. “Phil told me right from the start his parents were supporting him, that he hated work, and all he wanted to do was hang out with other artists.” I tapped my temple. “He was completely honest, and I married him anyway.” Not that I’d had much choice.

  “I was hoping after we had a child, his adolescent behavior would change,” I said. “Like magic, Phil would grow up and metamorphose into my Prince Charming. Is that pathetic or what?”

  “Don’t think Dave and I haven’t been through the wringer a few times. He’s not perfect either.” Laurie cupped her chin in one hand and leaned on her elbow. “About ten years ago, things were so bad I almost called it quits. Remember?”

  I eyed her one-carat solitaire wedding ring. “I’m glad you two came back to your senses.”

  “Yeah, I’d hate being single in today’s world.” She must have seen my features sagging, because she added, “Oh, sorry, Marguerite.”

  “That’s okay.” I noticed a couple strolling by, their arms looped around each other’s waists. “I’d consider marriage again if the perfect man materialized. But being single has its advantages too.”

  Although I couldn’t think of any at the moment.

  As I mounted the porch and stepped inside my small two-story Victorian, I listened to Laurie’s Lexus roll away from the curb, then purr down the street. I carried my new book to the second floor and tossed it on the bed. My work attire, a boring navy blue pants suit and white cotton blouse, lay draped across the back of the chair. I dragged off my clothes, tossed them on top of the suit, and slipped into my nightgown. Then I fluffed my pillows against the headboard and slid between the sheets.

  My hand found the book. At first I just stared at the jacket and contemplated the title: Unearthing Your Childhood Dreams. I wondered if I had the strength or desire to dig up anything. Not really, but I opened the book to the first chapter and started reading.

  “As we grow to adulthood,” the author wrote, “we become our own worst enemies, our most ruthless critics. Kind and encouraging to those around us, generous in our praise, we recognize ability only in other people’s creations. When we hear our own unique voice or see our own pen on paper, it seems somehow meager and inadequate.”

  The first step toward achieving one’s lost childhood dreams, the author claimed, was to recall them. A lengthy exercise with numerous questions made me sleepy. I got stuck when I couldn’t remember my favorite food or teacher in elementary school. And my favorite toys? Surely I had some, but all I could recall were my art supplies. I’d always longed to be a famous artist.

  I clapped the book shut and set it on the bed table next to a ten-year-old photo of Rob cradling our cairn terrier, Charlie, then a puppy the size and color of a russet potato. I remembered Rob begging for a dog, as if his world would snuff to an end without one. Charlie, a squirming bundle of energy, was my son’s best friend for more than a year until my boy discovered lacrosse, a sport, he informed me, originally played by Native Americans. Then, when not in school, Rob often skipped out the door carrying his lacrosse stick in search of someone to throw him the ball, something I couldn’t do worth a hoot.

  I remembered how Rob—who’d once snuggled on my lap with his knees tucked under his chin—started shrugging off my embraces as if I were a stranger with bad breath. By age eleven, he couldn’t fit in my lap anymore, his giant feet reaching the floor and ready to escape. Almost overnight he towered over me and had to lean down to receive an obligatory kiss on his cheek. Then the girls started calling.

  I yawned, but my lungs refused to expand all the way. Maybe I should have bought a book on empty-nest syndrome, I thought. Is that what I was going through? My father always said a midlife crisis was an excuse for not taking responsibility for one’s obligations. Well, I was sick of acting responsibly.

&nbs
p; I flicked off the lamp and sank into the mattress, its spongy softness comforting my stiff back. I tugged the covers up around my neck and drifted into slumber.

  After what seemed like a few seconds, I awoke in a cave of darkness. I instructed myself to fall asleep again, but my brain thrummed with activity. In a few hours I would help Rob pack for college. I wondered if I’d collected enough cardboard boxes for all his clothes and his sound system. Would he have too much to fit in Phil’s van? I dreaded Rob’s leaving. I couldn’t imagine life without him.

  Hoping to doze off, I forced myself to lie in bed for another hour, but visions of my son kissing me good-bye swirled through my head like snowflakes scattered by an icy wind. Finally, I flipped over and read 5:30 on the clock’s illuminated face. I staggered to my feet, put on my chenille robe, and padded downstairs. Charlie watched from his basket in the corner of the kitchen as I poured water into the coffeemaker.

  “Too early for an old guy like you?”

  Charlie moaned a lengthy response and stayed put.

  I opened the canister and breathed in the nutty aroma of Italian Roast, then scooped grounds into the paper filter and switched on the coffeemaker. When the urn stood half full, I poured myself a cup of the syrupy liquid and headed to the living room. As I eased down onto the couch, my eyes turned to the window. I expected to behold nothing but dismal blackness, but instead saw a huge, glowing moon staring back at me. The porcelain sphere, so brilliant it seemed to produce its own light, was framed by a halo of mist.

  Feeling dazzled, I almost dashed upstairs for my camera, but I knew the sky’s splendor would appear insignificant on a three-by-five snapshot. I gazed at the moon like a child staring at a Christmas tree, trying to affix every detail in my mind. Then without thought, I took a piece of scratch paper lying on the coffee table, grabbed a pencil, and began sketching the moon. First with a heavy hand I drew a small circle, then a paler one around it to depict the ring of fog. Finally, blurred lines described the wisps of horizontal clouds partially covering the moon.

  For several moments I looked down at my finished drawing. When I glanced back to the window, I saw a bank of clouds had taken over the sky, completely masking the moon. Only a piercing shaft of light shone down to the earth like a dagger.

  I watched the morning sun tint the clouds smoky-pink, and the vague shapes of my garden transform into shrubs and bushes. A robin warbled up the scale, then another bird answered.

  I felt a pleasant tightness in my throat. Many years earlier, I’d experienced those same sensations when I gazed upon my new baby boy wondering what to name him. Even before his birth, Robert Laurence Carr had been a part of me.

  This drawing was my new infant. And it begged for a sibling.

  Listening at Rob’s bedroom door, I heard nothing. I had plenty of time to dash out for my weekly stroll with the Mom’s Brigade—a group I named years ago when we four women were all pushing strollers shoulder-to-shoulder—before night-owl Rob got up. Laurie, Susan, and Erika would be greeting each other at the usual spot on the corner in less than twenty minutes, but I chose to stay home because I didn’t want to miss one precious moment with my son. In twenty-four hours he would be moving out, leaving—gone.

  Heading down the steps to the basement, I gathered the empty cardboard boxes I’d amassed all month, hauled them upstairs, and stacked them outside Rob’s room. In his usual “Not now, I’m busy” fashion, he’d done nothing to prepare for his departure. The night before, I’d finally cornered him in the kitchen, not letting him escape for his date with Andrea Walker until he agreed to spend the morning packing.

  An hour later, Rob rattled open his door and clumped into the bathroom.

  “Good morning,” I called, hurrying to the bottom of the stairs to ask him what he wanted for breakfast. But before I could open my mouth again, the doorbell jingled.

  Charlie scrambled out of his basket; his nails clicked across the kitchen floor. Standing sentry in the front hall, he yapped, his stubby tail wagging frantically. I opened the door to find Rob’s girlfriend, Andrea, holding a McDonald’s bag.

  “Hello.” I tried not to stare at the swatch of bare skin peeking out between her hip-hugging jeans and her clingy knit top.

  “Hi.” She rarely said more than two words to me and, to be honest, she wasn’t my favorite of the girls Rob had dated.

  I noticed purplish circles rimming the girl’s eyes, and her normally squared shoulders were stooped. “Are you okay?” I asked, wondering whether she was coming down with something or if she’d been crying.

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” she said.

  “That’s too bad.” I remembered hearing Rob come in late the previous evening. He and Andrea were probably lamenting their impending separation. I gave her arm a gentle rub as she entered. I did feel sorry for the girl, but it was for the best. In my opinion she and Rob were too young to be this serious.

  Rob appeared at the top of the stairs. With his wavy hair mussed and unshaven whiskers darkening his chin, he looked like a college-aged Phil, only taller.

  “Come on up,” he said in a manly voice that still surprised me. “Hey, McDonald’s. All right!”

  I watched Andrea’s beige ponytail sway as she jogged up the stairs. Trying to ignore a twinge of jealousy, I followed in her wake.

  Rob’s room looked as though a troop of monkeys had cavorted through it—sheets and bedcovers hanging halfway onto the floor and clothing flung everywhere. I stood in the doorway with my arms folded across my chest. It required a good dose of self-control not to start straightening as I watched Rob jam his CD collection into a box that threatened to explode under the pressure, then stuff a tangle of stereo wires into a plastic bag.

  Andrea, her hands capping her knees, perched on the edge of his bed.

  Rob glanced up at her and said, “We’ll be fine.”

  Her lower lip quivered as she blinked back a tear.

  “I’ll e-mail you every day.” He stood, gathered an armload of clothes, and shoved them into a duffel bag.

  “Oh, honey, you’re not going to throw your dirty laundry in with your clean, are you?” I asked, imagining the locker room smell that would erupt from his bag when he opened it. “I’ll run down and do a load.” I grabbed several T-shirts, a pile of questionable underwear, and a pair of jeans with a grease spot on the knee.

  By the time I returned to his room, it had lost its personality. His prized posters, which used to spring to life under a black light, lay rolled and secured with rubber bands. Most of his belongings were boxed, the tops folded down. The room resembled a tenement with patches of missing paint on the faded walls and a stain on the carpet that I never could get out. Only his bed, its covers yanked up halfheartedly, his desk and chair, and his bureau, supporting his collection of dragon figurines and lacrosse trophies, still remained. It was eerie how quickly he’d taken away so much of himself.

  During the next few hours, I wandered by Rob’s open doorway several times to see him and Andrea sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, and locked in conversation.

  I finally planted myself at the kitchen table. I pushed aside the piles of work-related papers, to-do lists, and coupons that littered the table’s oval surface, and kept busy sorting through a stack of bills. Hadn’t I just paid my electricity, gas, and water bills? I wondered. It seemed the moment I sent them off, another round appeared.

  As I ripped open my mortgage statement, I heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Rob and Andrea walked into the kitchen.

  “We’re going,” Rob announced.

  “Wait a minute.” I jumped to my feet, barring their exit. “How about having dinner together?” I asked. “We could go out somewhere nice.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” Rob stared at a speck on the floor. “We already have plans. Dad’s new opening is tonight. He wants me to be there.” His gaze rose to meet mine, and he flashed me a crooked smile. “You could come with us.”

  I couldn’t contain a scowl. “I don�
�t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on, why not? Aren’t you curious about what Dad’s up to?” He swayed back and forth as he spoke. “I know you think his paintings are bad news, but he told me he’s doing something different.”

  Like the sand candles at the University District Street Fair every year, Phil’s paintings had yet to evolve out of the psychedelic sixties. Different probably meant he was remembering to sign them.

  “I said they weren’t my style, that’s all.” I was satisfied with my tactful reply. “I wanted to take you out somewhere special tonight.” I decided not to add, “just the two of us,” knowing it would be futile to try to shake Andrea. “Tell you what, I’ll go with you if you’ll come out to dinner with me first.”

  That evening, the kids decided on Italian food. I took them to the newly opened restaurant Il Gattopardo with its checkered tablecloths, votive candles, and recordings of The Three Tenors crooning in the background. I tried to keep the conversation going while my son wolfed down lasagna and Andrea picked at her chicken parmesan.

  Even when seated across the table, Andrea towered over me. The girl’s fair complexion, the horizontal cut of her bangs, and her long eyelashes that fluttered when she spoke to Rob all reminded me of what I’d coveted in my rivals in high school. As I speared a square of ravioli, I thought about the popular crowd, the cutest girls in the senior class, and the cheerleaders who dated the football players. Apparently my son liked this type more than the short, dark-haired ones who were funny and smart. In other words, the girls like me.

  “Want any of this?” Andrea asked Rob as she nudged her plate in his direction. They traded plates, and Rob polished off her chicken.

  I lingered over the dessert menu. “We could order one spumoni ice cream and one tiramisu and share them,” I suggested.

  “I’m too full to eat another bite,” Rob said. “Besides, we need to get going.” He tossed his napkin on the table. “I don’t want Dad thinking we’re not going to show.”