A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  “Sort of. When I got home, he was on the warpath. Where had I been? Why hadn’t I left my cell phone on? If I was shopping, where were my packages? Acting like some private detective.”

  Goose bumps erupted on my arms as a draft wafted across my damp skin. With my ear clamping the receiver against my shoulder, I dropped the towel to the floor and struggled into my bathrobe.

  “I never should have married him,” she said. “If I had it to do over again, I would have stayed single—except for having the kids, of course.”

  “Dave may mess up sometimes, but he adores you. Look at how he treats you.”

  “You mean all the presents? He loves buying things because he has a spending addiction. That’s why we never have any money in our savings account. What I need is a man who’s really there for me, emotionally and physically. Someone who appreciates me for more than raising kids and serving dinner at six o’clock, assuming he happens to show up. You wouldn’t believe how many times Dave’s called at seven to say he’s tied up at the office.”

  What could I say? For years I’d envied Laurie’s lifestyle. I loved my friend, but her complaints sounded like teeth biting into Styrofoam.

  “Anyway, I’m thinking about getting a legal separation,” she said. “I’ve already started looking in the classifieds for an apartment, in case he refuses to move out.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’re making a huge mistake.”

  “No, I’m not. You did it. You got divorced, and you’ve been telling me for years it’s the best move you ever made.”

  If only I could take those words back. “But Phil was an alcoholic and a womanizer. Dave’s sober and supports you like a queen. What will you do for money?”

  “I’ve been thinking about getting a job anyway. It’s boring having nothing to do all day.”

  I tried to envision Laurie showing up for work every morning, even when her hair wasn’t frosted or her nails polished. “Okay, if you want to work, try something part-time,” I said. “But boredom’s not grounds for ending a marriage. Please, promise me you’ll wait a day or two before you say anything to Dave.”

  When she didn’t answer, I knew it was time to get real—no more pretending. “You don’t know how lonely I’ve been, how many times I’ve wished I’d stuck it out with Phil.” I watched raindrops rolling down the windowpanes like tears sliding down a woman’s face. “How would you like to see Dave with another woman the way I have to watch Phil and Darla? And think of the kids. Growing up in a single-parent family hasn’t helped Rob one bit.”

  Laurie began to weep. “I thought you’d support me. Now I don’t know what to do.”

  I knew what Mom would say, that Laurie should turn to God for guidance. “Maybe this is a good time to pray,” I said for lack of anything wiser.

  Hanging up, I fell onto the bed and closed my eyes. It had been almost eighteen years since I came home to find my apartment in shambles and Phil gone. I’d yanked open the top drawer of his bureau, where he kept his socks and underwear. Emptiness had gaped back like a crater. I’d spun around and eyed the room. No dirty laundry piled in the corner. No toothbrush and comb by the sink. He was gone.

  A torrent of sorrow took over my heart that night. I’d looked up to heaven and asked, “God, how could you let this happen?” Bitterness had tightened my throat; the sob erupting from my gut solidified in my chest.

  I had once believed that all the shattered fragments of my life would be repaired miraculously if I loved God. But that was a bunch of religious malarkey. How many times had I lain awake praying, wondering when Phil would stumble in reeking of cigarettes and alcohol? When he finally did show up, I’d tried sniffing through the tavern stench to detect perfume and searched his collar for lipstick or stray hairs. He’d always promised he would get straight and never do it again. But he lied.

  Back then Rob was an infant. “You can depend on me, little one,” I’d whispered into his tiny pink ear. Rocking him with tight arms and kissing his salty eyes, I realized I was the only one I could depend on too. Phil and God had both deserted me.

  A blast of air shook my bedroom window. I opened my eyes and sat up. It was way past time to let poor Charlie in. I tugged on some sweats and trotted downstairs. When I pushed open the door a crack and called his name, he didn’t come.

  “Charlie,” I said again, shoving the door further. “Charlie, come here this minute.”

  Then I noticed the opened gate. I usually latched it carefully. Had the storm forced it open?

  Stepping into my walking shoes, I reached for my hooded jacket, grabbed Charlie’s leash, and headed out to the street. The wind was driving the rain down in heavy sheets. I looked in both directions but didn’t see him. A car swished by, its windshield wipers working feverishly. In the gutter newly formed rivers gathered leaves.

  I made the choice to turn left, toward the lake, at first trying to avoid the bigger puddles, then ignoring them. Visions of my dog disappearing under a car tire kept me running. I tried to remember if he was wearing his collar. Sometimes it slipped off. Not that anyone would bother with a wet dog.

  I heard a volley of thunder in the distance. “Charlie, come!”

  As I sloshed through the side streets, scanning every yard and alley, the wind knifed through my pants. My thoughts vacillated between the dog’s disappearance and Rob. Were both my fault? I’d willfully screwed up my own life by getting pregnant and marrying the wrong man. Before I met Phil, my future had showed such promise, like a rose that never bloomed. My parents had advised me to wait until I graduated from college, to get myself firmly anchored before committing to marriage. I couldn’t tell them the real reason I wanted to get married so quickly.

  After a futile hour of searching, my voice was hoarse, my legs stiff, and my feet floated in my shoes. Then a pleasing thought hit me. Charlie had probably circled the block and ducked down the alley to sniff garbage cans, and was now moping by the front door.

  Making my way home, I turned the last corner. He wasn’t there.

  I spied Henry’s pickup pulling away from the curb in front of my house. He must have spotted me in his rearview mirror, because I saw the brake lights flash on. I jogged over to the truck as he cranked down his window.

  “My dog ran away,” I said, almost squawking.

  “Get in, I’ll help you look for him.”

  I climbed onto the wide bench seat, and we headed down the street. “How long has he been gone?” he asked.

  “Over an hour, maybe two.” Shivering, I realized I was drenched. I pulled back my jacket hood and tried to peel off the strands of wet hair plastered to the sides of my face. I must have looked like a bag lady, but it didn’t matter.

  “We’d better hunt along Highway 99,” he said, taking us in that direction. Moments later we were traveling at forty miles an hour on the six-lane road. In spite of the standing water on the highway, cars were moving only slightly slower than they did on sunny days.

  “Charlie would never make it across here alive,” I said. Seeing piles of wet debris stopped my heart several times, and I thanked God under my breath each time I realized it was only a wad of crumpled newspaper or cardboard.

  After half a mile we got off the highway and zigzagged through the side streets. Finally Henry patted my knee. “We’d better get you home and into some dry clothes.”

  I kept my eyes turned to the street. “Charlie had an ID tag attached to his collar,” I said. “Someone might have called. One of us should have stayed home to answer the phone.”

  The rain eased to a drizzle, as if the sky had run out of moisture. Leaves from the corner oak tree lay in wet mounds around the storm drain. An old gentleman in a trench coat stood kicking them away.

  Henry’s truck stopped at my front door. I dashed inside to check the answering machine. No one had called.

  I could hear Henry coming up the front steps. “I’m in the kitchen,” I said, tugging off my jacket and hanging it on the doorknob.

  As he en
tered the room, he asked, “Anything?”

  “No.” I was sapped of all energy and hope. “You must think I’m a hysterical female.” I wiped under my eyes. “Until recently, my life was normal—positively dull. But over the past few weeks, things have started flying apart.” I gave a little laugh as I pictured a meteor catapulting through space and colliding with a planet. “Maybe I’m going crazy.”

  “Why don’t you take a hot shower and put on some warm clothes. I’ll wait by the phone.”

  I returned to find that he’d made toast and a pot of tea. I sat down, feeling like a guest in my own kitchen. He poured me a cup of tea, and I took a sip, the hot liquid soothing my throat. I didn’t need to ask if anyone had called.

  I talked to fill the silence. I told Henry about my life as a single parent, first portraying myself as a capable young woman, then becoming more honest. I shared things I’d never told anyone, not even my parents or my girlfriends. Like what a tough time Rob had in school, a fact I never wanted anyone to know for fear they would think I was doing a second-rate job raising him.

  “I used to cringe when I heard the teacher’s voice on the phone. ‘Your son’s not paying attention. He hasn’t turned in his homework. He forgot his book again.’” I’d tried to emulate my mother and father. Being the only parent in the house, I’d attempted to listen with two pairs of ears and see with two sets of eyes. Each time Rob floundered, I’d pushed harder. “I probably should have hired a tutor or sent him to private school or held him back a year.” Or maybe I’d just been a lousy mother. “Now Rob’s about to become a teenage parent. Why didn’t he tell me about the pregnancy himself? After all I’ve done for him, why was Phil the one he turned to?”

  “I wouldn’t take it personally,” he said with empathy. “No matter how tough they act, all kids hate disappointing their parents. I’m sure Rob loves you very much. In fact, you may be the one he wants to please the most.”

  “Then why does he want to live with his father instead of me?”

  “Maybe so he can feel more independent. Phil’s pretty loose, and you’d be across town if Rob needed you.” He reached over the table to take my hand. “Don’t give up hope. I married young and went to junior college for two years, then finished my education at a university.”

  I could feel calluses on his hands. But they were gentle. My shoulders relaxed as I felt his warmth move up my arm.

  “Marguerite, no matter how much we try, we can’t guarantee our children’s futures.”

  “That’s true. I had model parents, and I sure didn’t fulfill their expectations.”

  He withdrew his hand. “Your parents seemed proud of you at dinner the other night.”

  I was like an uncorked bottle, the way I spilled out my thoughts. “I’m the least successful of their three children. The one who took all the wrong turns.”

  “There are many kinds of success, and many paths to reach them,” he said. “Sometimes those dumb mistakes still lead us to where we want to go. God gave us free will, but he’s still in charge.”

  The phone rang so abruptly it made us both start. I leapt up to answer it.

  “I have your dog here,” said a Mrs. Binder in a voice sounding like my grandmother before she died. “He’s been visiting my little Georgette. She’s a miniature poodle. Charlie’s been sampling her food while he dries off. Your dog certainly was wet when he arrived, but he’s just fine and dandy now.”

  Mrs. Binder described her house and how her husband had passed away two years before. Finally she disclosed her address, only two blocks away, and I flew out the door, leaving Henry at the table. In ten minutes I returned with Charlie in my arms. On the walk home I’d contemplated how to repay Mrs. Binder. A plate of cookies or a coffee cake wouldn’t work for a granny type, who was probably far more proficient in the kitchen than I was. I decided to buy her some flowers and deliver them in person, with Charlie at my side. If the woman wanted a long chat, as she’d seemed to today, we would stay for a visit.

  Charlie was fluffy dry, having had a thorough brushing, something he didn’t tolerate at home. Once in the kitchen he tottered to his basket, folded his legs, and dropped onto his mat.

  I sat down. “What a relief. That little guy and I have been friends for a long time. I’d be heartbroken if anything happened to him.” There would never be another Charlie. Long ago I’d decided not to attempt to replace him when he died of old age.

  “I understand,” Henry said. “I like dogs too.”

  I’d seen no evidence of one at his house. If it were true that dogs reflected their owners’ personalities, I wondered what kind he’d chose.

  “Have you ever owned one?” I asked.

  “Yes, just one.”

  “What kind?”

  He poured both of us fresh tea, then watched the steam rise from his cup. “Some sort of collie mix. My folks gave him to me when I was six.”

  “How long did he live?”

  “Less than a year.” Pausing for a moment, he expelled a long hard breath through his mouth. “I arrived home from school one day, and Laddie wasn’t waiting for me on the front porch, as he always did. I went into the house, calling his name, but he didn’t come. My mother told me he’d been hit by a car.”

  “How awful. How did it happen?”

  “My parents let him run free. I begged them to build a fence, but they wouldn’t. I guess they didn’t know any better. I haven’t thought about Laddie for years. Crazy, but it still makes me want to cry.”

  “Some things take a lifetime to recover from.”

  He nodded. “Whenever I see a woman with a scarf on her head, it reminds me of Barbara, and I have to look away.” The color drained from his face, as if all blood had sunk to his feet. “She and I didn’t know how to talk about her illness, as if she’d get better if we ignored it. I watched her fade away, like a melting patch of snow.”

  I sat motionless. I wanted to hear his story, but could I bear his tears without breaking down myself?

  “The chemo devastated her,” he said, his gaze journeying past me to another place and time. “Her long hair fell out in chunks and collected in the shower drain. Her graying skin became looser each day as she shrank from lack of nourishment. Even as she lay in a coma, I prayed she’d live on. Unable to speak. Unable to eat. But at least alive.” His eyes hollowed, like two caves. “That’s how selfish I was. I should have prayed she’d be released from her pain.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to hold him, rock him as I’d done with Rob when he was little, but I sat like a spectator watching a play unfold.

  “That’s why I’ve built this barrier around myself,” he said. “A deep moat and a wall too high for anyone to scale. Except you, apparently.”

  Me? What did he mean? I searched his face looking for clues, but found none.

  Before I could respond, he stood and said, “I almost forgot.” His voice returned to its usual timbre. “I brought something for you. Let me run out to my truck.”

  He left and came back with a large plastic bag from which he pulled three stretched canvases about the size of the one I found at my parents’ and a dozen tubes of paint, then spread them out on the table like a picnic.

  “I can’t accept these,” I said, picking up one of the tubes and reading ivory black.

  “Of course you can. I’ve got paint coming out my ears, and I can certainly spare a few canvases. I don’t use this size much anyway.”

  “But I may not have any more paintings in me.” I set down the tube and turned over a larger one to read titanium white. “Really, it was thoughtful, but I won’t put them to good use.”

  “I think you will. Go ahead and start something else.”

  “But—”

  He cut me off. “No more excuses, young lady. Just dive in. And go easy on yourself. Give yourself permission to paint badly. If you don’t like what you’ve done, you can always cover it with gesso and start again. Just dare to paint.”

  He looked around the r
oom. “You need a more permanent spot though. A kitchen will do, but if you have a room where you can leave your supplies and easel set up all the time, it will make a big difference.”

  I led him up the stairs, guided him into Rob’s room, and opened the curtains.

  “Great lighting,” he said, his eyes perusing the room without seeming to notice its need of new paint. “This will be perfect. Do you still have an easel? If not, I could lend you one.”

  “I can’t remember what I did with mine.” That felt ridiculous to admit, but it was true. I hadn’t seen the easel at my folks’ house. For all I knew, it had been used as kindling. “I’ll let you know.”

  As we descended the stairs, he said, “Say, I forgot to tell you, someone named Tim called while you were in the shower. He said he’d call back.”

  In the front hall I opened the door. “Thank you, for everything.” I was touched by his willingness to help me. I couldn’t remember the last time someone other than my mother had dropped everything to come to my aid. Even though I doubted I’d use the paints, I might write him a thank-you note.

  “It was my pleasure. I’m glad Charlie made it home in one piece.”

  “Thanks. I notice he’s too tired to come say good-bye. That’s a first. I’ll bet he sleeps through till tomorrow.”

  Henry stepped toward the door, but as he passed me he slowed. Before I knew what was happening, he cupped my face in his hands. We stood staring into each other’s eyes for several moments. I felt like one of Phil’s statues: frozen, suspended in time.

  His face moved closer to mine. Was he going to kiss me? I knew it was a bad idea. I should turn my head, tell him not to. But here he was—so handsome, so caring. I felt myself being drawn toward him like a shaving of steel to a magnet.

  Suddenly, he straightened up and leaned away. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said, and a barren wasteland opened up between us. His arms dropped to his sides like useless appendages. “Please, forgive me.” He walked out the door and got in his truck. Without buckling his seatbelt, he gunned the engine and sped away.

  “That’s it,” I said. “I can’t take it anymore.” Finally I got the message: Men caused nothing but disappointment. My definition of insanity was repeating the same thing again and again and expecting different results. So why did this Cinderella keep expecting a Prince Charming to rescue her? From now on, if I needed someone to talk to, I would call one of my girlfriends or my mother. If I wanted to go to a show, I would venture out by myself. No more sitting by the phone like a ninny, no more jittery stomachs, no more broken hearts. I longed for serenity, and I was going to concentrate on getting my life straightened out. If that meant being a spinster for the rest of my life, so be it.