“Just grown-ups now,” she says, squeezing between them on the couch. To Maggie’s surprise, George Ray accepts the offer of a drink. Maybe he’s warming to the idea that he has gained the attentions of an attractive woman far from home. Brid treats his assent as a victory, then turns her focus to Maggie, urging her to have some too. Reluctantly she agrees, thinking she’ll just swish it around and nobody will notice. When Brid leans over to pour herself a glass, Maggie glimpses her small breasts swinging freely within her blouse.
After that, Brid gives up all pretence of watching television. She asks George Ray about Jamaica, claiming it’s for the sake of intercultural understanding. But when he starts talking about the country, she shows little interest in what he says, seeming more attentive to the way his lips move. Every so often she makes a little hum of encouragement and reaches out to touch his knee. Maggie worries she should be protecting him, but he’s married and a
decade older than she is; he must have learned by now how to deal with the Brids of the world. Before his glass is even half empty, Brid refills it, and she glares when she realizes that Maggie has barely had a sip.
“C’mon, sweetie, let your hair down.” With flashing eyes, she reaches over to undo the first button on Maggie’s blouse, then laughs at her own trespass. To George Ray she says, “Don’t you think she should let her hair down?” Brid’s caftan rides high on her legs as she crosses and uncrosses them. Her nails are painted red but nibbled short. Beside her, George Ray leans forward to glance across the couch. Giving Maggie a sad smile, he points out that her hair is already down. Brid laughs as if this is the funniest thing she has ever heard.
She tries to draw them into conversation, at some points putting an arm around both at the same time. George Ray seems no more comfortable than Maggie, but Brid is dogged. Maggie resists an impulse to retire for the night, half curious to see how it will end, unsure whether she’s staying to prevent a seduction or to abet one. Maybe she’s a little jealous.
Through the news she sticks it out, but once Johnny Carson comes on, she declares she’s going to bed. George Ray stands promptly and says the same. Adopting a smile, Brid gives Maggie a long hug and a lingering kiss on the cheek that feels like it leaves lipstick. She’s on her fourth glass of wine.
“Are you sure?” she says. “You can’t stay a bit longer?” She offers to walk George Ray to the barracks and grows testy when he demurs. “I’ll come out anyway. I need a little fresh air.”
Maggie can’t help herself. “Jeez, Brid, give the guy a break.” She tries to make it sound humorous, but Brid’s eyes narrow.
“Relax, Auntie Maggs,” she replies. “You’ve got one back in Boston.”
Upstairs, Maggie is sleepless. Too hot; she opens the window and shivers at the chilly air that blows in. Her mind slips over to the barracks, to George Ray’s broad shoulders and Brid’s freckled breasts. Maggie couldn’t stay here with the two of them like that. The bed is lumpy, enormous. Finally she goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Before the water has boiled, there’s the distant slam of the barracks door and Brid’s voice shouting.
“Fine, you fucking prude!”
Silence follows, then a muttering that grows closer. When Brid appears in the mud room, she’s talking to herself, unaware of Maggie’s presence. “A bitch,” she’s saying. “God, I’m such a bitch.”
Maggie wants to hide under the table before Brid’s eyes fall on her. Once they do, she waits for the assault to begin, for all the woman’s spite to be heaped on her, but Brid looks through her as if she isn’t there.
“Don’t worry,” says Brid in a wavering voice. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Maggie stands and moves toward her. “What about Pauline?” says Brid. “She didn’t wake up, did she?”
Maggie tells her it’s all right, but she might as well not be speaking, because Brid rushes upstairs to her daughter’s room. A few minutes later, Maggie goes to peek in through the door and sees both of them asleep, sharing the
bed peacefully with their two golden heads of hair dimly radiant across the pillows.
After Maggie wakes up, she stays in bed awhile, listening to the silent house, wondering how long she could remain here before someone comes to check on her. All morning, probably. Brid and Pauline must have gone out; maybe they’ve left for good. Eventually she hears the telephone ring and makes her way downstairs to answer, thinking it could be Fletcher. It’s a woman’s voice on the other end, though, telling her in broken English that she has a collect call. The operator says it’s from Wale. With a sense of trepidation, Maggie accepts the charges and hears a click. The line gains an underlying flow of static.
“Wale?” she says. “Where are you?”
The voice through the static is murky and phantasmal, but it’s him.
“Bangkok,” he replies.
“Bangkok?” In the background is the sound of car traffic. Jesus. He really is going to Laos. “I can’t hear you very well. What time is it there?”
“Dunno. Dark. Dark o’clock. Half past dark.”
He sounds wholly drunk. Maggie glances toward the hall, worried that Brid will come in and find out who’s on the line.
“You want me to get Brid?” she asks.
“No, honey, it’s you I want.” The way he says it makes her flush. There’s a burst of crackling before the line clears. “I’ve been dreaming about you,” he says, but she doesn’t
want to hear about his dreams. Nervously, she looks up again to see if anyone is there.
“You aren’t really in Thailand. You’re putting me on, right?”
With slurring words, he affirms he’s really and truly in that country, and she asks him what the hell he’s doing there.
“Going to Laos to check on your dad.” At this response her stomach knots up further. It’s impossible. No, it’s not. Wale’s insane. He’s gone halfway around the world to prove it, and to make her crazy too. He waits on the line as if expecting more questions, but she refuses to play the game.
“You ran out on us,” she says.
“Ran out? I’m trying to show you I’m not so heartless after all.”
She isn’t going to be made responsible for his lunacy. “You’re not over there to impress me.”
“You think I’m a goon. A thug who shoots little kids.”
“I don’t think that.” In fact she does, but only because he’s made himself out to be one.
“You’re right, I’m a piece of shit. Some of the things I’ve done, I know I can’t make up for them.”
“Wale—”
“You have to believe me—your dad, if I’d seen anything coming …”
“Wale, would you listen to me? There’s nothing wrong. If you’d stayed here, you’d know. I heard from my grandmother, he’s fine, he just went over to a village—”
“You talked with him? You heard from him?”
“I told you, I got a call from Gran—”
“But you didn’t talk with him?” The way Wale says it makes all her relief fall away. She wants to hang up the phone and call Gran. “If I thought it was safe, I’d have asked you to come with me. I miss you, Maggie. It’s been a long time since I missed somebody.”
He’s interrupted by a voice shouting what sounds like abuse in another language. She says his name, but he doesn’t answer. Then suddenly he’s back and speaking in her ear.
“I’m off my face, aren’t I? The beer here is piss.” There’s the clonk of an empty bottle dropped onto pavement. “It’s so goddamn lonely. You know?” On the other end, a car passes playing a Simon and Garfunkel song. “Maggie, I wanted to tell you something. What was it—”
“You were dreaming about me,” she says feebly.
“No, something else.” There’s a noise like a long belch, then another voice in the background. “Shit, my ride’s here. I’m flying to Long Chieng in a couple of hours.”
“Wait, let me get Brid—” she says, but once she finishes speaking, she realizes he’s already gone. Out of the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of movement: Brid and Pauline coming in through the mud room door.
“Who was that?” asks Brid.
“Wrong number,” Maggie says, and she hangs up the phone.
No, honey, it’s you I want
. That’s how real confession goes. Not in the church with the priest levying penance; not in the network studio with the cameras rolling. It happens in a phone booth by the roadside late at night when you’ve had a few too many, shouting down the line to someone on
another continent. It’s a good thing Wale’s ride showed up. Whatever else he had to say, she’s pretty sure she didn’t want to hear it.
She’s also sure she doesn’t want to call Gran. How would she explain her worries without sending the woman into a panic? The barest description of Wale would leave Gran thinking that Maggie has involved herself with degenerates and crooks. Returning to the telephone, she dials the number, unsure of what she’ll say. The phone rings and rings without an answer. At last, a little thankfully, she puts down the receiver and goes back to bed.
It turns out Brid and Pauline are leaving too. There’s no explanation, just one stark sentence during lunch. Maggie nods as if the reasons are obvious. She doesn’t try to argue Brid out of it, only expresses concern about them making the trip to Boston in one day on their own. Even this statement she saves until they’re on the porch with the Toyota loaded and Pauline buckled into her safety seat, her uncombed hair standing up in a bright flaxen frizz. Brid says she’ll be all right, but she looks wan and keeps removing her sunglasses to rub at her eyes. From the car, Pauline’s wailing that she doesn’t want to go; she wants to stay with Auntie Maggs. This is a surprise. When did Pauline ever like her?
“Just so you know,” says Brid, “I’m not clearing out because of the Jamaican. Last night was nothing, okay? I’m going because I’m a mess, and because I know you don’t care whether I stay.”
“That isn’t true,” Maggie protests.
“You’re sweet to say it. Anyhow, good for you, not needing me. You’re tougher than I thought.” She sounds hurt that this should be the case. “I’m sorry, I’m just fed up with it all.” Looking out over the front yard, she dwells on the place as if seeing it for the first time. “Maybe a few years ago we’d have stood a chance, but people got worn down by everything. I thought maybe up here we could relax and try something new. Oh well.”
In her voice there’s at once a lassitude and a confidence, as if she’s been formulating this elegy for some time. Yet something doesn’t sit right. It couldn’t be that simple. There’s a vital element she’s missed, but there’s no time to figure it out: she seems ready to depart.
“What will you do now?” Maggie asks.
“Stay with my brother, I guess. God, I hate him. It’s going to be a train wreck.” She looks over at Maggie with concern. “What about you? You’ll be okay?”
Maggie nods, pretty sure that Brid’s just asking to free herself from obligation. Still, there’s a compulsion to provide some kind of self-defence, to articulate the thoughts she’s been mulling over in her head.
“I couldn’t go back now,” she says. “Anyhow, I prefer it on the farm. You know, working the land—”
“You don’t prefer it, sweetie,” says Brid with an earnestness that surprises her. “You think you do, but you don’t. I’ve watched you. You’ve been so unhappy here.”
The words strike Maggie to the quick. There’s such assurance in them. But if that’s what Brid has been thinking, why didn’t she say anything till now?
“Will you look up Fletcher when you get there?” Maggie asks.
Brid seems unprepared for the question. “You want me to?”
“No.” She says it without hesitating. The idea of them together in Boston while Maggie waits for him here is unbearable.
“Don’t worry,” replies Brid as if she has read her thoughts, “he was never interested in me, even before he met you. Not that I didn’t try.” The comment is made with such nonchalance that Maggie almost doesn’t register it. Before she has a chance to respond, Brid has already moved on. “Hell, forget it. Can’t let the past fuck up your perspective, right?”
Maggie thinks of the kinds of things one is allowed to say just before parting. She wants to share something in return, something to make Brid stay a bit longer. Not Wale’s phone call; she couldn’t bring herself to mention that. Her late period, perhaps. No, to tell Brid would make it too real.
“Goodbye,” says Brid, giving her a squeeze. Into Maggie’s ear she says quietly, “There was a time, I think, when we might have …” But she seems not to know how to finish, and she laughs in a self-defeated way. “Oh, never mind.” She pulls back. “It’s no big deal. Goodbye!” She gives her a kiss on the cheek, then a surprising look of regret.
Maggie didn’t know regret was something Brid could feel. Regret rests on hopes and dreams, an ideal you reach for and fail to find. Regret’s about living in the shadow of an inner gleaming you that Maggie’s never quite found in herself. Until now she hasn’t thought of Brid as someone with a self like that either. People are different from each
other, though. It seems like some kind of breakthrough to apprehend this simple fact, but Maggie doesn’t feel much wiser than before. Why that look of regret on Brid’s face just now? It’s too late to ask. She’s ensconced with her daughter in the Toyota, and the two of them are disappearing down the drive.
Monday morning, Maggie tries calling Gran again. Again she gets no answer. One more day, she thinks, and she’ll drive to Syracuse to see what’s going on. To distract herself from the thought, she begins to clean, compelled by the idea that at last everything in the house can go where she wants it. From now on, each speck of dirt will be her dirt, the mess no one’s but her own. She tries to focus on the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and the scum in the toilet bowl, even while she feels a building anger with Fletcher, with Brid, with all those who have left these tasks for her. Cleaning, always cleaning, since the first day she was here. Her body grows sticky with sweat and dust even as the house becomes pristine.
Just before lunch, there’s a knock at the front door. By the time she gets downstairs, the mailman’s pickup truck is pulling out of the driveway and a parcel sits on the porch, the size of a shoebox and wrapped in brown paper. Even before she identifies her name above the address, she recognizes her father’s handwriting. The paper seems to take forever to remove.