Slow Dancing (6 page)

The next afternoon, he closed up and drove his pickup truck north. The traffic was nerve-wracking in the city. He found the department store he wanted; the same one his mother and grandmother had shopped. Without wasting time, he chose a new mattress and box springs. A saleslady helped him pick out new sheets and bedspread. It wasn’t frilly, but it wasn’t something he’d have thought of.

He arranged for the new mattress to be delivered; he didn’t want to be seen driving through town with it in the back of his pickup. They would haul the old away, too. He wanted to call Margaret, but having to speak to Mary first put him off. He might as well drive over there before he headed for home. Mary greeted him at the door.

“Come on in, Frank. We’re just talking about dinner.” He put his hand up.

“Nope, I won’t impose upon you for a meal again. Next time, it’s my treat. If I’d been thinkin’ clear, I’d of brought something with me.” Margaret came to the door with Ellen in her arms.

“Hi, Frank,” she said, smiling, with just enough smoothness to her voice that Mary took notice, but didn’t say anything. It was clear she hadn’t heard the news. “Can we have dinner together tonight?” Without thinking, and especially without thinking about Mary, he nodded.

“Come home with me, tonight. I want to show you my garden, anyway.” It was a lame excuse, but it served in front of Mary.

“Frank’s ma had a green thumb,” Mary said refusing to be excluded. “You’ll see. Margaret told me she likes to garden, Frank. You’re in luck!” Mary had a smirk on her face; they weren’t kidding her with their secrets. He smiled, ignoring her.

“Get the baby’s things,” he said to Margaret. Ellen put her arms out to him and Frank took her, and unabashedly kissed her cheek. Mary turned away; sad it was a stranger’s kid he was kissing and not hers. Hers or theirs. Another fantasy, squashed.
Oh well. Maybe just temporarily.

“I’ll be home early,” Margaret said, smiling sweetly at Mary.
Maybe.
With Ellen in one arm, Frank opened the screen door and stepped aside for Margaret to move out first. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Mary.

“Next time, dinner’s on me,” he said. Mary smiled back, but in her head the chant
Fuck off, Frank,
circulated through her brain until she was seething. She didn’t respond, keeping her head down, closing the door as soon as he was outside on the porch. The motor of his car starting up, pulling away from the curb brought a fresh torrent of a combination of jealousy and sadness. It was a contradiction; Margaret was a fun companion, smart and easy to talk to, and her little girl was so sweet. Having them in the house brought her renewed joy that living alone for so long had depleted. Frank’s interest in Margaret was a nice twist. It wasn’t Frank that made her angry. It was the combination of the two she took exception to. Why Margaret? Anyone else in town she’d have dealt with, but she wanted Margaret as her friend, or more, and Frank was screwing it up.

During the afternoon, they’d shared confidences, Margaret on the cusp of confessing the story of Ellen’s paternity, just the mention again of the man named Alan. Frank’s surprise visit ruined it. “Oh what the hell,” she said, going to her apartment. She’d get dressed for the evening and take a ride into Beauregard. She wasn’t sleeping alone tonight.

Ellen sat in between Frank and Margaret, chattering while the adults drove in silence. Margaret looked around the area, the sandy road leaving the village, entering a rural area where a few hardier souls lived. Houses were set back from the road, driveways obscured by trees. “Is your place isolated like this?” she asked. Frank shook his head.

“We’re in the middle of a wide open space. My father built the house by his-self. It’s in a valley the big river runs through. You’ll see. The trees come right up to my land, but they was never part of it. ‘Cleared natural,’ my father said. ‘Just waitin’ for a house.’” The sandy road wound through the pine forest for a mile to big clearing.

“This yours?” Margaret asked. Ellen tried to sit up to look but her seatbelt and little chair held her down.

“Up!” she demanded. When Frank pulled into the driveway, Margaret unfastened her seat belt and the child stood up with her hands on the dashboard. “My house,” she screamed. Margaret looked at Frank.

“What’s this all about?”

“We was talkin’ about a house,” he replied. “She just picked up on it. Smart little girl.” He put the gearshift in park and as natural as if he was taking his coat with him from the front seat, the little girl leaped into his arms. He met Margaret in front of the truck and put his free arm around her shoulders as they walked down the path from the barn to the cottage.

“What a great place,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be happy to live here.” Frank looked down at her.

“That right? That’s a relief. It’s nothin’ much. You might change ye’r mind when we get inside.”

“I don’t think so.” She let him have a very small glimpse of what her prior life had been like.

“In my last place, I slept on a mattress on the floor. Anythin’ is an upgrade from that.”

“What happened?” Frank took his arm off her shoulder and dug in his pocket for the key.

“I was tryin’ to save money in case I lost my job when Ellen was born. Whatever I could sell went out the door. My friends came to my rescue, but it was still a bare bones existence.” He felt awful hearing her story, deciding right then he’d make their life much better than it was.

“We can buy whatever you want for the house,” he said. “If I can afford it, it’s yours.” But as it turned out, she was content to let things stay as they were. His mother’s furniture was just fine, comfortable, old pieces of overstuffed sensibility. She’d spend the rest of her days there with Frank sitting on a chair that had belonged to his mother, with her feet on a small stool covered in his mother’s handiwork.

Ellen transferred her needs to Frank within days after the wedding.

“Dada,” she’d yell from her bedroom. He’d get up out of bed and open her door to find her standing in the crib with her arms out.

“It might be time for a big-girl bed,” he’d say.

“No, no big-girl bed.” Ellen stayed in the crib until she was four.

“It’s not right,” Margaret said. “We should force her.” Frank frowned.

“If you think it’s important, I guess we could try it.”

“Don’t you? It’s not seemly that a grown child should sleep in a crib.

“Maggie, she’s only four. She feels safe in it, so I say if you’re all right with it, let ‘er be.” Margaret looked at her daughter, how tall and lanky she was for a four-year-old, her vocabulary incredible.
Why’d she still need to sleep in a crib?

“Do you want to try your big-girl bed tonight?” she asked. Ellen looked over at it. It was low to the floor, made up like every little girl’s dream bed with lacy pink satin and piled with stuffed animals. The child shook her head and pointed to the crib.

“I’ll stay in the crib,” Ellen said, determined. Margaret sighed.

“But why? You can’t even stretch out in it anymore.”

“I like the crib,” she said, her mouth set.

“Well, I guess that’s that, for now,” Frank said, frowning. He knew that Margaret was capable of latching on to something like a dog with a bone, and he didn’t want the crib to become one of her obsessive issues. He looked at her standing in the child’s room with her hands on her hips.

“I think we need to use some bribery here,” Margaret said. Frank’s ears perked up. He wasn’t beyond using a little reward system.

“Now you’re talkin’,” he said. “What’ch you got in mind, Mother?” She looked at Ellen who was standing partially behind Frank. Toys and dolls wouldn’t do it for her. Although they never came out and said it, Ellen was a tomboy.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s time for a bike. Not a tricycle, but a real two-wheeler. With trainers.” Ellen came out from behind Frank.

“I bike? I’d like a bike.”

“But will you leave your crib for a bike?” Margaret asked firmly. “We want you to sleep in a big-girl bed and get the bike in return.” Ellen didn’t have to ponder it; she’d wanted a bike for a while but her parents thought she was too young. But if she was old enough to sleep in a big-girl bed, she was old enough to ride a bike.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll leave the crib.” She looked over at the old crib longingly. She’d never felt safer than when she was in her crib. Her memories really started in earnest when she was three. Frank kissing her goodnight, gently lowering her onto the soft mattress, covering her with a fuzzy blanket was the strongest recollection.

“Good night, little one. Sleep tight.” He said the same thing every night until she repeated it.

“You sleep tight, too.” When Margaret went away, Ellen never missed her. Frank did all the nurturing, and Margaret was glad to relinquish it to him; the first two years of Ellen’s life had drained her of needing her child again. As long as she was safe and cared for, the little Margaret had to give seemed to be enough.

It didn’t take long after the wedding for the couple and their child to form a tight bond that resisted any interaction with the outside world. Margaret seemed happy to stay on the property. When she wanted to get outside to stretch her legs, Frank noted that she was content to walk within the boundaries of their yard. She rarely wanted to go into town, but when she did, she’d drive in with Frank and he would drop her off at the café where she’d sit and drink coffee all morning, talking to Mary. Even that relationship had changed. Frank encouraged his wife to invite Mary over if she missed her, but Margaret just shook her head.

“We were never really friends,” she said. “Mary needed me more than I needed her.” Now, after the wedding, Mary’s voyeurism was out of control. Mary was hungry for stories of their wedding night, but Margaret would only smile a slow grin and shake her head.

“That’s private,” she said. But Mary wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“You did do it though, right?” The red was creeping up Mary’s neck onto her cheeks.

“Of course,” Margaret said. “I will admit that much.” But she kept that sly smile on her face and just shook her head when Mary whispered, “
Was it good?”

“It’s none of your business,” Margaret answered. “And if you keep asking, I’ll leave.” She was dead serious. During that month before the wedding, just as Margaret was getting comfortable with Mary, confiding in her, going where she’d never gone before with anyone else, Mary wanted Margaret for more than friendship. They were sitting in her private living room late one night; long after Ellen had gone to sleep, working on a bottle of wine. It was warm and cozy in the room with the dim lights and the radio on low. Margaret put her head back on the couch and closed her eyes for a moment and just as she was going to allow herself to doze in an alcohol haze, she felt the couch cushion depress next to her as Mary leaned over to kiss her on the mouth. Margaret had never kissed a woman. Mary’s mouth was soft, smelling of wine and lilacs. Sighing, Margaret relaxed into the couch, and then she thought of Frank. Sitting up, she pushed Mary away.

“No, I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to…but I thought it was mutual,” Mary complained.

“I was minding my own business. It was never mutual.”

“You didn’t resist!” Mary said.

“Keep your voice down Mary. I don’t want to scare Ellen. I’m drunk. You started kissing me. That’s the end of the story. I’m gettin’ married in two weeks and I’m sure Frank wouldn’t understand. Let’s just let it go.” Mary started to cry, pacing back and forth.

“I don’t get it. You’d just arrived and bang! He’s asking you to get married.”

“What don’t you get?” she asked, adjusting her clothing. “I never even flirted with the man.”

“I’ve been here all along, and he never so much as looked in my direction. You show up and I finally have a friend, and he sweeps in like a vulture.”

“Are you jealous of
him
?” Margaret asked, unbelieving.

“Yes! Yes, I’m jealous of him. We clicked right away, you and me. And he ruined it. He can offer you more than I can,” she said, crying. Margaret reached out for her hand.

“Mary, Mary. You have to believe me when I tell you that you were never even an option for me, at least not as anything more than a friend. If that sounds harsh, well I’m sorry.” Mary stormed out of the room while Margaret struggled to get up and get into her room before Mary came back.

Drunk for sure, she didn’t feel like she’d done anything wrong. Mary came on to
her.
Thinking of Mary’s age, twenty-six, ten years younger than she was. Frank would never believe it if she told him what had happened. Love between women was something Frank wouldn’t understand; he was so innocent. Nothing must come between Frank and her, nothing. Frank was their savior. No matter what happened, Frank would love Ellen and take care of her.

After the wedding, life with Frank fell into a pleasant routine without Mary. Margaret kept house for him, but he did the cooking and organizing. Ellen loved him with all of her heart, and Margaret was pleased with her foresight of having gotten lost in front of his garage. Ellen started school, and with her gone all day, and nothing to occupy her time, Margaret started to deteriorate. Slowly at first, so that Frank almost didn’t notice, she stopped taking care of herself. Beautiful Margaret, who put so much into their romance, surprising him with her
knowledge
of what pleased a man that he’d have to remind himself that she’d had a child with someone whom he didn’t know.

The wedding night was beautiful; after Ellen went to sleep, Frank turned the radio on and reached for her, leading her into a slow dance.

“How’d you learn?” she asked, her head on his chest. “You’re really good at this.”

“School dances, I guess,” he replied, grinning. “They say I have natural rhythm.”

“Who says it? All your women?” she asked, giggling.

“You know better than that,” he replied softly, kissing the top of her head.

“I guess we never talked about your past, the women you’ve been with. You know all about me,” she said, a little haughty lilt to her voice.