Authors: Anne Tyler,Monica Mcinerney
She replaced everything in her purse and snapped it shut. When she started walking again her shoes felt stiff and uncomfortable, as if her feet had changed shape while she was standing. Maybe they’d swollen; it was a very warm day. But even the weather suited her purposes. This way, she could camp out if she had to. She could sleep in a haystack. Providing haystacks still existed.
Tonight she’d phone Serena and apologize for missing the funeral. She would reverse the charges; she could do that, with Serena. Serena might not want to accept the call at first because Maggie had let her down—Serena was always so quick to take offense—but eventually she’d give in and Maggie would explain. “Listen,” she would say, “right now I wouldn’t mind going to
Ira’s
funeral.” Or maybe that was tactless, in view of the circumstances.
The café lay just ahead, and beyond that was a low cinderblock building of some sort and beyond that, she guessed, at least a semblance of a town. It would be one of those scrappy little Route One towns, with much attention given to the requirements of auto travel. She would register at a no-frills motel, the room scarcely larger than the bed, which she pictured, with some enjoyment, as sunken in the middle and covered with a worn chenille spread. She would shop at Nell’s Grocery for foods that didn’t need cooking. One thing most people failed to realize was that many varieties of canned soup could be eaten cold straight from the tin, and they made a fairly balanced meal, too. (A can opener: She mustn’t forget to buy one at the grocery.)
As for employment, she didn’t have much hope of finding a nursing home in such a town. Maybe something clerical, then. She knew how to type and keep books, although she wasn’t wonderful at it. She’d had a little experience at the frame shop. Maybe an auto-parts store could use her, or she could be one of those women behind the grille at a service station, embossing credit card bills and handing people their keys. If worse came to worst she could punch a cash register. She could wait tables. She could scrub floors, for heaven’s sake. She was only forty-eight and her health was perfect, and in spite of what some people might think, she was capable of anything she set her mind to.
She bent to pick a chicory flower. She stuck it in the curls above her left ear.
Ira thought she was a klutz. Everybody did. She had developed a sort of clownish, pratfalling reputation, somehow. In the nursing home once, there’d been a crash and a tinkle of glass, and the charge nurse had said, “Maggie?” Just like that! Not even checking first to make sure! And Maggie hadn’t been anywhere near; it was someone else entirely. But that just went to show how people viewed her.
She had assumed when she married Ira that he would always look at her the way he’d looked at her that first night, when she stood in front of him in her trousseau negligee and the only light in the room was the filmy shaded lamp by the bed. She had unbuttoned her top button and then her next-to-top button, just enough to let the negligee slip from her shoulders and hesitate and fall around her ankles. He had looked directly into her eyes, and it seemed he wasn’t even breathing. She had assumed that would go on forever.
In the parking lot in front of Nell’s Grocery & Café two men stood next to a pickup, talking. One was fat and ham-faced and the other was thin and white and wilted. They were discussing someone named Doug who had come out all over in swelters. Maggie wondered what a swelter was. She pictured it as a combination of a sweat and a welt. She knew she must make an odd sight, arriving on foot out of nowhere so dressed up and citified. “Hello!” she cried, sounding like her mother. The men stopped talking and stared at her. The thin one took his cap off finally and looked inside it. Then he put it back on his head.
She could step into the café and speak to Mabel, ask if she knew of a job and a place to stay; or she could head straight for town and find something on her own. In a
way, she preferred to fend for herself. It would be sort of embarrassing to confess she’d been abandoned by her husband. On the other hand, maybe Mabel knew of some marvelous job. Maybe she knew of the perfect boardinghouse, dirt cheap, with kitchen privileges, full of kindhearted people. Maggie supposed she ought to at least inquire.
She let the screen door slap shut behind her. The grocery was familiar now and she moved through its smells comfortably. At the lunch counter she found Mabel leaning on a wadded-up dishcloth and talking to a man in overalls. They were almost whispering. “Why,
you
can’t do nothing about it,” Mabel was saying. “What do they think
you
can do about it?”
Maggie felt she was intruding. She hadn’t counted on having to share Mabel with someone else. She shrank back before she was seen; she skulked in the crackers-and-cookies aisle, hoping for her rival to depart.
“I been over it and over it,” the man said creakily. “I still can’t see what else I could have done.”
“Good gracious, no.”
Maggie picked up a box of Ritz crackers. There used to be a kind of apple pie people made that contained no apples whatsoever, just Ritz crackers. What would that taste like, she wondered. It didn’t seem to her there was the remotest chance it could taste like apple pie. Maybe you soaked the crackers in cider or something first. She looked on the box for the recipe, but it wasn’t mentioned.
Now Ira would be starting to realize she was gone. He would be noticing the empty rush of air that comes when a person you’re accustomed to is all at once absent.
Would he go on to the funeral without her? She hadn’t thought of that. No, Serena was more Maggie’s friend than Ira’s. And Max had been just an acquaintance. To
tell the truth, Ira didn’t have any friends. It was one of the things Maggie minded about him.
He’d be slowing down. He’d be trying to decide. Maybe he had already turned the car around.
He would be noticing how stark and upright a person feels when he’s suddenly left on his own.
Maggie set down the Ritz crackers and drifted toward the Fig Newtons.
One time a number of years ago, Maggie had fallen in love, in a way, with a patient at the nursing home. The very notion was comical, of course. In love! With a man in his seventies! A man who had to ride in a wheelchair if he went any distance at all! But there you are. She was fascinated by his austere white face and courtly manners. She liked his stiff turns of speech, which gave her the feeling he was keeping his own words at a distance. And she knew what pain it caused him to dress so formally each morning, his expression magnificently disengaged as he worked his arthritic, clublike hands into the sleeves of his suit coat. Mr. Gabriel, his name was. “Ben” to everyone else, but “Mr. Gabriel” to Maggie, for she guessed how familiarity alarmed him. And she was diffident about helping him, always asking his permission first. She was careful not to touch him. It was a kind of reverse courtship, you might say. While the others treated him warmly and a little condescendingly, Maggie stood back and allowed him his reserve.
In the office files, she read that he owned a nationally prominent power-tool company. Yes, she could see him in that position. He had a businessman’s crisp authority, a businessman’s air of knowing what was what. She read that he was widowed and childless, without any close relations except for an unmarried sister in New Hampshire. Until recently he had lived by himself, but shortly after his cook started a minor grease fire in the kitchen
he’d applied for admission to the home. His concern, he wrote, was that he was becoming too disabled to escape if his house burned down. Concern! You had to know the man to know what the word concealed: a morbid, obsessive dread of fire, which had taken root with that small kitchen blaze and grown till not even live-in help, and finally not even round-the-clock nursing care, could reassure him. (Maggie had observed his stony, fixed stare during fire drills—the only occasions on which he seemed truly to be a patient.)
Oh, why was she reading his file? She wasn’t supposed to. Strictly speaking, she shouldn’t read even his medical record. She was nothing but a geriatric nursing assistant, certified to bathe her charges and feed them and guide them to the toilet.
And even in her imagination, she had always been the most faithful of wives. She had never felt so much as tempted. But now thoughts of Mr. Gabriel consumed her, and she spent hours inventing new ways to be indispensable to him. He always noticed, and he always thanked her. “Imagine!” he told a nurse. “Maggie’s brought me tomatoes from her own backyard.” Maggie’s tomatoes were subject to an unusual ailment: They were bulbous, like collections of little red rubber jack balls that had collided and mashed together. This problem had persisted for several years, through several varieties of hybrids. Maggie blamed the tiny plot of city soil she was forced to confine them to (or was it the lack of sun?), but often she sensed, from the amused and tolerant looks they drew, that other people thought it had something to do with Maggie herself—with the knobby, fumbling way she seemed to be progressing through her life. Yet Mr. Gabriel noticed nothing. He declared her tomatoes smelled like a summer’s day in 1944. When she sliced them they resembled doilies—scalloped around the
edges, full of holes between intersections—but all he said was: “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He wouldn’t even let her salt them. He said they tasted glorious, just as they were.
Well, she wasn’t stupid. She realized that what appealed to her was the image he had of her—an image that would have staggered Ira. It would have staggered anyone who knew her. Mr. Gabriel thought she was capable and skillful and efficient. He believed that everything she did was perfect. He said as much, in so many words. And this was during a very unsatisfactory period in her life, when Jesse was just turning adolescent and negative and Maggie seemed to be going through a quarrelsome spell with Ira. But Mr. Gabriel never guessed any of that. Mr. Gabriel saw someone collected, moving serenely around his room straightening his belongings.
At night she lay awake and concocted dialogues in which Mr. Gabriel confessed that he was besotted with her. He would say he knew that he was too old to attract her physically, but she would interrupt to tell him he was wrong. This was a fact. The mere thought of laying her head against his starched white shoulder could turn her all warm and melting. She would promise to go anywhere with him, anywhere on earth. Should they take Daisy too? (Daisy was five or six at the time.) Of course they couldn’t take Jesse; Jesse was no longer a child. But then Jesse would think she loved Daisy better, and she certainly couldn’t have that. She wandered off on a sidetrack, imagining what would happen if they did take Jesse. He would lag a few steps behind, wearing one of his all-black outfits, laboring under his entire stereo system and a stack of record albums. She started giggling. Ira stirred in his sleep and said, “Hmm?” She sobered and hugged herself—a competent, adventurous woman, with infinite possibilities.
Star-crossed, that’s what they were; but she seemed to have found a way to be star-crossed differently from anyone else. How would she tend Mr. Gabriel and still go out to a job? He refused to be left alone. And what job would she go to? Her only employment in all her life had been with the Silver Threads Nursing Home. Fat chance they’d give her a letter of reference after she’d absconded with one of their patients.
Another sidetrack: What if she didn’t abscond, but broke the news to Ira in a civilized manner and calmly made new arrangements? She could move into Mr. Gabriel’s room. She could rise from his bed every morning and be right there at work; no commute. At night when the nurse came around with the pills, she’d find Maggie and Mr. Gabriel stretched out side by side, staring at the ceiling, with their roommate, Abner Scopes, in the bed along the opposite wall.
Maggie gave another snicker.
This was turning out all skewed, somehow.
Like anyone in love, she constantly found reasons to mention his name. She told Ira everything about him—his suits and ties, his gallantry, his stoicism. “I don’t know why you can’t act that keen about my father; he’s family,” Ira said, missing the point entirely. Ira’s father was a whiner, a user. Mr. Gabriel was nothing like him.
Then one morning the home held another fire drill. The alarm bell jangled and the code blared over the loudspeaker: “Dr. Red in Room Two-twenty.” This happened in the middle of activity hour—an inconvenient time because the patients were so scattered. Those with any manual dexterity were down in the Crafts Room, knotting colored silk flowers. Those too crippled—Mr. Gabriel, for instance—were taking an extra session of P.T. And of course the bedridden were still in their rooms. They were the easy ones.
The rule was that you cleared the halls of all obstructions, shut stray patients into any room available, and tied red cloths to the doorknobs to show which rooms were occupied. Maggie closed off 201 and 203, where her only bedridden patients lay. She attached red cloths from the broom closet. Then she coaxed one of Joelle Barrett’s wandering old ladies into 202. There was an empty tray cart next to 202 and she set that inside as well, after which she dashed off to seize Lottie Stein, who was inching along in her walker and humming tunelessly. Maggie put her in 201 with Hepzibah Murray. Then Joelle arrived, wheeling Lawrence Dunn and calling, “Oops! Tillie’s out!” Tillie was the one Maggie had just stashed in 202. That was the trouble with these drills. They reminded her of those pocket-sized games where you tried to get all the silver BBs into their nooks at once. She captured Tillie and slammed her back in 202. Disturbing sounds were coming from 201. That would be a fight between Lottie and Hepzibah; Hepzibah hated having outsiders in her room. Maggie should have dealt with it, and she should also have gone to the aid of Joelle, who was having quite a struggle with Lawrence, but there was something more important on her mind. She was thinking, of course, about Mr. Gabriel.
By now, he would be catatonic with fear.
She left her corridor. (You were never supposed to do that.) She zipped past the nurses’ station, down the stairs, and made a right-angle turn. The P.T. room lay at the far end of the hall. Both of its swinging doors were shut. She raced toward them, rounding first a folding chair and then a canvas laundry cart, neither of which should have been there. But all at once she heard footsteps, the squeak of rubber soles. She stopped and looked around. Mrs. Willis! Almost certainly it was Mrs. Willis, her supervisor; and here Maggie was, miles from her proper station.