Smart Women (16 page)

Well, Margo
 . . . the voice began,
I’m proud of you!

I figured you would be.

You really thought things through tonight.

I’ve just postponed it, that’s all . . . because I really like this man . . . hell, I’m crazy about him.

Think, Margo!

I am thinking. I’ve been thinking.

She tossed back her covers and sat up.

Margo
 . . . the voice warned.

I’m a fool. There may never be another night like this one. He could be dead in the morning. I could be. The bomb could fall. The world could end . . .

She got into her robe, slipped her vest on over it, stepped into her sandals, tiptoed out of the house, and went next door, pausing for a minute at the foot of the staircase leading to his apartment. Then she ran up the stairs and knocked on his door, timidly at first, then stronger.

He opened the door. He was wearing his jeans but no shirt and no shoes.

“I was wondering if I could borrow a box of raisins,” she said.

He closed the door behind them, took her in his arms, and kissed her. She threw her vest on the floor. Her robe fell open and she felt the warmth of his skin next to hers. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. They made love for hours and finally, worn out and exhausted, fell asleep in each other’s arms, their bodies covered with sweat, the sheets damp and sticky. When they awoke it was close to five and she put on her robe and crept back to her house. She got into her cold bed and thought, I am in love.

And then she fell asleep.

part two

16

M
ICHELLE WAS SO PISSED AT
M
ARGO!
How could she let him move into their house, into their
home,
without discussing it, without bothering to find out how she and Stuart would feel about it, without a second thought?

One morning in November, while they were in the kitchen, Margo had announced it. “Andrew is going to move in next week.” Just like that.

Michelle had been gulping orange juice at the time and had choked on it. Margo had had to whack her on the back. “His lease is up and since we’re together all the time anyway . . .” Margo went right on talking, never mind that Michelle’s throat was closing up, that she couldn’t breathe, that she might die right on the spot.

“Does this mean congratulations are in order?” Stuart asked, stirring two sugars into his coffee.

“If you want to congratulate us on being happy, sure . . .” Margo said.

“That’s not what I had in mind,” Stuart told her.

“Well, we’re not talking marriage at this point,” Margo said. “We’re talking living together.”

Michelle got her breath back. Living together!
Him,
living here. As if he belonged. It was one thing for Margo to have a boyfriend, one who slept over sometimes, one who was around a lot. It was another thing completely to have her boyfriend move in, to take his showers there, open their refrigerator whenever he wanted, put strange foods into it, shit in their toilets, to be around
all
the time. “Is he going to pay,” Michelle asked, “or just live here free . . . just live off us?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Michelle,” Margo said.

“It’s
all
my business, Mother. This is my house too . . . remember? And as I recall my father pays child support that goes toward our house payments and our grocery bills and so I have every right to know what kind of arrangement you’ve made with your boyfriend.”

“He’s going to contribute the same amount of money that he was paying next door.”

“Which is?”

Margo sighed. “Three hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

“And what about food?”

“He’ll pay for his share of the groceries. We’ll divide our bill by four. Anything else?”

Margo was really tense now. Michelle could tell by the tightening of her mouth, the crease in her forehead. Her mother looked old when she got tense. Michelle had no trouble visualizing her as an old old woman, her face all lined, her mouth puckered and sunken, her flesh loose and hanging from her bones, her fingers arthritic, like Grandma Sampson’s. And how many boyfriends would she have then?

“Yes,” Michelle finally said, answering Margo’s question. “There is one more thing. What about the Brat? Because if you think she’s going to stay in my room when she comes over, you can guess again. And I mean it, Mother!”

“Well, she certainly can’t stay in my room,” Stuart said. “I need my privacy.”

“We all need our privacy,” Margo said.

“So what about it, Mother?” Michelle said.

“We’re working on it,” Margo said.

“Working on it? What does that mean?” Michelle asked.

“It means we’re thinking about it,” Margo said. “Sara has to feel welcome here. Andrew is her father.”

“But it’s not
his
home,” Michelle said. “It’s ours! The Brat has her own home in Boulder . . . with her mother.”

“You are acting selfish and unreasonable, Michelle,” Margo shouted, “and I’m getting sick of it!”

“You should have thought about all of this before you decided to let him move in, Mother. You could have waited. Stuart will be gone next fall and I’ll be gone a year later. You could have waited until then to let him move in.”

“No, I couldn’t have waited,” Margo yelled, “because this is also
my
home, and
my
life, and I’m tired of waiting.” Margo’s voice choked up and she started to cry. Michelle knew she would. She was such a baby.

“We’re going to be late for school,” Stuart said.

“I’m ready,” Michelle told him.

“Then let’s go.”

They left Margo with her head on the breakfast bar, sobbing. Serves her right, Michelle thought.

17

M
ARGO WAS IN LOVE
and no one was going to spoil it for her. Not Michelle and her hostility, not Stuart and his blasé attitude, not B.B., not Sara, not anyone.

It wasn’t as if they’d made the decision to live together on spur of the moment. They had been inseparable from the first night they had made love, running back and forth from her place to his, having dinner together, laughing and talking into the night, feeling exhausted but exhilarated the next morning.

Andrew had brought up the subject of living together on the night that Steve McQueen had died. They had lain in bed talking about how fragile, how unpredictable life was and Andrew had asked, “Would you go to Mexico for laetrile treatments?”

“No,” she answered. “Would you?”

“Yes, I’d try anything.”

“If it comes down to that, I’ll take you.”

“Even though you’re not a believer?”

She wrapped her arms around him. “Even though . . .”

They had made love tenderly.

Later, Margo was curled beside Andrew, her head on his chest, her finger tracing an imaginary line from his belly to his neck and back again. She loved the smoothness of his skin and the soft hair that ran from his chest to his belly, then spread out so that his lower half was covered with a downy fur. It was hard to be near him and keep her hands to herself. Like Puffin and Stuart, she thought. But Puffin and Stuart were new at the game and Margo and Andrew weren’t.

He had stroked her face. He loved her cheekbones, he’d told her. He loved to kiss them and touch them and nibble at them. She’d never been aware of her cheekbones, but now, when she looked in the mirror she noticed them first and tried to see herself as he saw her.

“My lease is up in a few weeks,” Andrew had said. “I can’t renew it. Hathaway has rented the place for the whole winter. I could look for another place . . .” He hesitated.

Or you could move in with me, Margo thought.

“Or I could move in with you,” Andrew said. “That is, if you’d have me.”

If she’d have him! She tried to think reasonably, but she couldn’t. She wanted to jump up and shout,
Yes, move in with me,
but a mature adult did not react solely on an emotional level. A mature adult thought things through, considered both sides of the issue. Finally she said, “There would be a million complications.”

“I can only think of nine hundred thousand,” he said.

She reached down and pulled up the quilt, then snuggled close to him again. “It would be nice to have you here every night, to wake up next to you every morning, but moving in together . . . I don’t know . . . Are you saying that you’re going to stay in Boulder? Are we talking serious commitment?”

“We’re talking about being together as long as it works . . . as long as we both want to be together.”

“But suppose one does and the other doesn’t?”

“Then we’d have to figure out what happened and why and make adjustments.”

“Adjustments,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You wouldn’t just walk out . . . without discussing it?”

“No,” he said. “And you wouldn’t just kick me out, would you?”

“No . . . not unless you did something to make me hate you.”

“Such as?”

“Being dishonest with me . . . or making love with someone else.”

“Ah . . . so you’re the jealous type.”

“Monogamous. I couldn’t live with you unless I knew it was a monogamous relationship, unless I could trust you.”

“There’s more to trust than sexual faithfulness.”

“Oh sure, I know, but it’s a good place to start. How would you feel if I made love with another man?”

“I probably wouldn’t like it,” Andrew said.

“You’re supposed to say you’d hate it, that you’d kill him, or me, or both of us.”

“But then I’d go to jail.”

“I’d visit every Sunday.”

“Assuming I spared your life.”

“Right.”

“Would you bring me raisins?”

“By the carton.”

“Then it’s a deal,” he said.

“What is?”

“Living together in a monogamous, trusting relationship.”

“For how long?” Margo asked. “I need to have some idea so that if we ever have a difference of opinion, which I realize is unlikely but still possible, I won’t worry that it’s all over between us.”

“How does six months sound for a start?” he asked.

“Six months . . .” she said, mentally counting. “No . . . six months is no good because that would put us right in the middle of May and I can’t take the chance that my life is going to fall apart this spring, because Stuart will be graduating and Freddy and Aliza will be coming to town. It would have to be until the end of the school year, at least.”

“Okay . . . fine,” Andrew said. “At least until the end of the school year and much, much longer, I hope.”

“I hope so too.”

They were quiet for a while, then Andrew said, “Margo . . .”

“Hmmm . . .”

“I love you . . . at least I think I do . . . and if I think I do that must mean something.”

“I’m sure it means something,” she said, “because I’ve been thinking that I love you, too, but I’ve been afraid to say it, afraid that you wouldn’t respond, that you’d be embarrassed or say,
Well, I like you a lot, Margo, but love, that a different story, that’s
 . . .”