Those We Love Most (19 page)

Chicagoland had already experienced its first snowfall, although it had since melted, and there was a storm predicted for this weekend. Somewhere down the street, she could smell a fire in the chimney, and it made her wistful. Margaret took another drag and tapped the ash into the stirring breeze. She exhaled the smoke in one long, thin stream and lifted the cuff of her coat to study her watch. 10:30
A.M.
She took one last puff, crushed the cigarette under her heel, and carried the butt into the shed to dispose of it in the empty Altoid container by the weed killer. Shutting the garden shed door, she headed back toward the house. A breeze ruffled her hair and stirred the willow branch above her, creating a moaning sound that was almost human.

The rest of the day stretched before her with neatly filled time slots. Next, lunch and bridge, after that a visit at Maura’s to watch Sarah while she ran to the vet or to do some other errands.
They must have spent a fortune on that dog by now
, Margaret thought to herself. Her daughter had certainly headed to the vet’s office numerous times over the past year with all that animal’s ailments.

Margaret thought ahead to dinner tonight. She would defrost two chicken breasts and sauté them in a basil-lemon marinade with some Vidalia onions. She had a bunch of limp asparagus in the fridge that needed eating, and she would steam that with a little salt. Both she and Roger had to watch their high blood pressure and she’d been making an effort to cook more healthfully, with less butter and more olive oil, but Roger often complained her chicken was dry. Lately they had enjoyed more intimate dinner conversations, and she’d begun to relish mealtime, which no longer felt like an obstacle to be overcome.

Stepping indoors the change in temperature assailed her, and she stamped her feet in the back hall before reaching to remove her boots and the jacket. She could smell burned tobacco on her fingers, so she scrubbed her hands with coarse garden soap in the kitchen sink. As she pulled the plastic-wrapped chicken breasts from the freezer, she was struck by their resemblance to two pink hands, poised to pray. And then the phone trilled before she could unwrap them.

“Hello?”

“Margaret?” Roger’s voice had an edge to it.

“Yes, Roger?”

“I’ll be home a little early tonight. I just thought … I thought I’d let you know so we could eat together.” Roger’s voice had a halting quality to it. A low-level alarm went off. Maybe he didn’t feel well. Roger was never one to admit it.

“That’s fine. I’ve got chicken thawing.” Something in his tone told her not to pry right now. She lowered the two breasts in a bowl of hot tap water to defrost. She had once read that you weren’t supposed to freeze meat in its Styrofoam supermarket packaging. Apparently there was some kind of cancer-causing chemical that was released from the foamy container. Her kitchen freezer was a study in individual plastic- and foil-wrapped items, each carefully labeled with a Sharpie in portions of ones and twos.

Margaret thought about how you could spend your life trying to stay well, buckling your seat belt, eating organic food, wearing sunscreen, and then bad things could still rise up out of nowhere. Senseless things. She shook her head and pushed those thoughts away. She needed to make the marinade and get dressed for bridge.

By 4:30
P.M.
Margaret was back in the kitchen, the chicken was already in the pan, and she diced the onions and pulled out the gold-rimmed fine china to set the table. They needed to use it more often, she thought. The kids had actually convinced her of this, arguing that it mostly collected dust. The sight of it might cheer Roger, Margaret mused. The sun was setting so early now, she noticed, there was so much less daylight in winter, no wonder more people suffered from depression in northern climates.

“Hello,” Roger called out halfheartedly an hour later from the back hall. As he walked into the kitchen, setting down his briefcase, she detected a faint look of defeat, a stooped weariness.

Margaret smiled automatically, feigning diffidence. She had learned that the most effective way to extract information from her husband was to wait patiently, like a great white hunter in the Saharan grass. She had endured years of his distancing himself, and she knew better than to pounce now.

“Dinner can be ready soon,” she said, measuring the rice.

“I’m going to make a drink first.” Roger laid his suit jacket over the back of the chair and headed to the cupboard for a highball glass. She heard the freezer open and the rattle of the ice hit the bottom of the crystal.

“Well, the wild rice will take at least forty minutes,” she said.

Roger ignored her and opened the door to the liquor cabinet. The ice crackled as the bourbon engulfed it.

“Good day?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Not really.” He set the glass down and loosened his tie at the neck.

“Oh?”

“I don’t … I don’t have the role I had hoped for on the Crown deal.”

Margaret waited, drawing in her breath thinly, rather than risk making a noise. She wondered what direction this conversation would take, although she was slightly relieved that his darkened mood appeared only to be about some perceived slight in the workplace.

Margaret poked the chicken breasts with a fork to absorb the last of the marinade and flipped them over in the pan. Next she cut the ends off the asparagus spears, lowering them into the steamer while leaving the burner off. The kitchen began to fill with the moist smell of the rice, and she lowered the temperature under the pan. Margaret grazed her fingertips over the white napkins on the table, straightening them, waiting for him to say more. She was afraid Roger might grind to a halt if their eyes met.

“It may be time to think about retiring,” he said simply.

“Really?” Margaret worked to keep her expression even. The remark didn’t fully register at first. Did she feel surprise, shock, or even relief?

“Sometimes in your gut it’s just time,” he said, simply. “I’ve been doing this kind of work for almost forty years.”

“Almost all of your professional life,” she added more gently. Roger drained the last of his cocktail and set the glass down hard on the kitchen counter, causing Margaret to flinch. As he walked back to the liquor cabinet, his gait seemed unsteady, and he stilled himself against the counter with one hand. This had not been his first drink, she realized.

“Right now, Margaret, in corporate America”—he stumbled over this last word slightly—“there is nothing more obsolete than a white man over fifty.”

“Come, sit,” she urged softly, “while I finish cooking.” Roger moved toward the table almost trancelike, his face projecting an emotion she couldn’t quite fathom. This unstable Roger was unnerving. Whatever was troubling him was very close to the surface; the transparency of his emotions vexed her. If this had been about any other topic, anything but their future and his sense of security and position, she realized, it might have made her feel smug in an upside-down way. But something was wrong. Roger was off, somehow, and his unassailable confidence had been something she had always taken for granted. His position in the family and his career success had been a bedrock in their marriage. Margaret pulled a cork out of the remains of a bottle of pinot grigio and poured herself a glass, turning the heat down on the chicken. As she crossed the room to join him at the kitchen table, a slurry of fear fluttered in her chest.

They both sipped their drinks for a while in silence, and then she rose to turn the burner on under the asparagus. She could think of nothing else to say that would either calm him or provoke an elaboration. “You used the good china, Mother, what’s the occasion?” he asked in a flat voice.

“I wanted to do something different and unexpected, I guess. We need to use it all more I’ve decided. The silver too.”

“Very nice.” He sat back appraising, head lowered slightly as he swirled the ice in his glass. She could tell his mind was elsewhere. “Let’s see what’s happening in the world.” Roger grabbed the remote to click on the small TV under the kitchen counter, and Margaret rose to check the asparagus as the chicken simmered. Within ten minutes she had served up dinner and they watched the rest of the day’s news, chewing in silence. The familiar patter of the local ABC anchor, Kathy, was a relief.

Later that night, after she’d washed her face and run through her bedtime routine, Roger surprised her, reaching for her in bed with a boozy, sloppy kiss that she found largely distasteful. But she kept silent and returned his advances, both surprised and delighted by the unfamiliar forcefulness of Roger’s passion. There was tenderness there too, and a probing softness to his touch; his murmurings ambushed her heart. Lying there next to him in the dark, after their lovemaking, she felt tears prick her eyes unexpectedly. She felt a sense of … was it gratitude? Yes, she was grateful for her husband’s spontaneous display of love.

An hour later she awoke to a gargling in the back of Roger’s throat, no doubt magnified by the alcohol he’d consumed. Margaret lay with her gyrating thoughts, contemplating Roger’s words in the kitchen, his desperate, clutching ardor in bed, and the sudden possibility of a new future with retirement. How might her world be configured with Roger home every day?

She mentally ticked off the possibilities. There was golf and tennis in the warm weather. Perhaps he could be one of those husbands who played cards at the club. There was the YMCA for exercise equipment, and some of the men had a weekly movie club. He’d always talked about getting back to building things with his hands; he’d made birdhouses as gifts when they were first married. Years ago, when they’d lived in Ohio, he had even tried to build a model ship in a bottle, but the truth was, Roger wasn’t a man who relished hobbies or volunteer work. The bulk of his life, like so many men of their era, had been devoted to his career.

And what was it now inside the company, or perhaps inside of Roger, that was crumbling? She knew that any business needed ultimately to make way for the next crop of leaders and go-getters. But Margaret had always imagined that Roger’s departure from the office would be on his timetable. He’d been a part of the firm for so long, and they’d all ridden the real estate market through its many ups and downs, good times and bad. Roger had often joked grandiosely at parties that their company had been responsible for paving over half of the Midwest. Clients loved him, warmed to his self-assuredness, his ready knowledge of grandchildren’s names or a wife’s favorite variety of wine.

Roger’s jocular, salesy personality, so in opposition to her own reserve, could at times appear fake and contrived, but she understood its value in his profession. Her husband’s “gift of the gab,” as one colleague had termed it, was a valuable asset that had put a roof over their head and helped to send three kids off to college and out into the world.

Roger’s guttural snores irritated her now, and she rose, wide awake, grabbing her robe on the bedpost and padding downstairs. She turned on the lamp in the kitchen, and it cast a warm glow on the white painted cabinets. Margaret poured a glass of tap water and leaned over the kitchen sink, staring out beyond the crab apple branches and into the yard lit by a waxy moon.

They had more than enough saved for retirement; she supposed that wasn’t the source of her anxiety. Roger had invested well, and they had never been big spenders, never reached beyond their means. They owned the cottage in Door County outright; the mortgage on the expansion there had been paid off for at least five years she knew. They usually took one good trip a year, with one or two other couples, always to warmer places with golf courses. Maybe they’d increase their travel in retirement and see more of the world together. Honestly, she felt slightly guilty and uneasy at how little she did know about the intricacies of their finances. She knew they had long-term disability, life insurance and policies on the houses, all of that through Pete’s business, and their friend from the club, Hank Stabile, had managed their portfolio for years. Roger had always urged her to attend the annual financial meetings, to take more interest, and perhaps she’d need to in the future. She refilled the glass and then took a sip. Yes, there could be many upsides to his retiring.

She had once imagined retirement as a time of growing together, of shared activities, yet Roger had never spoken that language back to her. He’d roared more than once that they’d have to carry him away from his desk feet first. She’d hidden her disappointment at his theatrical chest-beating, and minimized her expectations. Work and golf were the things he enjoyed in his daylight hours, and she knew those activities kept him vigorous.

Margaret shifted her position to a chair at the kitchen table, leaning on her elbows and easing slowly down. She could feel the tightness in her back from carrying Sarah and she arched slowly, like a cat. Staring into the backyard, she began the process of teasing out what was really gnawing at her. It was the niggling feeling that there was more to this sudden talk of retirement. Something else was at work, a fumbling, an uncertainty in his actions. Absentmindedly she spun the lazy Susan in the center of the table that held the vitamins and the salt and pepper shakers, watching the objects rotate slowly.

It was weakness she detected, weakness in a man who had always prided himself on his vitality in almost every arena. Margaret sipped the water for a few minutes more, aware of the ticking hand of the kitchen wall clock. She rose and gently slid the chair back in place, automatically rinsing the glass before placing it in the dishwasher’s top rack. If she had to be completely honest with herself, weakness was the one emotion in Roger she was not prepared to witness.