Learning to Live Again Page 7

  “I don’t know why no kids. I believe Karen had a miscarriage.” He shrugged. “Not something you bring up at the town social—at least, I don’t.

  “Sam had a dog called Buster. I can’t talk about Buster without getting all choked up.” Brownie pinched his lips together, looked up at the overhead light with fluttering eyelids. “He got run over chasing after a ball hit out of the ball field. Didn’t think we’d ever see Sammy smile again. Sammy’s the one hit the ball.”

  “I don’t guess you know how he feels about his ex?”

  “No, I don’t. But I know he was crazy about her fifteen years ago, enough to give up his family ties for her. You got to understand Sam and his dad were that close,” he crossed his fingers, “before that female got her hooks in him.”

  ******

  “Samuel Nathaniel Gear, shame on you!” Allison stood with her hands on her hips, a pose he remembered as a reprimand in the making, but her lips twitched in a struggle to keep them turned down, and he knew she wasn’t really angry. “That snowmobile sat in that shed for six years without you so much as asking about it. I should have put it up for sale when pop died. Now that it doesn’t run and I’m going to give it away to someone who’ll cherish it …” She shook her head. “My word.” She paced the living room, stopping again in front of him. “Sam, Sam. And Grandma’s cooking? What were you going to do with the recipes? Write a book? Become a famous cook maybe?”

  ”Forget the recipes. That’s petty, I admit it.” Sam stood up so that his mother no longer had the advantage of towering over him. “Besides, you had them all those years and never made anything that tasted like Grandma’s cooking. Apparently, her recipes are only as good as the cook.”

  “What! Thank you very much, young man. Hummph! And to think of all the times I tried to bake something special … .”

  Sam was immediately contrite. He thought his mother knew that cooking was not one of her talents. After all, didn’t people know instinctively what they were good at and what was clearly beyond their reach?

  “Ah, Mom, come on. You’ve always known you couldn’t cook worth a darn, didn’t you? I mean, didn’t you?” Sam watched his mother blink to hold back tears. Oh boy, he had really stuck his foot in his mouth this time. “But you have the best flowers of anyone, bar none. No one can grow a garden like my mom.”

  “Oh no you don’t. You can’t sweet talk me now.” Her hands fluttered and her lips quivered.

  Sam grabbed his mother’s hands, wrapped her arms around his waist, then hugged her against his chest. “You’re the best mom in the world. I love you.” Sam’s voice became thick with emotion and he had trouble getting the words past the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry for all my sins of omission. Oh, Mom.”

  The dam of guilt built over the past fifteen years broke and a trembling Sam flooded his mother’s shoulder with a torrent of remorse.

  Allison guided them to the loveseat where she rocked to and fro with a palm at the back of her son’s head and her cheek against his cheek—all awash with tears that soaked and cleansed them. But Sam could not grasp that missing piece to fill the hole inside him, not with an ocean of tears or a mother’s forgiveness.

  “Do you remember what we fought about that last time I saw him?”

  “Oh dear, no. You two were made from the same cloth, both too stubborn to give an inch. Sometimes I thought you and Pop disagreed for the sheer pleasure of the argument. But not that night. I never did know and Pop wouldn’t tell me though I asked him many times. He missed you so—sometimes I’d catch him crying. ‘Call him,’ I’d say. He’d just walk away from me.”

  “It’s crazy. Whatever it was ate at me all those years, and suddenly, I can’t remember. I didn’t even know I didn’t remember until I pulled out that snowmobile.” Sam took the tissues his mother pulled from her dress pocket and wiped his face. “A fifteen year feud of such importance. Erased. But too late.”

  ******

  Margie saw the lights on at the Gears’ house on her way up the hill home and tried to imagine what the mother and her son might be doing. There was a light on in an upstairs bedroom, she saw as she walked past. It was the bedroom facing her house, the one Allison told her was Sam’s when she guided her through it on a visit. Margie could picture the room exactly. She turned and walking backwards stared up at the curtained light. At eight o’clock the sun was down and the air chilly. She hugged herself around the thin jacket she was wearing and wondered why just imagining the man in the upstairs bedroom caused her heart to quicken. Why this man after so many years of nothing? Did Sam happen along at just the right time in her life when her guilt was fading and her heart freed to fall in love? Or was Sam “Mr. Right?” her knight in shining armor that no barrier could daunt? Was she falling in love—for real?

  Margie turned herself around to face the upward climb, jumped as high in the air as she could manage with her hands still hugging herself, and ran/skipped the rest of the way to the yard.

  There were only a scattered few homes on Hiker Hill. The small, two bedroom ranch that Margie rented was a couple hundred feet up from the Gear’s two story. Margie’s living room faced the back of the Gear house and Sam’s bedroom window. She stood at her picture window and stared at the light shining behind the shade she knew was his room and wondered if she was in his thoughts at all. Then she thought about his estranged wife. What does estranged mean, exactly? Margie ran to her bedroom and the bookcase headboard for Webster’s dictionary. To allienate the feelings or affections of; to remove or keep at a distance—she looked up divorce—a judicial declaration dissolving a marriage and releasing both spouses from all matrimonial obligations.

  But suppose he still loved her. Suppose he was up there in that room dreaming, remembering her. Back in the living room, Margie eased herself to her knees on the couch that backed up to the window and with her face braced on fists, her mind raced on. Suppose he fantasizes making love to the woman everyone who ever saw her says is the sexiest woman they’d ever met. Well, maybe not everyone. Brownie says so. And suppose, Margie Merryhill, he doesn’t even know you are alive.

  A seven inch statue of Mary of Fatima stood on the mantle of the fireplace. “I need to dance,” she told the Lady in Blue and walked to her bedroom to change her clothes.

  Grandma’s record player sat on a wooden stool in a corner of the living room with a stack of LP albums beside it. Margie’s favorite records were in the flat red box tucked under the couch. The original score from Saturday Night Fever always put wings to her feet and passion to her soul. She pulled the album out and with an excitement the likes she hadn’t felt since her teens, she carried it to the turntable. Dressed in tights and halter top, she fantasized an audience of one Sam Gear and danced her Saturday Night Fever.

  ******

  Sam found his mother in the kitchen baking for the nursing home her group was visiting the next day. “Do you have any idea what became of Pop’s binoculars?” He tried not to sound in-a-hurry.

  “What in the world?”

  “Just tell me where to look.” His impatience was showing, after all.

  “The last time I saw them they were in the back of the linen closet in the hall upstairs.”

  Sam was off like his pants were on fire.

  Allison found him at his bedroom window with the binoculars stuck to his face.

  “Sam! What are you doing?” She walked to the window and shook her blue/gray curly-permed locks. “Shame on you, you naughty boy.”

  “I think she’s dancing for me.”

  “In that case I won’t tell you she dances like that quite often. Well, not often, but I see her at it every once in awhile. She says she wanted to be a dancer when she was a little girl.” Allison watched and smiled. “Good, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.” The word escaped as a long breath.

  Allison shook her head again and left him.

  ******

  Peter arrived home at 9:20, stepped into the living room, cupped his hands aro
und his mouth, then left the room. Margie stopped dancing, walked to the turntable, and turned her head in the direction Peter went. Sam could see she was saying something. She removed the record from the player, placed it back in the paper sleeve, and the cardboard album cover. Hugging the treasure to her chest, Margie walked to the under-the-couch box and put it away. She then left the room in the direction of the kitchen.

  Sam wished he had a phone in his bedroom like he did back home. Oh well, his mother would know he’d called her soon enough anyway. He bounded down the stairs for the phone in the kitchen. A speed dial indicating “Margie” enabled Sam to call without finding the phone book.

  “Hello?” She sounded out of breath.

  “Hey.” Sam realized he hadn’t a clue where he was going with this. “Uhm … Can you talk? I mean, am I interrupting something? This is Sam, by the way.”

  “Hi. Yes, I mean no.” A chuckle. “I can talk.”

  “I, uh, I was wondering. Don’t you get a day off? I never go in that diner you’re not there.” Cripes, it had been a long time since he’d tried to date. He was tongue tied as well as empty headed. He should have planned this call before making it.

  “I used to get Sundays off, but then they fired Darlene last year. She used to manage the diner—you probably remember her? Anyway, if I don’t show, there’s no one to cook in the kitchen.” A moment’s pause. “Well, that’s not exactly true, but I need the money so I haven’t complained.”

  “I don’t guess you get time and a half for overtime?”

  “That’s funny.”

  About to lose his nerve, he jumped in. “I was hoping I could take you to dinner and a movie one evening. There’s a great restaurant in Keene, New Hampshire I’ve been wanting to visit since I’ve been back in town, but we could go someplace closer if you prefer …”

  “Lady and the Tramp is playing in Springfield. I’d love to see it. I miss it every time it’s out.”

  Sam hesitated.

  “You’ve seen it a hundred times, probably, huh?”

  “Sorry, it took me a minute to place it. You mean Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. Yeah, that’s okay with me. I saw it a hundred years ago, but I don’t exactly remember it.”

  “Could we eat at the Hartness House? I’ve never been there and I’d love to see the old Governor’s mansion.”

  “The Hartness House it is. When?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  ******

  Margie called Barker, the owner of the diner, to tell him she’d be taking the evening off but she’d have plenty of the Wednesday night special, American Chop Suey, made before she left. He inquired about her health; she told him she had a date with Sam Gear. Barker, an old friend of Samuel Gear, Sr., worried out loud, telling her to be careful.

  The day crept by on snail’s feet. Margie’s eyes slid from her work to the clock above the entrance to the kitchen like a pendulum. Every new jingle of the entrance door made her heart race. Was she afraid he’d show up and cancel, or was she more afraid he wouldn’t? She related the whole phone conversation to Hannah who couldn’t believe Margie had requested the movie she wanted to see and even changed the choice of restaurants.

  “But I rarely ever get asked on a date, and I’ve never been to the Governor’s mansion,” Margie defended herself. Actually, she couldn’t believe she’d done that either. She giggled remembering and wondered what Sam Gear must think of her. She hoped he wasn’t sorry he asked her out. She hoped he wouldn’t be sorry for the experience of taking her on a date.

  Margie left the diner when the clock reached five and walked home changing clothes in her mind over and over. She supposed she needed to dress up for the Hartness House and didn’t have much in fancy clothes. She was having second thoughts.

  ******

  Sam’s knock announced he was on time at six-thirty. Clutching a terry cloth robe at the neckline, Margie answered the door. “I’ve only got to dress. Won’t be a minute. Have a seat.” And she was off, leaving him standing in the hallway.

  Back in her bedroom she donned the blue knit dress she’d carefully ironed, sprayed her curled hair once more, finger pressed errant strands in place and applied the rose colored lipstick she saved for special occasions. Gingerly she squeezed her feet into the blue leather heels she’d borrowed from Hannah whose feet were half a size smaller than hers. She wouldn’t be on them much, she hoped. The pinch cramped her toes making it difficult to walk without a limp.

  The entrance hall lead to the kitchen straight ahead, or to the living room on the left. Margie found Sam sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the bunny salt and pepper shakers. They matched the bunny decals on the backs of the kitchen chairs which all of a sudden became terribly childish.

  He looked up and smiled. Lord, help me, he’s gorgeous. He was dressed in blue too. A suit, white shirt and blue paisley tie. A topcoat was draped over the back of a chair.

  “Ready to go?” He stood up. “You look fantastic.” He sniffed the air. “Uhm, what’s that?”

  “Youth Dew.” She was a stiff, but tremulous soldier.

  “Very nice.” He knitted his brows, sensing her nervousness, she guessed. “You need a coat, it’s cold.” His smile returned but it was a different kind of smile, like one he might offer a shy child.

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t have a “coat,” coat. Just a parka.” Her voice rose to a high pitch completely out of control.

  “That’s fine, but your legs will get cold. Mom has a long coat, I’m sure. We can stop by on our way,” Sam said.

  She was glued to the floor. Was she supposed to get her parka, or not? Why was this so difficult?

  “Better get your parka, don’t you think?” He placed his hand on her shoulder and brought his face close. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I’m perfectly fine.” She lifted her eyes from the floor and looked into his. “I don’t get out much.” She tried a laugh, but the sound that came was hysterical. “I’m embarrassed I don’t own a coat.” She shrugged as if that explained everything.

  He laughed, a chuckle really, but it eased the tension and she hobbled (her toes were numb from standing in the small shoes) to the coat closet for the parka.

  ******

  “It feels like snow,” Margie said as she nestled down into Allison’s soft lamb’s wool coat.

  Sam turned the station wagon onto Highway 11 to Springfield. “Too early,” he said and glanced at her. “Your hair looks good curled. It’s a pretty color.”

  “It won’t stay curled at the diner. The steam from cooking. I quit trying to fix it.”

  “You ought to let it grow. You could pull it back, or braid it, or something.” He must hate the way she usually wore her hair. “I’m partial to long hair on a woman.”

  “My hair gets thinner and flightier the longer it gets.” Beginning to feel self-conscious, she guessed his ex had Heather Locklear hair. “Not one of my best features, I’m afraid.”

  “Rita used to have hers permed. Gave it a fuller look and feel, she said.”

  “Rita?” His wife’s name was Karen.

  “My sister.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve never met her. She lives in California?”

  “Yeah. She wore her hair long like Cher with curls. Her hair’s dark like my dad’s.”

  “A perm doesn’t last more than a week on me.” Surely there was something else they could discuss. “Baby fine hair is not a gift one prays for.”

  Sam ran a hand over the top of his head. “Or a receding hairline.”

  “I thought you had a high widow’s peak,” she told him, demonstrating a sensitivity she thought he lacked.

  He offered her a look of appreciation and a grin spread across his mouth. “That’s it,” he said.

  ******

  Built in 1903, the Hartness House was the mansion of James Hartness, Vermont’s Governor from 1920 to 1922. An historical landmark of national renown on 30 Orchard Street in Springfield, Vermont, the Hartness was both an inn and r
estaurant and the “in” place to dine.

  Sam parked the wagon and had intentions of opening the passenger door for Margie, but found her outside the car staring in awe at the estate’s grandeur.

  “Have you ever been here?” she whispered as if on sacred ground.

  “Not since my wedding reception,” he answered, obviously unimpressed.

  ******

  That’s what you get for being so forward, silly fool. Oh, this evening was not going well. Margie mentally beat herself for suggesting this place when Sam had wanted to go to some restaurant in Keene, New Hampshire. Normally, she would not have been so bold, but she wanted this relationship. And so she vowed to be different. A different Margie. A woman of the world. One who spoke up, said what she liked or didn’t. Where she wanted to go and how she wanted to get there. And if she wasn’t sure, she’d make something up. But she would not be indecisive, afraid, self-conscious. She would not be herself.

  ******

  The restaurant was fairly empty. The guests present were probably regulars that were either rooming here or made the Hartness House their eatery on a nightly basis. It was Wednesday, after all, not a night when most working couples were out to dine. Nonetheless, the room was exquisite. A shiver ran up Sam’s spine accompanied by memories for which he had no appetite tonight. He looked at the little woman across from him and wished he’d had the forethought to say “no” to this place.

  “Let’s eat and run,” he thought out loud, scanning the menu.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. Bad choice, huh?”

  “I had no idea the place would piss me off. I mean, don’t worry about it. I’ll live, it’s no big deal.”

  “Let’s go someplace else. Really. We can say we forgot something at home. Like we forgot our money.” He was watching her eyes. “Really.”

  “Is Paddock’s still on the other side of the bridge?” he asked.