When he stepped inside his home Bob saw Margaret on the couch; she was still sobbing—oh she was sobbing!—and her dress, a deep blue cotton dress that, when she was standing, went far below her knees, was now twisted up, and he saw her white leg and it broke his heart; it had the look of something disembodied, as though it belonged to someone who had been murdered and dismembered. And Margaret herself looked terrible, her face splotched and puffy, the poor, poor thing.
And yet, as is often the case, those of us who need love so badly at a particular moment can be off-putting to those who want to love us, and to those who do love us. Bob, as he looked at her—she seemed like a beached sea animal to him with her eyes that had almost disappeared—he did love her, he did. And yet to go to her and hold her was a thing that was strangely difficult for him to do. And this was not because of Lucy, it was because she was Margaret and he had never seen her in such distress before, and it was—oh dear God—off-putting for him.
He sat down beside her, and she moved so that her head was in his lap, and she continued to weep. He touched her head, whispering, “Oh Margaret.” And after a few moments, she sat up and said, “Avery Mason always falls asleep!”
*
The horror of Avery Mason’s being on the board haunted Bob and Margaret in a way that was extremely dismal. But Bob noticed something soon after: that when he sat in his third-row pew now, he did not feel any sense of discomfort watching his wife. She spoke with a new tone, and it was interesting. She spoke one week with a quiet sincerity about forgiveness, and the next week about love. He even noticed that a few members of the congregation made a point of telling her after how moved they were by her sermons.
But she wept every night, and this broke Bob’s heart.
*
Bob, on his walks with Lucy, at first did not mention Margaret’s nightly weeping, but then he did. And Lucy stopped walking and said, “Bob, that’s so awful. Oh Jesus.”
They kept walking and Lucy said, “How long will this take to get resolved?” And Bob said, “It could take months.”
“God, I’m so sorry,” Lucy said.
“Yeah. Me too. But here’s a funny thing: She’s better in the pulpit.” And he told Lucy then about how when he used to watch Margaret he always felt the slightest sense of uneasiness, but now he didn’t. “She’s just talking straight to them.”
“That’s interesting. That’s actually fascinating,” Lucy said.
And they talked more about all that had happened to them since they had last seen each other. Mrs. Hasselbeck had finally figured out that her gin was watered down. “She did?” Lucy said.
“Two years later, and she finally said to me this week—I mean, she was nice about it, but she said, ‘Robert, this is not full gin. You’ve watered it down, and don’t tell me you haven’t.’ So I confessed to her, told her I was worried about her, and she said she would like to be treated like an adult and not a child. Which I thought was sort of a valid point.”
“It is. So what are you going to do?”
Bob shrugged. “I guess give her the full bottle.”
And then Lucy told Bob about the story that Olive had told her of Aunt Pauline and the fisherman she was in love with.
Bob felt a momentary pain in his stomach. “That’s a terrible story. Why did you decide she shouldn’t have married him?”
“Because he was already married.”
“Okay.”
“And also because Pauline liked nice things. And he probably wouldn’t have been able to give them to her.”
“Fishermen make a good living,” Bob said.
“So you’re on his side?” Lucy turned to look at him as she asked this.
“No.”
“Why not?” Lucy persisted.
Bob waved a hand; he didn’t want to talk about this. “Because he was married.”
They had reached the spot for his cigarette, and because there was no wind today Bob had to keep moving as he smoked it. Lucy sat on the granite bench as he paced. “How are the girls?” he asked.
She said, “Oh, I wanted to tell you! Chrissy said the reason she’s been a little cold is that she misses me!”
“And why does that make her cold to you?”
“She said because I moved to Maine, and even though I come to New York and go see her in New Haven, it’s like she has lost me. Because I don’t live in New York anymore. So we had a really long talk about it.” Lucy shook her head. “I mean it’s still breaking my heart,” but Lucy looked at him and said this with a smile.
“But she knows why you moved to Maine,” Bob said.
“Yeah, yeah. But people are people, Bob.”
They could not help themselves, Bob thought. He and Lucy were just happy when they were together.
“Oh, and Bridget’s going to come up for the weekend in a couple of weeks!”
“Hey, that’s great,” Bob said.
“I guess. I’m a little scared. I mean, she’s William’s daughter, not mine, but it should be okay.”
“It will be good,” Bob said.
“For some reason I think it’s going to make me miss David. It already does. I mean, I guess because Bridget was never in my life with him.” Lucy stared out at the river. “When William goes to New York he sees Bridget without me, I don’t know her at all, really.”
“Ah, Lucy. Good luck with it.”
He finished his cigarette earlier than usual so that he could sit beside her on the granite bench. He held up the half butt. “Thanks, Lucy,” he said, tucking it back into the pack.
