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Maggie’s Choice
Pat Lotito
It was an accident. Her parents named her Margaret . Somewhere along the line she became Maggie and then Mag. Her own daughter she named Maureen and Maureen, against all Mag’s wishes, bypassing her hopes, became Moe. Moe’s daughter Molly Ann became - God forbid - Mol. Her own husband, Billie, the child’s grandfather, was responsible. Thinking that the young Molly Ann was wonderfully aggressive and sometimes sly, he started bouncing her on his knee and calling her his little Mol.
So there it was, Mag, Moe and Mol. Her hatred of this was so intense that she thought sometimes she ought to die on the early side to carve it down to two. Sometimes she caught herself with a clutch of horror thinking that an early death for one of the others was possible. At any rate two would be better than three but her unplanned daydreams came, of course, to naught.
Her daughter Moe looked like a carbon copy, though a little smaller, of herself. Not much smaller, though, because she herself was five nine and Moe was almost five eight. The little gangster looked a bit more on the normal, girly side with her bright inquisitive face and her long dark hair brushed back into a ponytail. Actually, Mag didn’t give her much thought and was certainly not what one might call invested in her. Her thoughts of both Moe and Mol were contemplative and distant rather than anchored in the moment.She cared, to some degree, when something good happened to them and when something bad happened. When it was good she knew how to express herself with “what a good thing, good work, so glad to see it and isn’t that wonderful.” On bad things she commiserated and then was silent.
Silence was not a mark of sensitivity though she hoped it seemed so. Actually, silence was her natural reaction to everything. When she was younger she often fell silent in the company of others, unsure of what she thought or felt. As she grew older she realized she just didn’t care.
One morning she woke with the pleasant sense that something new, different, was about to happen. And happen to her, not just happen around her. Patience was always at the ready for her so it was no chore to let thought go and simply allow the feeling to stay. She ate her usual breakfast, crunchy cereal and skim milk and made a cup of instant coffee. By ten o’clock she had already listened to the woes of others, two phone calls from her circle of friends. The mornings’ topics were the removed gall bladder of a mutual acquaintance and a rebellious teenage daughter. She acknowledged the concerns of both callers, kept the conversation going with little murmurs of empathetic understanding. The feeling of something in the air persisted and she found, to her astonishment, that she was almost interested in the lives of others. “Grist for my mill” she thought. “My God, that’s it. I’m going to be a writer. There was no nay saying in her head, no automatic shut down which happened if she came upon a thought or a circumstance which disturbed her.
Instead, a calm steadiness of purpose, an unfamiliar feeling of pleasure. I have a mission she thought, a mission. Surely that’s what has been missing. Only now was she able to think that something might have been missing. She tidied up the kitchen, ran the vacuum cleaner over the rug in the living room, went to the mailbox and brought the mail inside. There were two bills, a page of grocery store bargains and a request from lley Cat Allies for a contribution.
She checked the laundry hamper in the bathroom and decided there was not enough to warrant a tubful, better wait until tomorrow. She filed the bills, wrote a ten dollar check to Alley Cats and got it ready for posting. Then she sat down in her favorite living room chair and let the mornings’ astounding revelation creep over her, take body and soul. Little interstices in her comprehension of herself seemed to be filling even as she sat.
A writer is a quiet person, a writer observes, a writer remembers and understands the activities of others. Even antipodal existences were, again, grist for her mill. Grist for her mill. The years of listening became a bank of remembered knowledge of the lives of others, the writer’s well, grist for the writer’s mill. Grist. She could taste the word in her mouth. It had the substance of something one actually ate. As she sat, the years slipped away, only the mission remained. Thank God she was in good shape. At fifty seven her face was hardly wrinkled at all. She was the right weight, she slept well, she walked a mile or two every day. She had developed a comfortable relationship with Moe and Mol and Moe’s husband Danny. They saw each other about once every three or four weeks, spoke to each other about once every two or three weeks. Her writer’s life, the only life she could now envision, would fit quite well into that scheme.
She felt she could even handle book signing events, could organize her wardrobe, buy what was needed to make a fine impression. Everything was right, nothing was wrong.
Call number three came at ten thirty.
“I just don’t know what he’s thinking” gasped her friend Sally. She spoke through bouts of weeping.
“He says he doesn’t want a divorce, just a little room. Room for what for God’s sake. What room? And he says there definitely isn’t anyone else.”
Maggie was silent.
“I believe him about that part. He never could tell a lie, even a little one.” said Sally, her voice a little stronger.
Maggie’s silence grew.
“You don’t think I should?” said Sally, “Believe him I mean. You think there might be someone else?”
Silence.
“Is there something you know and just don’t want to tell me?” A little sympathetic murmur from Maggie, a little ambiguous sigh.
“If there is you have to tell me. You have to.”
“No” said Maggie softly.,
“But you think there might be, don’t you?”
“Um” sighed Maggie.
“Oh God” said Sally. “If there is I just don’t know what to do. What would I tell the kids?
“Oh” offered Maggie.
“Better wait, right? But I’m going to be looking down his Goddamned throat, looking at everything he does, the bastard! I’ll keep at him till he tells me the truth.”
“Ah” ventured Maggie.
“At least the kids are okay. They’re oblivious. One thing Don and I have been good at is keeping trouble to ourselves. And they’re crazy about him. Well. I’ve gotta run. Will you be home this afternoon?”
“Yes” breathed Maggie.
“I’ll call you then. And let’s keep this to ourselves.”
Maggie shut her eyes and spoke a few words to herself, then got up and went into the kitchen to make a list. When she was finished the list read like this:
potatoes
oven cleaner
salad greens
divorce on the way
husband unfaithful
lying to wife, children
Wife hysterical
Children hurting
Wife worried about children’s suicide
She was doing research. Writers do research. They research their books. She fell into a sort of reverie. Gentle thoughts , happy thoughts filtered through her untroubled mind. They swam almost to the surface then disappeared in a golden glow. At eleven fifteen the phone rang again.
“Mag? Hey listen it’s Miriam.”
“Um” offered Mag.
“Sally’s phone’s been busy all morning. I checked with the operator and they said it’s out of order. Have you talked with her?”
“Yes” breathed Maggie.
“And? Any reason she might have taken it off the hook?”
“Hum...” said Maggie.
“You can tell me. She’s one of my best friends. What’s up?”
“Well...” said Maggie, drawing the word out into three pieces.
“There’s trouble isn’t there. I can just tell. Did she talk to you about it?”
“Well...” reiterated Maggie.
“Oh c’mon. If she’s in the soup she needs all of us.”
“Well, yes” breathed Maggie after a considerable silence.
“Is it Don? He’s such a mamby pamby. Can’t think what he could do except bore her to death.”
“Oh” offered Maggie. Silence.
“It is Don. Well I’ll be damned. Still water and all that. Does he have somebody else?”
“Oh” said Maggie again.
“Do you know who?”
“No...”, drawn out with a little lift at the end.
“Well she must be in shock. Though it does make him more interesting. How are the children doing?”
“Um...” said Maggie.
“How bad?”
“Oh”.
“Real bad?”
“Um. She’s pretty worried.”
“As in really worried? Oh my God, that’s the worst, anything with children.”
“Yes” agreed Maggie.
“Is she taking them to someone? Did she tell you?”
“Um...”
“She did, didn’t she. How bad do you think it looks?”
“Well...”, said Maggie.
“Do you think they would hospitalize the kids, that bad?”
“Hum..”.
“Oh my good lord.. The nearest possible place is eighty miles away. Has she talked to anyone else?”
“Noooo””
“Well I’m going to call Pam. She’s good in an emergency. Sally has her hands full, Don screwing around and now the kids!. Boy, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Poor Sally. Those kids always did seem a little, well, unsettled.”
“Yes” offered Maggie.
“Will you be home this afternoon?”
“Um”
“I’ll get back. Bye.”
In the kitchen Maggie started a new list. This one read:
potatoes
oven cleaner
salad greens
Ingredients for meatloaf
Strawberries
Diet soda
Children hospitalized eighty miles away
Parents distraught.
Finished, she drew a line below the list and decorated it with little scrolls. She tore off the top, ending with diet soda, and got ready for the store.
At the store she bought potatoes and oven cleaner, salad greens and strawberries, ingredients for meatloaf, diet soda, iced tea, and a package of little cake like shortcakes. At the checkout aisle her checkout person, an older woman, remarked on the strawberries saying we know summer’s around the corner when these are for sale, don’t we? Maggie agreed and felt a glow of pleasure at the little exchange. She’s a pleasant woman and we had a pleasant conversation she thought.
At home she put away the meat, the potatoes, the strawberries and the salad greens, put the oven cleaner under the kitchen sink and the soda and iced tea in a cupboard, reserving one which she drank over ice. Sitting at the kitchen table ideas for the inside back cover of the dust jacket began occurring to her. Widowed seven years ago, Maggie Tallsman has established a rich, interesting, friend filled life which includes her daughter Maureen, son-in-law Danny and granddaughter Molly.
After a bit she rose and went into the living room where she pulled a book from the bookcase. It seemed about the right size, 300 pages. She counted the lines on a few pages and found an average. Then she counted the words in an average line and settled upon the figure of 210 words per page. This gave her a total of 63,000 words.
She figured on one month for research leaving 11 months for writing - how delicious that would be, she could hardly wait to get started. She divided 63,000 by 325 days and found that she need write only 193 words a day! How hard could that be! She decided she would rise at eight, eat breakfast, have coffee, begin writing at nine and work until noon. She could see herself at noon, hitting her stride, words flowing easily. Perhaps I’ll write a little longer, she would think. No, I am a disciplined, professional person. I write till noon. I quit at noon and resume at nine tomorrow.
The phone rang at two thirty. She went into the bedroom, sat in her comfortable bedside chair and picked it up.
“This is Maggie.”
“Pam here.”
Her faintly British accent informed every syllable.
“Um” said Maggie.
“Miriam says Sally’s having a dreadful time with some serious family issues.”
“Hum..” said Maggie.
“Do you have any news?”
“Um, not really.”
“You don’t have to beat around the bush with me, Maggie, I’d like to help if I could.”
“Well....”
“Do you think I should go over. Just for a visit, mind you, not give a reason. I do that once in a while.”
“Well...”
“I guess that’s the thing to do. Have you talked to Miriam again today?”
“No.”
“Well if you do, tell her I called and I’m going to just drop in on Sally, check out the lay of the land.”
“Yes.”
“By the way, sometimes her kids take spring break with her mother and stepfather. So if they’re at hospital, no need to inquire.”
“Right.”
They said their goodbyes and Maggie sat a moment more before getting the dirty laundry from the hamper in the bathroom. She started a tubful, mixd the meatloaf and returned it to the refrigerator, picked up a new piece of note paper and sat down at the kitchen table.
Her father, she wrote, a well known polymath, set the stage for his gifted daughter. Father and daughter, on their long nature walks, explored the history of fiction, discussed its effect on the social clime of each century. A gentle man, he adored his longlimbed and gregarious offspring. Sensing the greatness of her future he gave objective shape to her instinctive understanding of literature. Soon she became as well versed as himself. Added to this knowledge was her vivid and soaring imagination, giving rise to plots and intricacies of character born out in her later novels.
She took joy in raising her daughter, took joy in her relationship with her husband Billy and grieved terribly at his loss. Her sorrow was eased by her close and almost daily relationship with her granddaughter Molly. Like many writers of genius, her novels took shape only after years of living. the first one being published during her fifty seventh year.
The phone rang again. Sally was driving and they had a fenderbender. Don hurt his lower back but he’s fine, said Pam.
They said goodbye and she turned to what she had written.
Pleased, she went into the living room and brought back into the kitchen two photo albums, old and dogeared. She looked at each picture carefully. Part way into the first album she found the picture of herself at age 10 with her father. His hat was squarely on his head, his shirt seemed stiff and new. He was staring at something beyond. She continued paging through the album, knowing from long habit that no other picture of him would appear. That was the end of it, the end of him.
Once more she read what she had written, savoring each word, each thought. How true, how wonderful. What a shame there were no pictures of the two of them, herself a curious young woman of twenty, her father, so educated, so sweet natured, so attentive. ‘I’ll do you up proud,” she thought, I’ll do you up proud.”
Startled she noticed the clock. An hour had gone by. She had forgotten some things on her trip to the store and planned to go again.
She began her list:
Cereal
Orange juice
margarine
She stared into the middle distance, then added:
Accident on way to hospital
Sally driving, Don hurt
Doctor’s report - his manhood was just sliced right off
The phone rang. “Maggie, it’s Miriam. I’ve got awful news.”
“Oh” said Maggie.
“It’s Sally. They got in an accident taking the kids to the hospital. Sally was driving. Don hurt his lower back but he was checked out and he’s okay. Nobody else got hurt. They left the children at the hospital and drove home okay. Don’s laid up a little but nothing bad.”
“Um” offered Maggie.
“Did Pam call you already. You sound as if you knew. She called?
“Yes” said Maggie.
“Well I guess Don’s okay, just a sore back.”
Silence.
“It wasn’t worse was it”
Silence, then a little sigh.
“Maggie, tell me so I can help. He was hurt worse than his back?
“Um”
“How bad?”
“Bad”
“Oh my. Sally insists on driving. She says Don thinks it’s unmanly, but she says that’s silly. How bad is it?”
“Well.... he thinks it’s unmanly....”
“Yeah. They fight about it. What happened? Something about manly or unmanly?”
“Well..”:
“C’mon Maggie. I know you don’t like to gossip but what is it. Did he hurt his penis or something.”
Long silence. “Yes”
“Oh Jesus how horrible. How bad?”
“Bad”
“Oh my God. I’ve got to get over there. But we can’t say anything, we have to go along with what they’re putting out.”
“Yes”
“Well thanks, Maggie. I’ll call Pam and we’ll just keep this to ourselves. Remember, the kids are at her mothers’. Talk to you later, maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Bye.”
Calm and untroubled, she put the photo albums in the kitchen trashcan, tied up the bag and threw it down cellar. There were two more albums in the living room. She fetched them and took a pair of scissors from her kitchen workbasket.
The pictures were all of women, herself with her mother, herself with a friend. Later on, Maggie and Moe, Moe and Mol. Moe, Mol and Danny. And Billy mixed in. Billy. A nice person though she didn’t miss him at all.
Carefully she removed each picture and cut her face or her body away and replaced it in the little holders. She was still working as it grew dark. The phone rang several times but she was too busy, having too pleasant a time. When it grew quite dark she took a pair of garden shears and carefully cut through the cord of the telephone. She laid the phone out very carefully, the receiver off the pedestal, both pointed the same direction.
It was too dark to work so she sat contentedly, pleasantly aware of the blackness which edged in so gradually. Her mind was clear and uncluttered. Only Moe and Mol will remain, she thought. That’s better than three of us.
