then came back to the house. “Seventy-eight.” The climb had left him puffing slightly. “Like I said, 8-22-78, three years ago. Clear as can be.”
The sound of the closing front door, muted by thick weather stripping, set echoes bouncing in Mary Margaret’s head: More than this. There must be more than this.
“Did you listen, Pa? Did you hear what I said?”
“He’s got to do one thing at a time,” her mother said. “You asked him about the sign.”
Always on his side, Mary Margaret thought. You’re alike as twins.
“Edward and I are still friends, but we want a divorce and that’s what we’re going to get.”
“Catholic people don’t get divorced,” her mother said.
Her father said, “The Slob walked out on you.”
I have honored these people, she thought, I have honored them for all my twenty-nine years, and I am not about to stop now.
“His name is Edward, and he didn’t leave me. We agreed to separate, both of us.”
“You want to eat dinner?” her mother said to her father.
They heaved themselves out of their chairs and went to the table.
The words were still echoing. Hers? Or Edward’s? More than this.
Her parents ate steadily, she only pushed the noodles across her plate, separating the bits of tuna, the peas.
“You don’t want to eat?” her mother said. “You got to eat to keep your strength up.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her father said, “You’re not going to keep that apartment?”
“Just for a couple of weeks,” she said.
“You got to think of where to live.”
Mary Margaret pushed a red fleck of pimiento to the rim of her plate. “Yes.”
Her mother folded her hands. With her heavy sloping shoulders and small head topped by a cone of black hair she was a perfect pyramid. “Her room’s still here.”
“How would it look,” her father said. “Her living here, married and without a husband and divorced.”
“How it looks?” her mother repeated hesitantly.
“Who’d care,” Mary Margaret said. “Who’d know. Who ever comes here?”
Only their blood, their cousins, on special holidays and saint’s days and Communion days, when white-dressed children went from house to house, bringing with them innocence and spiritual grace. And good luck. Her father said he always brought in his longest shots on Communion days.
Now they were telling her she wasn’t welcome back. That her parents’ house was closed.… Except for Wednesday supper and perpetual novena.
I must tell Edward that, she thought, as soon as I get home. He’ll love that and we’ll have a good laugh.
He’d be waiting for her—she was certain. Sex was now a hunger for them, demanding, painful, then satisfied and comfortable. They were so happy together, they were friends. In two weeks they would separate, with a kiss.
Maybe, she thought, that’s all there is.
Her mother was saying with unusual emphasis, “She can come back here, Al. I want her to come back here.” She wiped the perspiration from her fat cheeks with her paper napkin. “I don’t care what you or anybody says.”
Well, Mary Margaret thought wryly, scratch one, but the old mare came through.… And aloud she said, “I didn’t know you thought so much about appearances, Pa.”
“It’s her room.” Her mother was shivering—anger or nervousness—her pudgy shoulders shook and a sharp smell of old woman’s sweat came from her.
“Wait, Ma,” Mary Margaret said, “you didn’t let me finish. I’m changing jobs too and I’m moving. To Oklahoma City.”
Slowly her father got up and took the paperbound Texaco Atlas of the United States from the corner bookshelf. (They’d gotten it years before, when they drove to Florida. It was their first and only vacation, they hated every minute.) He unfolded the largest map and put it on the table.
Mary Margaret pointed. “There. Right there.”
Everything had happened at once. The evening they decided on divorce, the very same evening Edward told her he’d be
The sound of the closing front door, muted by thick weather stripping, set echoes bouncing in Mary Margaret’s head: More than this. There must be more than this.
“Did you listen, Pa? Did you hear what I said?”
“He’s got to do one thing at a time,” her mother said. “You asked him about the sign.”
Always on his side, Mary Margaret thought. You’re alike as twins.
“Edward and I are still friends, but we want a divorce and that’s what we’re going to get.”
“Catholic people don’t get divorced,” her mother said.
Her father said, “The Slob walked out on you.”
I have honored these people, she thought, I have honored them for all my twenty-nine years, and I am not about to stop now.
“His name is Edward, and he didn’t leave me. We agreed to separate, both of us.”
“You want to eat dinner?” her mother said to her father.
They heaved themselves out of their chairs and went to the table.
The words were still echoing. Hers? Or Edward’s? More than this.
Her parents ate steadily, she only pushed the noodles across her plate, separating the bits of tuna, the peas.
“You don’t want to eat?” her mother said. “You got to eat to keep your strength up.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her father said, “You’re not going to keep that apartment?”
“Just for a couple of weeks,” she said.
“You got to think of where to live.”
Mary Margaret pushed a red fleck of pimiento to the rim of her plate. “Yes.”
Her mother folded her hands. With her heavy sloping shoulders and small head topped by a cone of black hair she was a perfect pyramid. “Her room’s still here.”
“How would it look,” her father said. “Her living here, married and without a husband and divorced.”
“How it looks?” her mother repeated hesitantly.
“Who’d care,” Mary Margaret said. “Who’d know. Who ever comes here?”
Only their blood, their cousins, on special holidays and saint’s days and Communion days, when white-dressed children went from house to house, bringing with them innocence and spiritual grace. And good luck. Her father said he always brought in his longest shots on Communion days.
Now they were telling her she wasn’t welcome back. That her parents’ house was closed.… Except for Wednesday supper and perpetual novena.
I must tell Edward that, she thought, as soon as I get home. He’ll love that and we’ll have a good laugh.
He’d be waiting for her—she was certain. Sex was now a hunger for them, demanding, painful, then satisfied and comfortable. They were so happy together, they were friends. In two weeks they would separate, with a kiss.
Maybe, she thought, that’s all there is.
Her mother was saying with unusual emphasis, “She can come back here, Al. I want her to come back here.” She wiped the perspiration from her fat cheeks with her paper napkin. “I don’t care what you or anybody says.”
Well, Mary Margaret thought wryly, scratch one, but the old mare came through.… And aloud she said, “I didn’t know you thought so much about appearances, Pa.”
“It’s her room.” Her mother was shivering—anger or nervousness—her pudgy shoulders shook and a sharp smell of old woman’s sweat came from her.
“Wait, Ma,” Mary Margaret said, “you didn’t let me finish. I’m changing jobs too and I’m moving. To Oklahoma City.”
Slowly her father got up and took the paperbound Texaco Atlas of the United States from the corner bookshelf. (They’d gotten it years before, when they drove to Florida. It was their first and only vacation, they hated every minute.) He unfolded the largest map and put it on the table.
Mary Margaret pointed. “There. Right there.”
Everything had happened at once. The evening they decided on divorce, the very same evening Edward told her he’d be
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