MAGPIE (5 page)

“What a looker!” Bill bulldozed my thoughts like a Mack truck.

“Yes, quite lovely,” I said as I scanned the wine list.

***

The date wasn’t bad. Actually, I had a good time. We avoided serious topics and talked about movies, travel, and of course, food and wine. The lighting was low, enhancing the dark cherry-wood paneling covering the walls. Brass fixtures, though not my style, added charm to an otherwise formal atmosphere. Servers in crisp white shirts and aprons approached each table with finesse. Ours was handsome, about twenty-five, and unusually tall. He bent practically ninety-degrees to take our order. My back would have protested after the first order of the evening.

Halfway into the wedge salad that we’d decided to share, our nerves settled, and I began to enjoy Bill’s company. He was sixty, but looked younger, and had a full head of hair. It was mostly gray, which complimented his steel-colored eyes. He was tall, about six feet, and had a strong frame, probably played sports as a young man. I couldn’t recall his Match.com profile; didn’t think to research the guy before our date.

“What kinds of things do you enjoy, Bill?” I managed to say before stuffing a wad of bread in my mouth. Our steaks hadn’t yet arrived, and the few sips of wine were beginning to take effect.

“Well, let’s see. I played football in high school and college. I watch a little of it on TV, but I don’t like devoting my weekends to armchair antics.”

That’s worth a few points
, I thought.

“I love to sail. My dad had a boat, and I took to the sea like a dolphin. Haven’t done much of it lately. Work has me pretty tied up. I scuba dive, too. Do you like the water, Maggie?”

My head was in the clouds when he asked me about water. “Oh yes, I do. Dad taught us to swim at an early age. My younger sister, Katie, learned to scuba dive first; she’s been single all her life and has a lot more free time—and money—than me.” Tired of the sound of my voice, I quickly finished the story, “When she explained what it was like, I registered for the next class at a local dive shop. I only dive in warm seas though, no cold water for me.” Wrapping up the story, my mind wandered to memories of my last dive trip.

It was right before the twins were born. Michael was on a leave from a mission he couldn’t talk about, and Carrie was restless; both deserved some time to make up for their military imposed separation. Jack had been working crazy hours, and it’d been an unusually cold winter, even for Colorado. All told, we needed to get away. Throwing caution to the wind, the four of us took off for five days, Saint John our destination. We’d learned of a small cottage situated on a bluff
overlooking Cruz Bay and we didn’t hesitate to book it; we preferred quiet and simple and the charming yellow hideaway fit the bill. One evening in particular stood out: Michael and Carrie swinging lazily on the front porch, the breeze off the bay blowing her hair. He tenderly brushed a strand that had fallen across her face, kissing her forehead afterward. Not wanting to intrude, I stepped back, but not before I heard my son begin to sing, “Here Comes the Sun” into his wife’s round belly.

“Maggie?” Bill had been talking, and I hadn’t heard a word.

“I’m sorry, Bill, what were you saying? I think all my hard work is catching up to me.” I tucked those memories aside, thinking I might want to revisit them again soon.

“It’s perfectly understandable. A risk I assumed when I asked you to dinner after a long day in the garden. Just wanted to know if you’d like another glass of wine.”

I don’t think that’s what he was saying, but saving face was the least I could offer the gentleman who so graciously allowed me to ignore him for a minute or two.

“Yes, I think I would.”

We shared a few more stories and some laughs over a fabulous dinner.

Bill had ordered lamb, two perfectly cooked chops, laying crisscross next to a ramekin filled with mustard shallot sauce, heavy on the Tuscan Sangiovese. My appetite for steak was satisfied by an eight-ounce filet mignon. Cutting into it, I was pleased to see that it was prepared exactly as ordered: rare to medium rare. We ignored the side of asparagus. Delicious as it looked, our carnivorous instincts wouldn’t let us miss even one meaty morsel, leaving us stuffed to the gills. Once our table was cleared, we ordered lemon cake for dessert but only ate a few bites. I’d take the rest home and savor it the next morning with a steaming cup of coffee.

I began to fade, and was happy when the check came. Bill walked me to the valet stand and waited until Beater appeared. He didn’t flinch at the sight of my vehicle, which impressed me just a smidge. Either he had one hell of a poker face, or he was a decent guy and didn’t put a whole lot into what people drive. I stuck with the latter assumption.

“Thank you, Bill. I had a wonderful evening,” I said truthfully.

“My pleasure, Maggie. I did too. I hope we can do it again.” He smiled as he spoke.

“I’d like that. I really would.” Another true statement…surprisingly.

Pulling up, I realized I’d forgotten to leave any lights on. I gingerly felt my way to a light switch and found Cody on the sofa. Jack and I didn’t mind dogs on the furniture, but we didn’t encourage it. Cody had been doing it more, though, particularly when I went out at night.

“Hey, buddy boy, let’s go to bed.”

I led him to my room and watched him plop on his oversized, memory-foam dog bed. I noticed a little more gray hair under his chin, sending a pang of sadness through my heart. I changed into my comfy jammies and washed my face. Almost didn’t brush my teeth then thought twice.

Placing a dollop of paste on my electric brush, I heard my phone go off. Toothbrush still vibrating across my teeth, I ran to my purse to check out who it was and shivered with delight,

Today, 9:57 PM

DANIEL: Hey

MAGS: Brushing teeth, hang on

DANIEL: K

I shut my toothbrush off before the proper two minutes were up and spit clumsily into the sink. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I raced to my bed and checked to see if I had any water left from the night before, but the glass was nearly empty. I sped into the kitchen and filled it up, almost spilling as I ran back to my room. Cody was fast asleep—a good thing, given how awkward it felt wondering how a dog perceives strange noises and vibrations coming from its master’s bed. I grabbed the phone,

MAGS: U were supposed to wait for my command

DANIEL: Oops

MAGS: I forgive

DANIEL: Were you a naughty girl tonight?

MAGS: No, well yes

DANIEL: Yes?

MAGS: Thought about you on the way home, panties soaked by the time I changed

DANIEL: Still wet?

MAGS: Yes, you hard?

DANIEL: As a rock, I’m throbbing

MAGS: So, what r u gunna do to me, Danny boy?

CHAPTER 3

Fast Forwarded Flashbacks

M
emorial Day isn’t a real holiday, not for me. Endless American flags displayed in store windows, proudly hanging from pillars and poles, and waved by enthusiastic crowds inspire me little. Family and a few close friends know to leave me alone; they respect the way I approach grief: in silence and solitude. For the past seven years, I’d spend the last Monday in May thinking about Michael and Jack, leafing through mental scrapbooks containing shards of cherished memories. Sometimes I flip through old faded photo albums, carefully placing the palms of my hands on the faces of my late husband and son, hopeful for one last brush. The pain has subsided somewhat, but the need to remember hasn’t. It was
my
day, and I was very protective of it.

Like hundreds of cities and towns across the country, Denver hosts an annual Memorial Day parade. I’ve never gone. Didn’t think to go before Michael joined the navy, and I didn’t dare after he died. For seven years, I’ve made a point to stay away from the parade route and all the peripheral activities that follow. My twenty-minute commute to the Tech Center takes me in the opposite direction, anyway.

Keeping to my ritual, I headed southeast, away from all the commotion, stopping only for a jolt of caffeine.

Adnan greeted me, “Good morning, Maggie. Working on a holiday I see.” He didn’t know about Michael, only Jack.

“Best time to get things done,” I said flatly, a tone he wasn’t familiar with.

I thanked my friend for the warm concoction and made my way to the office. It was going to be a long day, indeed.

Settling into my chair, I stared at two large stacks of mail. One was made up of manila inter-office envelopes; the other was mostly junk mail.
I’ll start with that
, I thought, when my phone buzzed,

Today, 9:03 AM

DANIEL: How’s your day

MAGS: Ok, yours?

DANIEL: Slow, corp peeps are all out

MAGS: Best time to work tho

DANIEL: Not going to dwell, but I know what today means to you

Sharing personal bits and pieces was easier in a long-distance relationship, especially a virtual one. I’d often wondered if it was the geographic boundaries that insulated me from the pain of sharing details about my losses with Daniel. How could it be so easy to text about Michael and Jack but so damn hard to talk about it?

MAGS: Thx

DANIEL: Talk?

MAGS: Dunno

DANIEL: U have my #

MAGS: I know, thx

DANIEL: Take care, Mags

MAGS: Will do

Daniel was a kind and thoughtful man and, on this particular day, I appreciated the hell out of him. He began using my nickname soon after we swapped personal contact info, said it was easier to text “Mags.” He didn’t know that only my dearest friends and family used it. In return, I began using his childhood nickname, “Danny.” No one used it anymore, he said, making it more special that I did.

Staring at my blank computer screen, I recalled the nicknames Jack and I gave Michael: “Little man” because he was a preemie; “bubba” because he doubled his weight in under three months; “tough guy” because he was such a dare devil; and Jack’s favorite, “asswipe,” a term reserved for their garage projects that doubled as male bonding sessions. We never called him Mike, Mick or Mikey—to us, he was Michael.

Still in a trance, my mind shifted to early memories: The day I found out I was pregnant; Jack’s elation when I shared the news; the day our baby was born; the string of birthday’s we celebrated in the mountains because Jack and I despised those places where manufactured parties are given (on behalf of hyperactive kids and their oblivious parents); graduation from high school, then college…and the day Michael sat us down at the breakfast table and proudly informed us he wanted to be a Navy SEAL.

“Fuck you, fucking navy assholes,” I said with contempt.

I was so goddamned pissed at our government for getting paid to fuck things up around the world, absolving themselves of any responsibility locally by handing me an expertly folded American flag. Michael gave his life and I didn’t even get his dog tags—was told the mission was classified, his body never recovered.

“Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you aren’t here to see your babies. I miss you so much, so much,” I shuddered, burying my face in my hands.

The pain of Jack was different. Ours was an abundant marriage; perfect, no, but fulfilling, absolutely. I contemplated leaving him about a year before he got sick. We’d come to an impasse, or so I thought. Jack, chuckling in a way that always lightened the mood, shrugged it off as a “phase” we were going through. His ability to center me was uncanny. We didn’t have time to figure it out, however, because he was diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer and died seven months later. As difficult as those seven months were, Jack and I discovered a kind of intimacy that we’d never experienced before. I was prepared, or as much as one can be, when he died. We were at home, hospice care in full force, giving us cherished moments until his last breath escaped his dry, tired mouth. Kissing him goodbye, I sensed the early morning sun gleaming through the bedroom window.

Three hours later, the doorbell rang. I answered it thinking it was yet another delivery of comfort food for which I had no more room in my refrigerator; liquor would have been my preference at that point. Instead, I was staring at two naval officers in dress uniform, one holding a large envelope. Not knowing how much time had gone by, I awoke on my sofa with my head in Katie’s lap, a full glass of red wine in her hand. It was only ten o’clock in the morning.

“Enough, Maggie, enough.” I said with a determination. I didn’t want to spend another minute in the office, so I walked out and headed to Home Depot.

My gardens had begun to fill out and my containers looked great. I’d amended the soil in all the beds, weeding and mulching thoroughly. I had no reason to shop at my favorite spot, but then I remembered I needed citronella oil for my lanterns. I parked Beater in a space that seemed miles from the front doors. Memorial Day had kicked off the gardening season and the garden center was packed, frantic customers vying for the best geraniums available. Little did they know America’s favorite container plants were like weeds; you could practically kill them and they’d come back even stronger. Oh well, wasn’t my job to hold gardening clinics on my dime.

“Can I help you?” I turned to see an overly enthusiastic employee I’d never seen before.

Must be new
, I thought,
I know all the garden center staff
.

Paying little attention, I responded, “No, thank you. I know what I’m after.”

“Do you, now?” The fellow said. I turned to get a closer look at the guy and felt a vague sense of familiarity.

It hit me just as he spoke, “It’s Brett, you probably don’t remember me. Brett Benson.”

Oh, but I do.

“Oh my God, Brett, hello! I didn’t recognize you. Wow, how funny to run into you after all these years.”

Not funny, awkward. Brett and I had one crazy summer the year before we graduated from high school. Since succumbing to the spell of Facebook about five years ago, I’d managed to connect with a good number of high-school buds but no former flings. Cringing at some of the things I did back then (and with whom), my mind couldn’t escape the spectacle of our young love.