“The church is going to hell in a handbasket,” Margaret Cunynghame said. She’d said the same thing about the democratic process, her great-uncle Murray, and the quality of produce at the Green Market.
Kevin had been dead for over three weeks when Maggie, as she preferred to be called, phoned to inform me she was coming over “for a good visit.”
The church she spoke of was Greenfield Community Church, of which she was a member “in good standing.” She’d been sitting in my living room occupying our orange wingback chair for the past half hour.
“I have no idea,” Maggie said, “why on earth they want to paint pictures of Noah’s ark all over the hallways. Animals and that sort of thing. What’s that got to do with anything?” Her eyes were large with the question. Maggie spoke in a loud and careful manner one would use if addressing the UN. Every word evenly parceled out.
I knew little about Noah’s ark or Greenfield Community Church, so I gave a small shrug in response. Maggie was, literally, a colorful woman. While you could not determine her age with any kind of precision (more than sixty, less than one hundred), she wore clothes that could rightly be described as “too young.” Today she swathed her ample figure in a flowing, sateen shirt as yellow and bright as optimism. She paired the shirt with fuchsia polyester pants. Beside her chair sat a broad-brimmed hat the color of mulch. She resembled a giant tropical flower.
I cleared my throat. She gave me a knowing smile and said, “Kate, my pet, I’ve been prattering on, but now I must get to the point of my visit.” She leaned forward and spoke in conspiratorial tones. “Do you know my story? My life story? Who I was before I came here? How I got here?”
Maggie had a vague friendship with my mother as they had been bumping into each other all over town for years. At the grocery store, the dentist, the town fair. Maggie had also been an infrequent customer at the bookstore. She bought romance novels in paperback and always required change from the “need a penny, leave a penny” bowl. I recalled that Maggie had attended my father’s funeral swathed head to toe in black (the only time I had seen her without color) and had patted my mother’s arm after the casket was lowered into the ground. I supposed it was possible that she had attended Kevin’s funeral as well, but I couldn’t recall seeing her either at the funeral parlor or my home after the interment service.
I gave Maggie a slim smile. “You’re pretty well known around here, so I’ve heard some of the stories.”
Maggie leaned back in her chair, offered the ceiling an expansive grin, and launched into her story. “I was married once. As far as I know, I’m still married. But my husband is gone. ‘Long gone,’ as they say in the ballparks.
“My husband took his leave of me … but not by his choice.” She paused and waggled her eyebrows at me. “I’m an American, but my husband and I lived ‘across the pond,’ as they say. Jeremy Cunynghame was a good man, ethical and virtuous. But some men hated him for it. One man in particular was out to destroy him. He told lies about Jeremy. I don’t know what they were because Jeremy forbade me to read the papers or listen to the radio.
“One morning, very early, I awoke to find him packing a suitcase.” She stopped, seemingly out of breath, and looked around. “Have you any water, dear? This story always wears me out.”
When I returned with a glass of water, she took it without comment and drank deeply.
“I begged him to stay. I told him that we could face anything together. Come what may!” She dropped her chin to her chest and peered up at me. “That may seem dramatic, but be certain, it was a dramatic moment.” She smoothed the blinding yellow shirt over her belly.
“He wouldn’t listen,” she said, her voice dipped so low she could have been attempting a James Earl Jones impersonation. “I asked him if he was in danger. He said only if he stayed. He said he’d return when it was safe to do so.
“I’m afraid I made a scene. Bawled and brayed like a donkey. Can you imagine?”
I shook my head. I preferred not to.
“When I asked him how long he would be gone, he just looked at me, like this.” Maggie opened her eyes wide and stuck out her chin, and let the corners of her mouth droop low, a Buster Keaton look-alike. “When I begged him—begged, mind you—to let me come too, he shoved me back onto the bed and said it was impossible.” She sipped at her water. “The weeks went by with no word from my husband. Then months.” She gave a minuscule shrug. “Then years.” She sat back in her chair, a faraway look in her eyes. I sat waiting too, it seemed, for Jeremy’s return.
She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes. “After three years of waiting for my husband to return, two thoughts occurred to me. One, he was not coming back. Two, I was a wealthy woman. And three … I said three thoughts, right? And three, I needed to stop moping around and get out of there.”
“Wealthy?” I repeated. I had heard of Maggie’s local philanthropy, but no one seemed to know the origin of her prosperity.
Maggie flapped her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Wealthy, yes. I made my money the old-fashioned way.” She flashed me a toothy grin. “I inherited it.”
Maggie had boarded up her grand home overseas, hopped a plane, and landed into her new life in Greenfield. She had bought the first house the realtor showed her. “It was on Apple Tree Lane. Who wouldn’t want to live on Apple Tree Lane?” She promptly went about securing her place in the social circles of Greenfield County. Maggie was a big and colorful fish in a small gray pond. She held strong opinions and seemed to feel obligated to share them with everyone. With her loud dress and louder voice, some town folks said she was not to be taken seriously. But seriously was exactly the way Maggie wanted to be taken. She joined the Greenfield Community Church choir, the Chamber of Commerce, and the Ladies of Our Glorious Flag Quilting Group.
“That’s a great story, Mrs. Cunynghame,” I said when she was done. And it was, but it gave me no clues as to why she was in my house.
“Kate,” she said, “you and I have a great deal in common. We have both lost the husbands we adored.” She hesitated. “Differently, I suppose. Yours died. You lost him, but you also know where he is. Mine, well, I good and lost him, didn’t I? I couldn’t find him if I looked. But never mind that. We’re both facing the world alone; that is the point I’m making. I want to help you.”
“Mrs. Cunynghame, thank you for wanting to help, but—”
“Stop calling me that. Call me Maggie,” she said with a smile.
“There is really nothing that you can do … Maggie,” I said.
“Nonsense, Kate. There is a great deal I can do. You require advice from someone who knows what’s what and what’s not.”
“I appreciate your wanting to help. But I have my sister. And my mother.”
“Your mother!” Maggie’s voice rose to impossible volumes. “Love a duck, child, your poor mother. Sharp on the heels of her loss she has to bury another family member. Tossed with grief, she is. Her burden is too great, sweetie, to be able to take on yours as well.” She was right. Mom was tossed with grief. How many books had she read trying to put her pieces back together?
My eyes drifted to the pile of books on the floor. Maggie followed my gaze and I could see her eyes move back and forth as she read the titles. She turned her head sharply down and to the left in order to read the title of the bottom book. She mouthed the words I Wasn’t Ready to Say Good-bye. She straightened her head and gave me a glittering smile. “Have you read any of them?”
I shook my head, shrugged, and shook my head again.
“The problem with self-help books is you first need to be in a place where you can help yourself,” Maggie said.
I opened my mouth and waited for something to come out of it. Nothing did, so I closed it again.
“Do you know what I love about Greenfield?” she asked.
“Huh? Uh, I don’t know.”
“I love almost everything about it. It is a wonderful place to live. Especially when a body is healthy and life is good. Small towns. Can’t beat them. But look at you. A beautiful young woman loses her handsome husband; it’s a terrible shame, a real tragedy.” She leaned forward in her chair. “How long have you been sitting here like this?” She threw her arms out, taking in the whole room. “Sleeping on the floor. Yes, I clearly see. It’s all right, honey, I don’t judge you. I understand more than you know. How long?”
Against my will my eyes filled with tears. I blinked rapidly for a moment. “Since the funeral. I slept upstairs the first night, but I’ve been down here ever since.”
“You only go upstairs to change clothes?” she said, eyeing the jeans, socks, and shirts strewn on the floor.
“No. I don’t go up there at all. I just use the clothes that were already in the laundry room, down here.”
“I see,” Maggie said. “I’m not trying to pry, child, but, how long has it been since you took a bar of soap to your skin?”
“I … I … don’t … go upstairs.”
“I understand. It’s been weeks. Do you get many visitors?”
“Just my mom and sister.” For some reason I didn’t mention Blair.
“Just family. It’s shameful how a whole town can show up for the funeral then disappear for the grief. You aren’t going to find what you need here, child. You need to be in the city for what you need.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am advising you to get yourself to the city and find a good counselor. Someone you trust that you can talk to and work through some of this. Something you won’t find in this small town.” She waved both hands at the room.
“Oh well, I don’t think I need—”
“My darling girl, you’re in no position to even begin to know what you need. I’m here to tell you that you have two options.”
“Maggie,” I said. “Mrs. Cunynghame—” I corrected. She barely knew me, yet here she was giving me advice I hadn’t asked for.
“Option one. Sit here in your living room until you decide to either live or die. Heaven knows how long it takes to make a decision like that. Could be years for all we know.”
“Yes, but—”
“Option two. Decide you may as well start getting better so you don’t get any worse. And it can get worse, dear child. I assure you, it can get a whole lot worse.”
I wondered if I should tell her about Kevin’s voice. No, I told myself. I couldn’t talk about that. She’d think I was crazy. She already thought I was crazy.
Maggie stood up and headed for the door. “I need to go. But think about what I said. I have some names and addresses for you. Counselors you could try.”
I cocked my head to one side. “Try?”
“You have to try them on, like clothes at a store. It’s not one size fits all. You have to meet with each one until you find the one you like and feel you can trust.” Maggie pulled the door open and stepped outside. I got up and followed her, stopping on the threshold. I felt the wind on my face for the first time in weeks. Its freshness, the joy of it, caught me by surprise. Maggie turned to face me. I watched her make a short study of my features. My dirty jeans and white T-shirt hung on my frame. My greasy hair flapped like strips of bacon in the wind.
“Kate, beautiful Kate,” Maggie said. “Go have a long shower. You’ll be surprised how some hot water and soap can make a body feel human again.”
Maggie climbed into her electric yellow Mustang, and I watched, reluctant to close the door on the wind.