The Hideaway
“That’s good to hear. Because I sure don’t want to hear you say it now.” He stood with his back against the truck and took my hand to pull me toward him. “I’m all in, and I want to see where this can take us.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
“Okay then.” He put his forehead to mine and kissed me, then climbed into the truck and rolled the window down. “We’re not going to talk again about what happens down the road. Let’s get the house finished, then we’ll discuss the impossibility of you leaving.”
“Deal.”
“And anyway, these guys work for me. I can slow them down as much as necessary to get you to stick around here longer.” He winked and pulled away.
29
MAGS
NOVEMBER 1963
Jenny turned three in October, and we were cruising toward Thanksgiving when the brakes hit. Everyone in the house gathered around the television to watch the newscasts about President Kennedy’s assassination. Even the men were emotional. The women cried in clusters, but I tiptoed around the sobbing as much as I could.
Robert found me standing in front of the kitchen sink one night after dinner. The only light in the room came from a small lamp sitting on the telephone table. I didn’t realize I was crying until he walked over and brushed the tears away from my cheeks. At the rare physical touch, I leaned my cheek into his hand, then remembered. I shrugged his hand away and turned off the faucet.
“I was just . . . I just wanted to help,” he said.
“Thanks, but I’m okay.” I busied myself by drying a few cups sitting by the sink.
“I’m sorry. I just thought after all this time . . . Do you think we’ll ever be able to go back to how it used to be? We have Jenny now, we—”
“How it used to be?” I said softly. “You must remember that time more fondly than I do.”
“I don’t mean all that. I know I made mistakes. But you’ve stayed with me. It must mean something that you haven’t kicked me out.” He chuckled as if he’d lightened the mood.
“Maybe I should have done that a long time ago,” I said, my back still turned.
“What’s that?”
I turned around to face him. “You’re right. I haven’t kicked you out, although sometimes I wonder why. You’ve been great with Jenny and with the house, but I still can’t forget everything that happened before. Everything that drove me here in the first place.”
“But I still love you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He said it so simply, as if the fact that he loved me—or thought he did—erased everything else.
It had been almost seven years since Robert got down on one knee and proposed to me, promised me it would never happen again, that he wanted me and me only. He was still as sharp and handsome as he was back then, only now he had some gray at his temples and a track record of breaking promises.
“You only think you love me,” I said. “I understand it—being married to me makes sense. Our families together makes sense. But I could never trust you again. Don’t you see that?”
“I’ve been here three years now and I’m still trying to make it up to you. You can’t see that? We can make this work. I’ll never want anyone else, I promise.”
My composure burst like a delicate bubble on a sharp blade of grass. “You promise? Your promise to love and cherish me was still rattling around the church the first time you decided to sneak off with God knows who. I’m not the same woman who sat at home waiting for you to walk back in the door.”
“Good,” he said, surprising me. “I don’t want you to be her anymore. You’re different now, and I like it. You’re strong and focused. You have opinions and you’re not afraid to let people hear them.”
“Do you know what made me this way—this strong, opinionated woman you like so much? This house. And William.” Neither of us had spoken his name—at least not around each other—since Robert moved in. “If I’d stayed with you, I’d still be that sad, passive woman standing in the kitchen, waiting on her husband to come home and eat her chicken dinner.”
“Margaret, I will never cheat on you again. There will never be any other women. How many ways can I say it?” His voice rose along with the color in his cheeks. “I don’t see why you won’t just forgive me.”
“Because you’re not him!” I yelled, fresh tears spilling over.
“And how is that my fault?” he yelled back.
And with that one question, everything that was boiling inside me stilled, like a pot pulled off a hot burner. Years of pent-up anger and resentment flooded out, loosening the tight heat in my chest. It wasn’t his fault. Yes, he cheated—that was on him. But our marriage, the culture that pushed me toward a certain type of husband and away from another—Robert had nothing to do with it.
I leaned back against the counter and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. “You’re right. It’s not your fault.”
He moved toward me, but stopped before coming too close. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice brimming with emotion.
Robert cheated, I cheated, William left—all of this was true and couldn’t be erased. But even still, the three of us had been mostly innocent bystanders, caught up in a society that dictated the who, what, and when of young people’s lives.
He took a step closer and I leaned my forehead on his chest.
“I wish it had all gone differently,” he said. “If I could go back . . .”
“I know.” I straightened up and looked at him full in the face. “And my forgiveness—you have it.”
On his way out of the kitchen, he paused with his hand on the door frame. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you came here. This house, this mysterious place—it turned you into a different woman, and we’re all the better for it. I’m just sorry I don’t get to be the man who . . .” He looked out the window, then back at me. “Well. Anyway, good night.”
He let his arm drop and left the room. I remained in the kitchen with my arms hanging loosely at my sides. Then I folded the dish towel I’d used to dry the dishes and turned the lamp off.
The soft glow from the light in the garden filtered through the windows and made everything look watery. We were all floating in the semidarkness—me, Robert, maybe even William, wherever he was.
30
MAGS
1964
Significant exits in my life were always preceded by me finding a note. A small, handwritten piece of paper, either hurriedly scrawled or carefully written. Either way, a note was a note, and it meant someone was leaving.
This time, the departure was inevitable.
Four long years after moving into The Hideaway, Robert left a note saying he couldn’t stay. He gave some details, but I didn’t pay much attention. Deep down, I knew the day would come. He’d spent all that time promising he’d never leave again, but in the end, he was never a man of his word.
After Robert’s exit from my life, joy came a little more frequently. William was still a barren place in my heart, but I had Jenny, I had my own slice of waterfront paradise, and I lived with my best friends. Things could have been worse. While part of me still longed for William to come back, another part of me—the part I showed to everyone else—was willing to move forward into whatever my life would hold.