down the hallway and up the stairs. At the end of a day, Margaret noticed, Wanda often moved with a heavy, funereal cadence to her steps. As if she were very, very old. As if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. Daniel's footsteps sounded like that, Margaret thought, when the doors began slamming. He knew so much more than he ever let on. Margaret drew in a sudden, knifelike breath that was almost the beginning of a sob.
She got up and moved to the kitchen counter, where the pieces of the saucer, teacup, and teapot mingled in the bottom of an aluminum mixing bowl. She reached into the bowl and began to turn the pieces over. This teapot, she remembered, and this teacup. . . They were gifts from the mother of one of Daniel's friends. . . . What was her name? Gay, that was it. Gay Paxton. We used to take the children to the park, when they were little. And then, later, we used to have lunch together sometimes. We used to be close. Close enough for her to have given me this. It was for my birthday, I think. Yes, that was it. A birthday gift from Gay Paxton. And what was her child's name? I don't even remember if it was a boy or a girl, isn't that terrible? Timmy! That was it. Or was it Tina? Tina Paxton? So many things fell away after Daniel died. So many relationships withered. Especially the ones with the mothers. That makes sense, Margaret reasoned, nodding her head at a thick, rounded fragment from the teapot's midsection. That makes perfect sense.
She sang in a quavering voice, "I'm a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout. When I get all steamed up then I shout..." Margaret stopped singing. She could hear the high, loud, clear notes of Daniel's voice pick up the last line: "TIP me over and POUR ME OUTl" She could hear his laughter. She could see his body, one thin arm angled down to his hip, the other up to his forehead.
Margaret dropped the shard of porcelain back into the bowl. It made a dull, tuneless ting as it hit the side and slid to the bottom. Now I have relationships with things, she thought.
She opened the cupboard under the sink and tilted the bowl. Its contents rattled out into the garbage can. She stared for a moment, and then thought, That was stupid. They'll shred the plastic bag. They'll puncture it and I'll have to deal with this mess all over again.
"Not now," she said out loud. "In the morning." And she left the kitchen and went upstairs without turning off the light.
Seven
Margaret's Dream, Part One
The dream has many variations, and several constants. For example, it always begins with a journey, but the form of conveyance might be anything: a B-52, a dirigible, a handcar on a railroad track. One time it was the Batmobile.
Of course, many times the dream takes place in an ordinary car, and in that case, it is always the same car: Stephen's MG.
In the beginning, there is a calm, weightless feeling—the kind of feeling one ought to have at the start of a journey, once the preparations are made and everything is in order. No encumberments. No impediments. The heavy burden of baggage is temporarily relieved; the tyranny of clocks is overthrown. The body feels lighter, emptier. The travelers are on their way, needing merely to drift, to be carried and upheld, like the bows on a kite string.
Ahead lies a stopping place, of course, and a cessation of movement. Arrival. Gravity will reassert its dominion, and the dreamer will step with her full, arrived weight onto Point B: the dot on the map toward which she is moving. That inexorable dot.
But at the beginning of the dream, there is divinity and peace and weightlessness. The journey begins. Her breathing alters, slows, deepens. A new quality of air fills her lungs and buoys her. All three of them. Yes: At the beginning, they're like a balloon bouquet.
This time, they're in a flying saucer—not the stuff of science fiction, but a porcelain saucer from Margaret and Stephen's wedding set.
She got up and moved to the kitchen counter, where the pieces of the saucer, teacup, and teapot mingled in the bottom of an aluminum mixing bowl. She reached into the bowl and began to turn the pieces over. This teapot, she remembered, and this teacup. . . They were gifts from the mother of one of Daniel's friends. . . . What was her name? Gay, that was it. Gay Paxton. We used to take the children to the park, when they were little. And then, later, we used to have lunch together sometimes. We used to be close. Close enough for her to have given me this. It was for my birthday, I think. Yes, that was it. A birthday gift from Gay Paxton. And what was her child's name? I don't even remember if it was a boy or a girl, isn't that terrible? Timmy! That was it. Or was it Tina? Tina Paxton? So many things fell away after Daniel died. So many relationships withered. Especially the ones with the mothers. That makes sense, Margaret reasoned, nodding her head at a thick, rounded fragment from the teapot's midsection. That makes perfect sense.
She sang in a quavering voice, "I'm a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout. When I get all steamed up then I shout..." Margaret stopped singing. She could hear the high, loud, clear notes of Daniel's voice pick up the last line: "TIP me over and POUR ME OUTl" She could hear his laughter. She could see his body, one thin arm angled down to his hip, the other up to his forehead.
Margaret dropped the shard of porcelain back into the bowl. It made a dull, tuneless ting as it hit the side and slid to the bottom. Now I have relationships with things, she thought.
She opened the cupboard under the sink and tilted the bowl. Its contents rattled out into the garbage can. She stared for a moment, and then thought, That was stupid. They'll shred the plastic bag. They'll puncture it and I'll have to deal with this mess all over again.
"Not now," she said out loud. "In the morning." And she left the kitchen and went upstairs without turning off the light.
Seven
Margaret's Dream, Part One
The dream has many variations, and several constants. For example, it always begins with a journey, but the form of conveyance might be anything: a B-52, a dirigible, a handcar on a railroad track. One time it was the Batmobile.
Of course, many times the dream takes place in an ordinary car, and in that case, it is always the same car: Stephen's MG.
In the beginning, there is a calm, weightless feeling—the kind of feeling one ought to have at the start of a journey, once the preparations are made and everything is in order. No encumberments. No impediments. The heavy burden of baggage is temporarily relieved; the tyranny of clocks is overthrown. The body feels lighter, emptier. The travelers are on their way, needing merely to drift, to be carried and upheld, like the bows on a kite string.
Ahead lies a stopping place, of course, and a cessation of movement. Arrival. Gravity will reassert its dominion, and the dreamer will step with her full, arrived weight onto Point B: the dot on the map toward which she is moving. That inexorable dot.
But at the beginning of the dream, there is divinity and peace and weightlessness. The journey begins. Her breathing alters, slows, deepens. A new quality of air fills her lungs and buoys her. All three of them. Yes: At the beginning, they're like a balloon bouquet.
This time, they're in a flying saucer—not the stuff of science fiction, but a porcelain saucer from Margaret and Stephen's wedding set.
Similar Books
