Real Love

The headlights of John’s Buick swung into the driveway at 6:30 p.m. He checked the number—207. He had heard of people who, confused, had walked straight into someone else’s identical house. He would be sure not to make that mistake.

He stamped the light snow off his work boots. It had been a busy day—speed had picked up, but John’s team was efficient. House construction had been broken down into twenty-seven steps; each step required a team of men that was perfectly trained and fast. John was already manager of the stud walls—his team’s specialty.

It was always nice to come home to Margery, some feminine warmth after a day with men—nice men though, never a bad word. Not close, just professional relationships, nothing raucous, just show up, do what you’re supposed to do-- that’s it.

Margery hadn’t been doing so well lately. But he’d take her out during the holidays. Give her some encouragement.

The screen door caught a little in the door jamb and he wrestled it open. He stepped through the entryway and into the kitchen to see what was cooking. Something didn’t feel right.

His usual confident stride diminished to small wary steps. The lights were left burning, but no one seemed home…

As a knot tightened in his stomach, he took a step backward. Instincts had not deceived him. The kitchen counter swam in blood--a pool on a cutting board, a pool on the floor, now sticky and dry. His heart sped, head pounded, hands curled into tight fists. His adrenaline rushed as he bent over the mess, noticing the rough boot prints that had stepped through the blood, tracking it from kitchen to door and out.

His throat tightened. He squeezed out a “Margery?”

No answer.

He threw open the bedroom door. The bedsheets lay tangled in a heap, twisted and unkempt. “Margery! Marge?” Desperate. Anxiety thundered like an avalanche over him and panic paralyzed his brain. A flashback from the war maybe.

He stumbled into the sitting room, his face pinched with grief, anger, and confusion. His emotions were impossible to distinguish. His eyes and heart searching for answers, he noticed a notebook he had never seen before, open on the coffee table. His hands shook as he flipped it open and started to read Margery’s beloved handwriting….

*****

June 5, 1952

Settled in. We’ve worked so hard for this. Our own house here in suburbia, New Jersey. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, beautifully tiled and with all the latest appliances including a built-in TV. Momma wouldn’t believe this—so modern and all. John was so proud and happy for me. I tried out the new electric iron today. 

June 17, 1952

I get up every morning early. Make John’s breakfast and pack his lunch box.

I love watching the coffee perk, soothing and regular. It makes me laugh out loud if it explodes with too much heat. What a mess when it spews its black sludge all over the stovetop.

John seems to enjoy his carpentry job. It’s pretty quiet around here when he’s gone, though. He loads up his tools and is off--7:00 sharp. He told me his company is putting up a house every sixteen minutes!

Washed my cleaning rags and ironed them. Momma would think I’m crazy.

July 3, 1952

Did the laundry with the automatic washer and dryer. Then a bunch of ironing.

Everyone tends their yards so well—white picket fence always freshly painted, and grass meticulously cut. Momma could never get me to be tidy. I wonder if she’s proud of me now. Growing up on the farm in Iowa, mud everywhere, and so many kids and animals. Never any peace.

Here everyone must adhere to strict quiet hours. There are other rules: Keep your house clean and yard tidy, no animals, livestock, or poultry, no laundry lines outside (spoils the view), and you have to participate in neighborhood events.

July 4, 1952

I attended the ladies’ committee meeting last night after John got home. Took the car to the community center. I love steering down those curving streets, past yard after yard. It’s an amazing sight. I’m not a great driver (but I’m learning).

Wore my white blouse and striped skirt, which I had ironed. Worked for an hour to get my bangs poofed just right. When John came home he was sure he’d be asphyxiated with all the hairspray in the air. I had been looking forward to getting out and meeting some of the other wives from the neighborhood.

Honestly, it was awkward. A lot of talk about nothing—I’m the only wife with no kids yet. Two perfect kids—a boy and a girl: that’s what everyone wants.

We’ve been married three years, and still nothing. These women are nosy. I felt alone in the crowd. My hair matched, my skirt and belt were OK, my shoes were right, but their small talk drove me wild. I felt like an idiot.

July 18, 1952

Got my ironing done. I felt sad. Momma always said to count my blessings:

I tried to remember how John and I met after the war. It was a Saturday dance night in Iowa. He was so funny and so full of stories from his term of duty overseas. But that night we jitterbugged and danced the foxtrot. Bet he didn’t think a farm girl could do that.

I remembered the first time he took me home in his truck. He asked me what was my dream—anything he said. And I answered a home with a yard, a place of my own.

He said he could give me that. There was a new GI Bill. It would be mine if only I would marry him. 

October 8, 1952

Days are shortening. Ironing today. I pine for a child, anything to take my mind off boredom. I sorted through some boxes I had stuffed in the attic under the eaves. I wanted to shut up the air vents because the nights had become cold. A bird flew out the dusty window. Oh, so free.

I thought of Momma when I was a kid. I didn’t use to be like this. I feel trapped. Everyone seems to have it together, so perfectly perfect. I try.

October 12, 1952

What is wrong with my mind? Today I went into the kitchen to do something and couldn’t remember why I was there. I had some sheets in my hand. Oh yes, I had meant to iron them.

Often I just sit, my fingers drumming on the kitchen table—I lose track of time passing.

Dead leaves are blowing around the yard. Don’t even know how they got there, seeing as not one white picketed yard has a tree.

October 17, 1952

Ironed laundry. The ticking clock annoys me. Is it a countdown to a nuke explosion? My mind sometimes races, other times it won’t move. I feel like I’m in space, a dark place with no oxygen.

How did I get like this? 

October 29, 1952

Another ladies’ meeting tonight. I dread them.

I’m twenty-eight. Still no sign of pregnancy. If only. I’m feeling so tight, so constricted, fearful.

I better get that ironing done. It’s been a bad day.

November 4, 1952

Momma called. There was so much noise in the background I could hardly hear. I told her I was living the American dream. Peace and quiet-- me and John. She told me the little kids missed me and that she missed my help with the cows. She said the canning was almost done, she was putting away the last quarts of applesauce that afternoon.

I cried when I returned the phone to its cradle. I think about Momma.

Does Momma know I’m a terrible liar?

I’ll finish my ironing, then sleep…

Nov 13, 1952

I still manage my morning routine—coffee, breakfast, and John’s lunchbox. I hold it together, but John doesn’t know I’m pretending.

Ironed John’s shirts this afternoon.

November 18, 1952

My emotions are rote. I pace the house, and sit for an hour or two just staring at nothing. I like to iron. I hardly feel emotions anymore. Not even for John.

Dec 2, 1952

I canceled my doctor's appointment. I feel so tired. My head hurts. I try to hold it together until John leaves the house for work. Then I fall apart.

I’m crying. Don’t even know why.

Dec 7, 1952

I should be planning for the holidays. I can’t concentrate. Isolation is overwhelming. This is not who I am.

I must start ironing the holiday runners. Iron, iron… my mind wanders.

Dec 12, 1952

Yesterday John came home and asked me what was for dinner. I didn’t know. I’m a terrible person. He was so patient. He helped me make cheese toast. We had tea together on the couch and watched Colgate Comedy Hour. I couldn’t concentrate and fell asleep. I am a bad wife.

Dec, 19, 1952

I dreamed of being strangled. I woke, wet with sweat and gasping. John held me and rubbed my back. He said it would be OK.

He’s gone to work. I need to do a better job of preparing dinner. I got the carrots out of the refrigerator. Then spaced out.

December 20, 1952

Cutting board.

Ironing board.

Heat, burn

Knife.

Why can’t I feel anything? I’m scared. If only I could feel something.

December 21, 1952

I looked at the sharp knife today.

I often feel a surge of impulse. That’s something at least.

***********

Where is she? John’s heart screamed. Then into the silent agony, the phone rang. He lifted it with a gentleness only tragedy can bring.

“John? I’m so sorry.” Then sobs…

“Margery, darling where are you?”

“I cut myself. I’m so bad. I didn’t want to do this to you, John. I love you. I called 911. They got me.”

“I’ll be right there, honey. I love you so much. Marge, for God’s sake, how I love you!”

The Buick flew down the streets and screeched into the hospital parking lot. John was still in his work clothes as he sprang up the stairs, too impatient to use the elevator. He burst into Margery’s room, brushing aside the nurse. He scooped her into his arms, the sawdust from his hair dropping like rain over her hospital gown. I’m not letting go of you, baby, that’s for damn sure.

“Sir, Sir… Ah…You can’t…”

“Ma’am, this patient’s coming with me right now if you would excuse me…. “

John was large and authoritative. He grabbed a throw blanket with one arm and roughly spread it over his wife, swiped her purse and clothes bag, and headed for the door in two strides.

Margery breathed the smell of wood and work. Tension began to drain from her brain to her chest, past her waist, and down through her legs like water when a dam is breached.

John’s work boots tracked a confident line across the dark parking lot. He snapped open the push button door of his car and laid Margery on the front seat. Although an icy blast swirled powdery snow up from the asphalt, he stroked her cheeks and kissed her before closing the side door.

Muttering a medley of endearments and curses, he climbed into the driver’s seat and revved the new V8 engine. He shifted into high gear. “These sleepy streets could use a damn wake-up.” His emotions were raw and rugged, right out and open. Like the wounds on Margery’s wrists.

In the driveway, Margery tried to get out of the car herself but once again was swept up by strong work arms. She was cradled up the front steps, and laid on the bed.

“I’m quitting my job tomorrow, Marge. This is not me! And it’s sure as hell not you! We’re going back West. West of the Mississippi, West of the Rockies, if we can. We’re starting over.”

“Oh, John, you knew all along?”

“I’ll put the kettle on, Marge, and let’s have some tea. But then we’ll do a shot of whiskey before bed. A toast to a new life. Together we’ll build something authentic.”

“You need to get your truck back, John.”

“What about you darling?”

“A wood stove, animals, and a whole bunch of dirty kids,” she answered. “And no irons, promise me?”