Her Story

After the doctor had delivered his prognosis, Margaret reviewed her bank accounts and her small investment portfolio. If she cashed everything out, and figured in her social security, she would have ample funds to take a room at the Palisades for six months. That would be more than enough time.

Margaret and the Palisades hotel had a history. She had spent the happiest days of her life working there as a waitress during the summer between her junior and senior years at Michigan Normal College. At that time, the hotel had been a bustling resort, filled with families who could afford to get out of New York or Boston and spend a week at the beach in Maine. Those were magical, carefree days. Yes, she had worked hard, but her off hours -- spent in the sun and on the sand, drinking beer with friends, sneaking off to her quarters with purloined blueberry pies at the end of her shift – were when she had felt most alive.

Years later, she and her first husband, Charles, had spent two weeks at the hotel as part of a nostalgic road trip they embarked on one fall in an effort to save their floundering marriage. By then the hotel had evolved from a casual family resort into a posh, impressively expensive hotel. Margaret had hoped that by returning to the scene of that idyllic summer, she would find her old happiness again, and that Charles might find some happiness, too. The plan had not worked. Their marriage had lasted only one more year and ended in tragedy when Charles took his own life.

This time at the Palisades, Margaret chose a suite on the third floor with a roomy balcony overlooking the wide strand of beach. She was going to enjoy sitting above the world, looking down.

On her first day in residence, she settled into the wicker chaise on the balcony with a pillow and a throw, for the morning was sunny, but cool, with a steady breeze off the water. She held a novel in her lap, but didn’t bother to open it. She wasn’t really interested in other people’s stories anymore. Leaning back into the pillow, she closed her eyes and waited for room service to bring the coffee she had ordered.

A polite cough, delivered by someone close behind her, startled her awake. Sitting up, she twisted around to peer up at a gentleman standing at sharp attention in the doorway. He was attired in a dove grey morning suit and a starched, white shirt, with a bright yellow cravat tucked into his waistcoat. He held the handles of a large, ornately engraved silver tray in his gloved hands. His face bore a remarkable resemblance to Edward Everett Horton, the actor who had played the snooty butler in so many of Margaret’s favorite films of the ‘30’s. The gentleman gazed at her down his long, Gallic nose.

“I apologize if I startled you, madam. The instructions said I should let myself in. I have brought what you wished for.” He stepped to the side of the chaise, bent slightly at the waist, and offered her the contents of the tray.

Rather than the coffee service she expected, Margaret saw that the tray was arrayed with dozens of small polished wooden cubes, each about an inch square, which glowed like gold in the sun. The neat little boxes were open at the top, and each one contained a multitude of shifting shards of bright jewel-colored light – cyan, emerald, magenta, amethyst, amber, ruby. Margaret was enchanted.

“For me?” she asked delightedly.

“All for you, madam. Please, help yourself.”

Margaret’s gaze flitted from box to box. Her hand hovered above the tray as she considered first one, then another. At last, she chose a box in which the lights were predominantly red and orange because it seemed so festive. The box was warm in her hand as she brought it close to her face and peered into the lights.

Ohhh! Mexico! All around her, on the patio of the cantina, young people were dancing and laughing, white teeth and dark eyes shining under strings of red lights. Orange candles shone on the cloth-covered tables ringing the dance floor. Margaret, herself, was dancing, holding the hem of her green skirt in one hand, her legs flashing. Charles, Charlie, held her close, one arm around her waist. Dipping her dramatically, he kissed her neck and then her bare shoulder. His white shirt was damp and open at the collar. She inhaled the forgotten scent of his after shave and his warm skin.

Somehow, she had been transported back to Acapulco, back to the time she had deserted her job and run off to spend two weeks with Charlie in the time between meeting him and marrying him.

Margaret happily recalled what would happen after this dance. A little drunk, she and Charlie would stumble back to their darkened room, and Charlie would fumble a moment with the key before they would go inside and fall, laughing, on the bed.

When the song ended, Charlie led her back to their table where their drinks were waiting, the ice melted. Before they sat down, Charlie lifted his glass and saluted her. “To Megs,” he said, “with whom I am having the time of my life.”

Impulsively, Margaret hugged him, holding him close, breathing him in one more time before releasing him and sitting down in her chair.

The moment she sat, Margaret felt the air around her shift from the tropical warmth of her memory to the brisk, salty Atlantic breeze of the present. Opening her eyes, she found she was again seated in the chaise on the balcony of the Palisades. Her hand was empty. The cube gone.

As she slowly let go of the red and orange memory, another one slid over in her mind to take its place. Black and white and gray, this memory was cold and filled her with dread. For just a moment, she was in the house on the Sound, walking down the staircase, her hand sliding along the polished bannister, and into the too-quiet living room where she would find Charles, laying cold on the sofa.

She firmly pushed the memory away. She didn’t want that memory anymore. She didn’t want that to be her story. She wanted only happy memories. She needed another happy memory. Sitting up, she looked around desperately for the butler and was relieved to find him still there, standing stiffly beside her, holding the tray.

She squinted up at him. “May I take another?”

“Tomorrow, madam,” he replied. With a slight bow, he backed away through the open French doors, and disappeared into the dark of the room behind him.

Margaret sat gazing at the waves and marveling at what had just happened to her. Surely it had all been a dream. A remarkable dream. And yet, Charlie. Charlie had been so real. Closing her eyes, she savored the warm, living memory of him one more time.

The next morning, Margaret gathered her pillow and throw early and returned to the balcony. She sat, perched on the chaise, tense with anticipation, and waited for the butler to appear. He did not come. As morning passed into afternoon, Maggie gave up hope. Slumping against the cushions in disappointment, she drifted into sleep. Not long after, she was awakened by the sound of a polite cough behind her, and there was the butler once more, holding the tray of glittering boxes before her.

Once again, Margaret was entranced by the exquisite shards of light. She took her time choosing, finally settling on a cube in which the colors were predominantly blue and green with touches of pink. Picking it up, she leaned in closely, losing herself in the light.

She found herself standing in the front bedroom of the big house on Long Island Sound. The sun shining through the leaves of the trees outside the windows filled the room with bright green light. Margaret was holding a paint brush loaded with pale pink paint. Her tanned feet were bare, her dungarees rolled up to her knees, her white Oxford shirt spattered with paint, her hair tied up in a blue and white bandana. She was laughing. And there was Joe, up on the ladder, wrestling awkwardly with a long strip of green and pink flowered wallpaper which he had just pulled off the wall after realizing he had applied it so the pattern ran upside down.  

He pulled a face at her. “A fat lot of help you are,” he admonished. “Put that brush down and help me turn this mess around.”

Margaret set the brush in the paint tray and shook her head. “You’re hopeless. I thought you said you’d done this before. ‘I papered three rooms in my house’ you told me. I believe you’re a prevaricator, sir!” She laughed again.

 “Look at me!” He held the corner of the paper precariously with one hand while he swept the other from his head to his feet. “I am covered in paste! Please, take this from me before I am forever draped in hydrangeas!”

Taking the gluey strip of paper from his hand, Margaret let it drop, ignoring it as it folded itself up on the carpet. It was spoiled now anyway. They would have to cut another piece and start again.

Joe climbed down the ladder and stood in front of her. Reaching up, she tried to tousle his shock of graying blond hair which was now stiff with paste.

“Let’s let it go for now and start again tomorrow. It’s late,” she said. “You’d better take a shower before you go home. I’ll clean up.”

“I don’t want to go home. I want to hang out here with you. I was hoping we’d have a game of backgammon, or go down to the pub for a bit before dinner.”

“Go home, Joe,” Margaret said. “Come back tomorrow.”

Joe grinned. “Ok, ok.”

She watched his back as he headed into the bathroom.  Joe was nice, she thought. He made her laugh. She made him laugh. They were happy together. She was happy. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was back in the chaise on the balcony. She looked around for the butler, but he was gone.

She had enjoyed that little memory. That day had been just one of many spent with Joe in the years between the time her second husband, Alex, had left to take up residence with his girlfriend in Boca Raton and the day Joe informed her he wouldn’t be coming around again because he was leaving his wife and children to marry another woman he had met at the pub. The pub where she had met Joe. The pub where he would linger and have “just one more” after she had headed home. Margaret felt sad for a moment, but not sorry. Of all the men in her life, she had felt easiest with Joe.

On the third morning, Margaret didn’t waste any time. She settled herself on the chaise and closed her eyes, impatiently willing sleep to come. She had dozed lightly, but when she heard the gentle cough behind her, her eyes flew open. There, again, was the butler offering his tray. Greedily, she scanned the cubes of light. This time her eye was drawn to a box of white, gold, and amber shards. What would this memory be, she wondered as she took the cube and disappeared into the shifting lights.

She knew immediately that this time she had travelled far back in time. It was dusk on a snowy night in midwinter. The setting sun cast a sepia tone of nostalgia over the evening. Margaret found herself walking along the sidewalk in the small Michigan town where she had lived as a child. She recognized immediately the Whistle Stop Café next to the railroad tracks, Frank’s on Main, where her father had tended bar for a while before Prohibition, the house where the nuns lived next to the Catholic church, and the brick post office at the end of town.

She was bundled warmly in the red wool coat she had been so proud of, the matching hat and scarf both made from the same soft, cream-colored yarn, and the red and white striped mittens her mother had knitted her for Christmas that year. Her old ice skates were slung over her shoulder, the laces knotted together. Margaret knew that when she put them on, she would find that they were too small, but she would squeeze her feet in and wear them anyway. She would not have the new skates until next year.

Over the years, Margaret had forgotten about this night. After much wheedling from his sisters, and a stern word from his mother, her older brother, Jimmy, had agreed to take the girls skating with him and his friends on the pond just outside of town. Now, Margaret was irritated with her younger sister, Beth, who seemed to have changed her mind. Beth lagged along behind, dragging her feet through the snow, and whining. “It’s too cold! I’m freezing! Let’s just go home. I want some hot chocolate. I hate ice skating!”

Jimmy jogged ahead, turning now and again to tease his sisters, exhorting them to hurry up. “Come on, Beth! This is going to be fun! Skating after dark! In the snow! We can practice your turns. Look, Megs isn’t complaining! She knows how to have fun, don’t you Megs?” He laughed as he jumped up, grabbed a snow-covered branch and shook it down on all three of their heads.

How exciting it was to be with Jimmy again. Oh, how she and Beth had adored their only brother! He was much older – almost 20 when Margaret and Beth were only 11 and 12. And he was their hero. No one could hit or throw a ball like Jimmy. No one was as strong. No one else had the same beautiful baritone singing voice. No one else could make them laugh so hard.

Margaret ran to catch up with her brother. Coming up behind, she wrapped her wooly arms around his waist and hugged him. “I love you, Jimmy Jim! You are the best brother ever!” she declared.

“Hey, what’s this?” he chuckled. Turning around, he picked her up and swung her around, as he had done when she was much younger. She was breathless when he set her back on the sidewalk.

They waited for Beth to catch up them, and the three of them walked the rest of the way to the pond together. The world glowed with golden light as the last rays of the sun flashed on the snow. As they approached, they saw a few of Jimmy’s friends skating, wielding hockey sticks, slapping a puck back and forth in a friendly game. They called to Jimmy, but he only waved, and didn’t join them. Margaret watched fondly while Jimmy instructed Beth to sit on the stump near the edge of the pond and squatted down to help her take off her boots and tie on her skates. He set her on her feet on the ice, where she wobbled briefly before skating tentatively away.

He turned and smiled at Margaret. “Whadda ya say, kid?” he joked in his best Grouch voice as he waggled his eyebrows and jiggled an imaginary cigar. “Put your skates on and be my partner. We will trip the light fantastic.”

Margaret sat on the stump and kicked off her boots. She crammed one foot into the first too-small skate, scrunching her eyes shut with the effort.

When she opened her eyes again, the snow, the pond, the cold, her brother and sister, all were gone. She was crushed to find herself sitting in the chaise on the balcony at the Palisades Hotel.

That had been the last winter Jimmy was with them. By March he had enlisted in the Navy. In June they visited him at the naval base in Connecticut, admired him in his uniform, and toured his submarine. In July he was bound for the Pacific. In February of the following year, the boat had made her last radio transmission reporting they had been forced down by two destroyers. There were no further transmissions. Neither the submarine nor Jimmy were even seen again.

Lost, lost, Margaret thought. So many lost over the years. Her mother had died two years after they lost Jimmy, her dear friend, Bea from school, a few years after that. Then her father. Then Charles. Then Alex. Five years ago, Beth passed and Margaret lost the last person in the world who could remember her as a child. Other old friends, distant aunts and uncles, all had slipped away these last few years. She had wished she could see them all again before it was her turn to go.

Sighing, she watched a tern stitch in and out of the waves. Near the rocks, two small children and their mother talked excitedly, bent over a tide pool, pointing out starfish and gathering snails. Just above the horizon, the orange sun blazed in the deepening blue sky.

Tomorrow the butler would come again with his tray.