True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

“Of course it does.”

He gets that look of his, where the corners of his mouth turn up into a thin-lipped smile, but his eyes are hateful. It’s a creepy, passive-aggressive incongruence that makes me ill. Makes me think that this must be what it’s like to talk to the devil.

But, no. It’s just my husband. I want to wipe that vile smirk right off his face.

“You are not going to blame your mistakes on that innocent girl and her child,” I hiss. “She has done nothing wrong and she is welcome in my home.”

“She’s not innocent. It’s in her blood, Barbara.”

That lowlife son of a— I see red. Literally. The fringes of my vision get all fuzzy and crimson and I nearly choke on it. The pressure in my face and chest is like a volcano ready to explode.

“Now, you listen here. Her background is my background. Her blood is my—”

A sharp pain erupts in my chest, making me gasp, pushing me forward. The jar of beets slips from my hands and shatters on the terrazzo. I grip the counter for support and stare down into the red-purple mess on the floor.

“Barbara? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” I spit the word at him, but he edges closer.

“Maybe I should call someone—911, or—”

“No.” I wave him off. “I have guests in my home. There is no way I will be carted off to the hospital. It’s just my heartburn kicking up. You make me so mad sometimes.” Rubbing my chest, I feel a little foolish for putting on such a show.

“What do you want me to do?” He looks scared as he scoots a kitchen chair over for me to sit on.

I slide down onto the wicker seat, whipping the beads of sweat from my brow. “For once, just be on my side, Burt. Don’t fight me over this. That’s what I want you to do. Make Margaret and that little girl of hers feel welcome in our home. Can you do that?”

CHAPTER 4

Maggie

What’s the secret of long-lasting love? Does it mean that the lovers never wish for different lives? Never feel she or he made a mistake in vowing to love that partner until death separated them?

Or do they simply turn a blind eye to the nagging doubts intrinsic to marriage, dig in their heels and resolve to stay for the long haul no matter the cost or sacrifice?

I wish I knew the answer.

I met and married Tim within a year of Mama killing herself; a few years later I had a daughter of my own and tried my best not to look back. Like most marriages, our relationship had its share of challenges. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

Last night, as I sat at the dinner table with Barbara and Burt, who have been married for as long as I’ve been alive, I wondered what our marriage would have been like in the later years had Tim survived. It’s still hard to believe that he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me about the problems he was having with the business. I found out in the months after his death as I sifted through the rubble of our finances.

How could I have not known?

Stupid me. Safe in my cocoon. I’d finally found someone to take care of me.

As Barbara and Burt sat at the dinner table as they have, I’m sure, many nights over the course of their long marriage—being there, but not really being in the moment—I couldn’t help but wonder how does love, or more specifically marriage, survive the long haul, especially if one partner keeps secrets?

I sensed tension between them. Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe was just a typical night in the life of the eternally pledged.

Burt was mostly quiet through dinner. He mumbled a cordial hello to Sarah and me, then sat hunched over the delicious meal Barbara had prepared, mentally closed. Barbara, however, chattered enough for both of them.

I heard somewhere that as couples age, they lose the ability to hear each other. Maybe that’s the key to survival?

Burt, present in body, but mentally absent. Barbara, animated and flushed, carrying on as if he weren’t even there.

Tiny beads of moisture glistened on her forehead and perspiration stains seeped through her blouse. She blamed it on hot flashes and fanned herself as she talked about a life that seemed separate from her husband’s—the spring-break trip she and Mary Grace would take; her garden; how she’d love to remodel her kitchen; the cookbook she’d love to write; the Stratford Park Middle School PTA, of which she’s vice president/president elect.

I’m registering Sarah for school today—at Barbara’s insistence, of course.

“Honey, there’s nothing for you to do hanging around here all day,” she said to an indifferent Sarah. “Heck, it’ll be even worse boring than this dinner tonight. You’ll have so much more fun at school. In fact, how ’bout if I drive ya? Y’all, me and Mary Grace’ll just hop in the car and go get you signed up. It’ll be fun.”

I wanted to tell Barbara it wasn’t necessary. Really. She needn’t put herself out by driving us.

And she needn’t make such an effort to fill the silence. Those quiet spaces in between sentences are my favorite part of the conversation. I’ve always thought the truth lies in those rests. It’s in these quiet spaces that the truth manifests, that the mind registers a pure thought—I agree with what she said, or That person is lying, or Yes, there’s definitely tension in that marriage—even if it’s for a nanosecond—before decorum wrestles it to the mat and truth is replaced by what is socially acceptable.

Pinned by decorum, I decided Barbara and Burt’s marriage was none of my business and that it would be rude to refuse her offer to drive us to school.

So here we are the morning after the first night in our new home, doing our best to establish a new routine—much to Sarah’s dismay.

“Mom. We haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. Why can’t I wait until next week to start school?”

I pour some cereal that Barbara left us into a bowl and set it in front of Sarah for her to add her own milk. “Because today is Tuesday. You shouldn’t miss an entire week.”

She frowns. “I could help you put things away.”

I waver on this one and turn my back to her as I weigh the pros and cons of letting her stay home. But she must mistake my silence for an answer.

“God, Mom, why not? You’re so mean.”

Her words bore under my skin and threaten to push me into anger. But I won’t go there. The old me would have. She would have turned around and put that little girl in her place—let her know in no uncertain terms that her attitude is not acceptable, but I can’t do that now. I’m not going to start the first day in our new house with a fight. I can, however, insist it’s better to get into a new routine.

“Well, if you believe I’m so mean, I suppose you’ll have much more fun making new friends at your new school, than staying home with me.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves the cereal bowl away. It spins in the middle of the table as she scoots back her chair with an abrupt motion.

“Aren’t you going to eat? You’re going to get hungry before lunchtime.”

“I have no appetite.” She slams her bedroom door. “And I have nothing to wear,” she yells so I can hear it through the closed door.

I stand in the small kitchen straddling indecision. Am I doing the right thing? The movers won’t be here until tomorrow. Maybe I should give her a day to get acclimated. But somehow I know that if I do, it won’t make her any happier. Yes, better we both have some space today.

Twenty minutes later, we pile into Barbara’s Volvo station wagon.

She looks better this morning, rested and refreshed. Her thick silver hair freshly washed and framing her fleshy face. Her pretty blue eyes, rimmed in liner and mascara, sparkle as she bids us a good morning and tells everyone to buckle up.

Back in North Carolina I used to love to watch cooking shows. I thought she looked like that Food Network host Paula Deen. The resemblance really was uncanny.

The school is farther away than what I expected. Barbara says the county built it to accommodate the influx of nouveaux riches moving into this area that used to be exclusively old money. As we drive along, things look strange. Underneath, it’s the same place I grew up, but on the surface it’s different. As if a brand-new generation of inhabitants have invaded the place.