True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

Margaret narrows her eyes at her daughter and gives a sharp nod in my direction.

“Hey.” Sarah’s single word is as lifeless as a humid August day, as if it took all she had to muster the single syllable. But that’s okay.

“Hey, darlin’,” I say. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

Margaret has sad eyes. And as this weary-looking, thin wisp of a woman in her baggy jeans and untucked pink button-down opens the trunk, I want to tell her that this is the prime of her life, that she’s not supposed to look so worn out. But I suppose prime time does not include widowhood. Not by any means.

I muster the best smile I can manage. “Let’s get your things out of the car. I’m sure you girls are anxious to get settled in.”

As we start to unload the car, removing suitcases and boxes and bags, Mary Grace’s school bus chugs to a stop at the gate. Since she’s considered special needs, the bus picks her up and drops her off right in front of the house. She doesn’t have to walk the three blocks down the road where the other kids catch the bus. It would be nice if someone would wait with her—someone like the Deveraux girl across the street. There’s no reason she couldn’t catch the bus here. In fact, I mentioned it to her mother, Elizabeth, once, but she said Anastasia meets her friends down the way and likes it that way.

People are creatures of habit. Once they’re used to something it gets ingrained in their system and it’s hard to do things differently.

The first day I put my baby on that school bus all by herself I thought I was going to die. I was used to taking her to school, but Burt got it in his head that Mary Grace needed to ride the bus, and well, since I’m always insisting that our daughter is no different than the other kids, I think he was calling my bluff.

Everything has to be a battle with that man. It’s no skin off his nose if I drive our daughter to school every day. But he was so smug and superior reminding me that this was just one more example of how Mary Grace was not able to function in the real world.

What he didn’t say, but it was there between the lines, was it’s my fault. That I should’ve never gotten pregnant with her, being in my late-forties and all. Our other kids were grown and out of the house, and here I was with this unexplainable hankering to have another baby.

Burt adamantly opposed reverting back to diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings. He said I simply feared empty-nest syndrome—as if that could explain it all away. But the need to have this child ran deeper than that. Deeper than I could explain. It was as if this soul had chosen me to deliver it into the world, and I would just die if I didn’t have another baby.

Two years later, when I got pregnant, Burt accused me of doing it on purpose, which I suppose was true, but I couldn’t tell him that. Especially when Mary Grace was born with Down’s.

That’s when he started pulling away—from me and Mary Grace.

“Well, you got your wish,” he said. “This child will never leave you.”

So to prove him wrong, that this girl was as capable as the next child, I put her on that bus. He didn’t know that I followed her in my car every morning for the first two months. In the afternoon, I’d drive up to the school and make sure she got on the right bus and I’d follow ’em home.

It made no never mind to him. And I certainly didn’t mind doing it. It was better than sitting at home and worrying myself sick.

“Come on, Sarah, let’s you and me walk down and meet Mary Grace. Margaret, honey, you go ahead and get settled in. We’ll be right back.”

I start off down the driveway. The girl falls into step beside me.

“Who’s Mary Grace?”

“She’s your cousin. She’s about your age. What are you, ’bout thirteen?”

The girl nods.

As we approach, Mary Grace bounds down the bus steps. She stops in her tracks, scrunches up her face and looks at Sarah.

“Sugar pie, this is your cousin, Sarah. She and her mama are going to live with us for a while.” The bus doors close with a hiss and the vehicle chugs away.

Mary Grace smiles. “Is she going to live in my room?”

“No, angel, in the carriage house.”

My daughter’s brows knit, as if she’s considering the arrangement. “Does Sarah like to push people on the swing?”

“Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

From the window I watch Sarah push Mary Grace in the old board swing that hangs from the live oak. That swing’s been there since my oldest boy, Stephen, was tiny. Over the years I’ve replaced the ropes, of course, but it’s always been there, a constant friend that’s entertained all my babies. But my older kids had each other. Being so much younger than her brothers and sisters, poor Mary Grace has essentially been alone, save for me.

It’s an unexpected bonus that my sweet girl will have a friend in her cousin. The sight warms me from the inside of my overflowing heart down to my curled toes. Oh, yes, this does bode well.

But the warm fuzzies come to a screeching halt when I see Burt’s car meandering up the driveway. I glance at my watch. Dammit, what’s he doing home so early? What is this? He’s hardly ever home and the day I could use the extra time to prepare a good meal to soften him up, he comes crawling in before the end of the workday.

“The place is just perfect, Barbara.” Margaret comes in from the other room and stands beside me at the window as he gets out of the car.

“Is that Uncle Burt?”

“Umm-hmm.” I wonder if I should warn her about Burt not knowing. Oh, on second thought, why give her something else to worry about?

Margaret crosses her arms as if she senses something’s not right. “Should I go out and say hi?”

I smile and walk away from the window, circling around so that as Margaret follows me her back’s to the glass.

“Oh, honey, give him a few minutes to transition from work to being home. You know how men are.” I roll my eyes. “He’s always an old bear when he first gets home. The girls are playing outside. You just relax a little bit while I go take care of my man.”

Margaret gives me a strange look, but doesn’t protest.

From the window I see Burt circle Sarah like a suspicious dog. I wonder if he notices Sarah’s likeness to Leila.

How could he not?

I’m overcome by the urge to go outside and turn the garden hose on him the way I would to chase away an old scurvy stray.

“We’ll have dinner at six-thirty. Just come on up to the house.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

I wave her off and start toward the door. “Heavens no, just relax.”

With that, I try to follow my own advice and relax as I prepare to inform my husband we have houseguests—indefinitely.

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth

What do you get if you take two consecutive months of missed menstrual periods multiplied by six miserable weeks of morning sickness?

Go on, you do the math.

Shit. What else could it be?

Still, I close my eyes and hold my breath before I look at the stick I peed on five minutes ago.

I know before I know, but still the two little blue lines on the stick come as shocking confirmation.

I’m pregnant.

Shit.

This cannot be happening. I am forty-three years old. I cannot be pregnant.

Andrew is going to flip.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I fling the aberrant plastic stick with its damn blue plus sign at the wall. It bounces off the gray marble with a ping and clatters on the floor as if it’s doing a little happy dance. Mocking me.

Then I throw up my dinner—half a package of saltines and one cup of weak English Breakfast tea—in the toilet right on top of the pee that turned the plus sign the offending blue.

Blue.

I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth, splash water on my face.

Blue. As in baby boy?

Pressing my hand to my belly, it occurs to me for the first time that there is a little life growing inside of me.

Interloper. Gate crasher.

Poor unwanted little…baby?

My wet hands leave a big handprint on my beige slacks as if marking the spot. I press my palms over my eyes, grinding the heels of my hands into the sockets, so I won’t have to look at it, as if it will clear my vision so I’ll see another color on the stick.

Oops! Silly me. I’m not really pregnant.

But I am. I flush the toilet, collapse the pregnancy-test box, careful to stuff all the remnants of my clandestine science experiment back in the Walgreens bag. I hide the evidence inside my briefcase under the file for the new “Who wants to be a television commercial star” show I’m publicizing.

How in the hell did this happen?

Wait. Don’t answer that. I know how it happened.

Just tell me— How the hell did this happen? I punctuate the silent question by slamming my briefcase on the cold, hard floor.

Andrew and I met in college.

When we fell in love and knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together we devised a plan so that we could live the life we’d always wanted.

A simple ten-step plan that required some sacrifices along the way—such as not having a whole stable full of offspring.

One child was fine.

I hear so many of my friends bemoaning the fact that their first child is an angel, but the second or third or fifth is a hellion. I see so many women whose main objective is to find someone on whom she can pawn off her kids so she can have a moment to herself—so she can go to the bathroom without someone pulling at her, demanding something of her.

What possessed them to pop out so many puppies in the first place? Each couple does not have a moral responsibility to replace themselves with a child. So I have no sympathy for Suzy Birthmore, modern-day Woman Who Lives in the Shoe—or should I say, the Open-Toe Pale Pink Prada Pump—who complains that there’s no rest for the breeder.

Life is much less cluttered with only one child; it’s much easier to raise one child well.

Quality over quantity.

That would be a good contribution to society.

I rub my belly and realize it’s anger and fear talking. I recognize it for what it is. Our Anastasia is a dream child. I just don’t see how we could get so lucky twice. Not to mention it totally and completely screws up the ten-step plan we’ve mapped out for ourselves:

1. Graduate from college at twenty-two. Check!

2. Land great jobs—theme-park public relations for me, banking for Andrew. Check!

3. Ascend corporate ladder. Task well underway.

4. Marry at twenty-five. Check!

5. Buy perfect Stratford Park house. Check (even if it was a mid-sized fixer-upper and wasn’t directly on the chain of lakes. A house on the lake wasn’t in the budget—see steps seven, eight and nine)!

6. Have one—let me repeat that—one child upon turning thirty. CHECK!

7. Work our butts off. Check!

8. Save diligently. Check!

9. Work harder/save more.

10. Anastasia will graduate from college when we turn fifty-five. Andrew and I will be free to enjoy early retirement.

Do you see mention of a second child?

No.

That’s why Andrew got a vasectomy.

How in the hell am I going to tell him I’m pregnant?

Barbara

We’re barely inside the house when Burt starts spitting words at my back. “What the hell is Margaret Woodall doing in this house?”

Lord, I knew he’d be in a snit. I keep walking into the kitchen, weighing my words as I open the refrigerator and pull out the potatoes I peeled earlier and the London broil I’d set to marinate this morning.

Only then do I turn and look him square in the eyes, putting on a cheerful face, hoping to set the tone.

“She and Sarah are staying with us for a while.” I set the French-white Corning Ware baking dishes on the counter so the food can come to room temperature. “Won’t it be lovely to have them here? Sarah and Mary Grace are already fast friends. So nice to have her cousin here to play with.”

He knits his brows and glares at me as if I’m an idiot. “Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?”

Instead of answering him, I pull my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook from the shelf over by the door and busy myself looking up a recipe for au gratin potatoes.

“How long are they staying?”

“As long as they need to.”

“In other words, they’re moving in? That’s why you put them in the carriage house.”

I close the cookbook and flash a smile at him as if the thought hadn’t occurred to me, as if he’d invented the very idea himself and it was genius—pure genius. “I suppose they are.” Then I stab the big hunk of meat with a fork and turn it over to distribute the marinade. The tang of balsamic vinegar, onion, garlic and rosemary fresh from my herb garden wafts up to comfort me. I inhale a steadying breath of it, hoping the aroma will quiet the palpitations dancing beneath my breastbone.

“When was this decided?”

I glance up and see him glaring at me, agitated, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to an absurd joke that he’s the butt of and doesn’t appreciate very much.

I squat down and pull out the stockpot from the cabinet, then turn my back on him as I draw water to boil the potatoes.

His hand is on my arm, gripping me a little too tightly. “I asked you a question, Barbara.”

I jerk out of his vice grip and glare right back at him, sending the message that this arrangement is not negotiable. No way. No how. But I soften my tone before I speak.

“All that matters is that Margaret and Sarah are here now. We’re not turning them away. They need family after all they’ve been through losing Tim. Burt, we are Margaret’s people. We’re all the family she’s got.”

“Family? Since when? You haven’t talked to Margaret in years. And if you’re so damned concerned about your people, what about me, Barbara? I’m your family. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your husband, the person who works his ass off to pay the bills.”

I turn off the faucet and heft the big pot out of the sink. He has to jump out of my way to avoid me ramming into him as I make my way to the range.

“I cannot believe you didn’t at least give me the courtesy of discussing this with me before you invited them to move in. It’s all I can do to support us without you takin’ in strays.”

I look at him square in the eyes and a little voice deep down inside of me whispers, I can’t stand his face or the sound of his voice.

“I beg your pardon. I will thank you to not refer to my niece as a stray. Burt, you’re simply being ridiculous. They’ll be out in the carriage house. You won’t even know they’re here.”

I salt the water and dump the dish of peeled potatoes into the pot. The water splashes in a satisfying way that punctuates my statement.

“There is nothing ridiculous about my not wanting Leila’s daughter in my house.”

I crank the knob, coaxing the gas burner to flame. The old range clicks ten times before it ignites, as if it’s reminding me to hold my tongue before I mouth off and say something rash like, It’s not your house, you jackass. It’s mine. Or—

“What’s the matter, Burt? Afraid you might see something you like?” I point a finger at him and get right in his face. “Well, I’ll tell you something right now, mister. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice—” I shake my head. “No, you won’t fool me twice. There will be no third chances. That’s all there is to it. And don’t you forget that.”

He takes a step back looking flummoxed, standing there with his mouth gaping wide open as if I’ve rendered him speechless. Imagine that, little ol’ me shutting the mouth of this lawyer who always has an answer for everything.

The spell of silence only lasts a few seconds. Then his eyes narrow and darken. I see his jaw working as if he’s grinding his molars to powder. “For your information, I had someone interested in renting the carriage house. Someone who actually wanted to give us money in exchange for the electricity they’ll be using and the space they’ll be taking up.”

I put my hands on my hips.

“Well, fancy that, Burt. Are you the pot or the kettle today? Because just a few minutes ago you were pretty damn adamant about us giving each other the courtesy of discussing potential renters before we invited them to move in. I don’t recall you giving me that courtesy.”

He’s picking at the grout between the tiles on the counter. As I take a jar of pickled beets from the pantry, I wonder if he even heard me.

“Property taxes are due, Barb. Do you have the money to pay them? Because I don’t.”

I shoot him a look suitable for how utterly ridiculous that question is. “Well, maybe I should get a job.”

He ignores that one. My heart beats like a big bass drum.

“I’m strapped, Barbara. Maxed out with bills and upkeep on this place and college tuition for the kids. So unless you’ve stashed away several thousand dollars, Maggie has to be willing to match what this guy is willing to pay— Or is she expecting a free ride just like her mother always did?”

The bastard just doesn’t know when to quit. To him this is a challenge. A line in the sand. A gauntlet he’s thrown down to make me retreat. And you’d think that after forty years of marriage he’d know me better.

“Now you listen here. I’m only going to say this once—” A strange jarring sensation in my chest nearly knocks me off my feet. I grab the edge of the counter with one hand for support, the other holding steady to the jar of beets.

“What’s the matter with you?” Burt asks, his words peppered with annoyance.

“Nothing. I just had a…a spell. I’m fine now.”

Burt looks at me warily, as if he’s assessing whether this is a ploy, if I’m being a big drama queen since he’s fighting mean.

I draw in a slow breath through my nose, exhale audibly through my clenched teeth. I shake the jar of beets at him. “Your pigheadedness only makes me all the more determined.”

“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.”