My Name is Marjorie

© Terry Odell, 2007

Marjorie struggled to heft her Louis Vuitton luggage up the steep wooden steps to the Colorado mountain cabin.  On a cruise—her kind of vacation—stewards would have already delivered her bags to her door.  As she reached the porch, the cosmetic case slipped from her grasp.  "Oops." 

Caroline grabbed for the falling case.  "Got it, Margie."

Inwardly, Marjorie cringed at the nickname but managed a smile for her coworker.  Petite, scrub-faced, with a blonde ponytail, Caroline looked more like a teenager than a fourth grade teacher.  "Thanks.  Maybe I over-packed a little." 

Beside her, Suzanne plopped down her compact duffle bag.  "Don't sweat it.  Just beware.  We might come a-borrowing."  She fished around the depths of her nylon daypack.   With a flourish, she extracted a key.  "Ta Da."  Suzanne unlocked the door and kicked her duffel inside.  "Come on in, ladies.  Eagle Lake awaits."

As Marjorie explored the cabin, she breathed a sigh of relief.  Fresh air perfumed the space once the windows were open.  Worn but comfortable furnishings filled the living room.  The two bedrooms contained real beds, with clean sheets and towels in the linen closet.  A generator provided electricity, and there was a gas stove in the kitchen.  And, thank goodness, a bathroom with a real flush toilet.

"What did you expect, Margie?" Suzanne asked as they made their beds.  "Outhouses?"

"Well … maybe.  And please, call me Marjorie." 

"Right. Well, Marjorie, this may be the sticks, but we've got a few luxuries just like the folks in New York City."  Suzanne's smile took the sting out of her words.  "Loosen up."

"I am loose."

"Honey, you're tighter than one of Cher's gowns.  It's the first week of summer vacation, and we've got a whole week to ourselves.  No unruly kids, no homework to grade, or parents to appease.  Or men.  This week is ladies only.  It's an annual ritual for us." 

"I'm sure some of the other teachers are more … suitable for this kind of vacation," Marjorie said.  "I still don't understand why you wanted to include me."

Or why she had given in to Suzanne's repeated invitations and come along.  Marjorie felt like Suzanne's pet project.  Maybe Suzanne was filling the hole left when her youngest son went away to college. 

"Because ever since you came to town, you've been a recluse," Suzanne said.  "All you do is teach—which you do very well—and then go hide in your little bungalow."

At least there, nothing reminded her of New York or Frank.  "I like my little bungalow.  And I'm not a recluse."

"Not this week, you aren't."  Suzanne moved to Marjorie's side and gazed into her eyes.  "I know you don't want to talk about it, but it's obvious your divorce tore you apart.  You need to remake your life. Let us be part of it.  You might be surprised to find we're not all that different from your big city friends."  Suzanne gave Marjorie a gentle pat on the shoulder.  "I'm going to make sure Karen's got the generator going."

Marjorie finished making her bed and unpacked her gear.  She looked at the hiking boots, floppy-brimmed hat, daypack, backpack, and everything else Suzanne had told her to buy.  By the time she factored in all the new equipment and clothes, a cruise might have been cheaper.  Well, she would donate everything to charity after this week was over.  The trip shouldn't be a total loss—someone might actually get good use of the stuff, and she'd get the tax write-off. 

She tested the facilities and freshened her makeup before joining her colleagues in the living room. 

"So, you done any hiking?" Caroline asked.  

"Not unless the cabbies were on strike," Marjorie said. 

"Guess that goes for fishing and canoeing, too."  Karen wiped her hands on her jeans and pushed her glasses up on her nose.  Without her usual makeup, Karen's freckles stood out like freshly spattered paint against her fair skin. 

Well, if these women thought she was going to appear anywhere au naturel, they had another think coming.  Didn't they know the sun was a death sentence?  "Sorry.  I tried to tell Suzanne this wasn't the right trip for me, but she wouldn't take no for an answer.  I hope I'm not too much of a burden."

"Don't be silly," Suzanne said.  "You'll have fun.  We're sure of it."

Marjorie noticed the glances the women exchanged.  They were definitely not sure of it. 

Over the next few days, Marjorie managed not to capsize the canoe or poke out anyone's eyes with a fishhook, and she didn't think she slowed the pace too much on their hikes.  Evenings were another matter altogether.  Although the women tried to include her, too often their conversation drifted into shorthand.

"Remember when Fred had that—"

"Oh, my God, yes.  That was hysterical!  And what about the time—"

"You mean Jane.  Yes.  But then when Jim lost his—"

"That was too bad, wasn't it?"

Eventually they'd look at her, change the subject, and she could tell the women forced themselves to include her in the conversation.  All it did was make her uncomfortable.  After two nights of Scrabble and jigsaw puzzles, Marjorie stopped trying to be a part of the group and sat by the fireplace with a book.  Even as she read, she heard the occasional lulls in conversation, the subdued voices, and she knew she was the topic at hand.  Probably telling stories about her being the stuck-up, big-city girl who couldn't bait a hook.  She'd wonder again why she had left New York City for a small town in Colorado.

Granted, the views of the Rockies were magnificent and the fresh air a delight, but had moving to Live Oaks been the smart thing to do?  The forty-seventh floor condo in New York was part of her divorce settlement.  She could have stayed.  

No, she couldn't.  Not after the way Frank had humiliated her. 

He generated most of the income.  Had all the right connections.  Took her to the best restaurants, Broadway shows, all the top social events.  And dammit, so what if she enjoyed it?  She loved Frank.  She would have loved him even if they didn't have money.  But she loved her teaching job, too.  And the kids.  With none of her own, the kids filled the only void in her marriage.

"Give it time," friends said after the split.  Well, their friends were really his friends, she'd realized when they stopped calling.  So she ran.

She'd sold the condo and grabbed the first teaching job as far away from Frank as she could get.  She'd swallowed her pride and grief, and now, here she was, forty-two, and stuck in another universe where people called her Margie.  Where Friday night meant bowling, pizza and beer, or a movie theater with two choices.  Not dinner and a Broadway show.  Not wine and cheese at a gallery opening.

With four days to go before she could return to Live Oaks, which now appeared to be the epicenter of civilization, Marjorie begged off the afternoon fishing expedition with a headache.

After two hours, Marjorie closed her book.  The solitude wasn't as comforting as she thought it would be.  She applied lipstick and sunscreen, grabbed her floppy hat and fishing pole, and tromped out of the cabin, unable to believe she felt guilty about not going fishing.  She winced as her brand-new hiking boots rubbed on her just-as-new blisters.  The other women actually expected her to turn some slimy wriggling creatures into a meal.  Didn't they know that making dinner meant taking the food out of the Styrofoam containers and putting it on plates?  For parties, you put it on serving platters first. 

She followed the trail toward the lake, scratching her mosquito bites.  At the water's edge, she realized her companions were nowhere to be seen.  Probably visiting the 'ladies' trees.  Marjorie hadn't been able to get used to communing that closely with nature, not with the cabin a mere ten-minute walk from the lake.  Marjorie stutter-stepped around the missing boards on the weathered dock and made her way to the far end.  She lowered herself to the wooden platform, careful to avoid the menacing splinters, hugged her knees to her chest and stared out over the water, a blue-gray reflection of today's overcast skies.  The blue-gray that so closely matched the color of Frank's eyes.

Damn Frank, anyway.  Hot tears stung her eyes.  Seventeen years, she'd given him.  She'd never noticed things slipping away.  Had she been that blind?  She'd driven herself crazy looking back, trying to see the signals.  And she still couldn't.  He hadn't even put up a fuss when she filed for divorce.  Went off with his twenty-something sexpot, happy as a schoolboy. 

The sun had reached the tops of the mountains that surrounded the lake.  Purple shadows stretched across the dock. 

"Margie!" came a shout from above. 

She wiped her eyes.  "I'm down here!  Be right up."  She hoisted herself to her feet and headed back to the cabin to face dinner.  And so help her God, if it looked back at her, she didn't know what she'd do.

"Hi, girls," she said with a forced smile as she climbed the steps to the porch.  "How was the fishing?" 

"Great!" Suzanne said.  "We must have just missed you.  We took the back trail.  Hope you don't mind that we've already cleaned the fish."

"Oh, shucks," Marjorie said.  "Here I was looking forward to playing Davy Crockett, and you've taken all the fun out of it."

Suzanne pulled Marjorie aside.  "Listen.  You're more than a teacher.  We all are.  Let us meet the other side of you.  Maybe you'll find out you like us, too.  And," she said in a voice meant for the whole group, "in the spirit of friendship, we'll all pitch in with dinner, even though it's your night to cook."

Marjorie heard a dull popping sound.  She turned to see Caroline holding a glass of white wine out to her.  "Thanks."  She took a sip and found it crisp and refreshing.  "This is good.  What is it?"

"An Oregon Pinot Gris.  You probably don't get a lot of this in New York." 

Caroline must have seen the surprised expression on Marjorie's face.  "We do more than go out for pizza and beer after bowling.  You didn't think all we drank was beer, now, did you?"

Heat rose to Marjorie's face. "I guess not," she murmured.

"And there's lots more where that came from.  I think you might need a little loosening up," Caroline said.  "So, what's your favorite fish recipe?"

Marjorie thought a moment.  "That would be Dover sole at L'Orangerie."  She couldn't help but join in the ensuing laughter. 

"All right," Karen said.  "Let's see what we can do to help."  She pulled a cast-iron skillet from a cabinet and added a copious amount of butter.  She smiled at Marjorie.  "Don't look at me that way.  There are no calories or cholesterol in anything cooked in the woods."

"How about working on a salad?"  Suzanne asked.  "You can tear lettuce, right?"

"I think I can manage," Marjorie replied.  She reached for the large wooden bowl.  As she tore the Romaine, she found herself thinking of the Caesar salad at L'Orangerie.  Frank's favorite.  If anyone noticed the vehemence with which she ripped apart the leaves, nobody mentioned it, although Caroline kept Marjorie's wine glass filled. 

Caroline snapped and steamed green beans.  Suzanne rubbed garlic onto slices of French bread, spread them with butter, and popped them in the oven.  Karen breaded and sautéed the fish.  Marjorie managed to get into the spirit of things—okay, the third glass of wine did help—and reached for the frying pan to transfer the cooked fillets to a platter. 

"Damn!"  She yanked her hand back from the handle and tears sprang to her eyes.  Her palm was already bright red.  She clamped it under her arm. 

"Let me look at that," Karen said.  She pulled Marjorie to the sink and ran cool water over the burn.  "That's gotta hurt.  Suzanne, I've got some bandages in the first aid kit in the bathroom."

Suzanne dashed from the room and returned with a roll of gauze and handed it to Karen. 

"Sorry.  Not much good around the kitchen, am I?" Marjorie said.  "In New York, I dusted my stove."

"Don't you worry about a thing," Karen said.  “It's not a serious burn, and it'll probably be fine in the morning.  Hurt like hell for a while is all.  But I think you have something else hurting you a lot more, Margie."

"I'm over it," Marjorie snapped.  "And if you call me Margie one more time, I swear—"

The unfinished threat hung awkwardly in the air.  Karen held the roll of gauze and took Marjorie's hand.  Marjorie yanked away, sending a fresh wave of fire through her palm.  Tears trickled down her face, and she felt herself being led to a chair. 

"It doesn't hurt that badly."  Marjorie sniffed.  "I don't know why I'm crying."  And suddenly, the bitterness poured out.

"I came home early.  Power outage at school.  He … Frank … they—God, what a cliché.  Right out of the soaps.  Wife comes home, finds husband in bed with bimbo.  A bimbo he's been boinking for almost a year.  A surgically enhanced bimbo at that."  She gulped.  "And he's still with her, and he's happy, and she's … she's pregnant!  He never wanted kids with me."  The sobs began full force. 

"Finally."  Suzanne sighed and put her arm around Marjorie.  "You go ahead and cry."

Marjorie, encircled by the three women, made no effort to staunch the tears.  When they ran dry, Marjorie looked into the faces of her colleagues.  She saw not pity, but genuine friendship. 

"New York doesn't have a monopoly on sleaze-bags, you know," Karen said.  "We're not living perfect lives ourselves.  We try to be there for each other.  We'll be there for you, if you'll let us."

"How about we move this bonding session to the table?" Suzanne said. "Our dinner's getting cold."

Caroline opened another bottle of wine, and the women shared the gossip of Live Oaks as they enjoyed their meal.  No, New York City didn't have a monopoly on dysfunctional relationships, Marjorie discovered.  New Yorkers just talked about them more openly. 

"So, Marjorie," Suzanne said after they'd washed the dishes.  "You don't seem to care for Scrabble or jigsaw puzzles.  Anything you'd like to do tonight?"

"You play bridge?"

Three negatives.  Suzanne headed toward the cabinet that housed the games.  "There's got to be something we can all enjoy." 

"Wait," Marjorie said and dashed to her bedroom.  She reappeared carrying her cosmetic case.  "I hereby declare this the Eagle Lake Spa.  Facials, anyone?"

"I knew this trip would be good for you, Marjorie," Suzanne said a half-hour later, her face covered in an avocado-cucumber masque. 

"I think you're right."  Marjorie smiled at her green-faced friends.  "And why don't you call me Margie?"