Sight of Vision

Meg Lindsey was seeing her niece off at the airport. It was an early Wednesday morning and the airport was held in a soft calm. She stopped to look at the monitors, arrivals and departures bouncing and flickering like digitized fireflies.

Her niece Anne was her only niece. With no children of her own, Meg claimed Anne as a surrogate daughter. But Anne would have told you that Meg was forever adopting lost souls and binding the—whole with her laughter. Anne was four months pregnant and beginning to swell, herself rounder and rounder even as her egg had already shed its rotund shape in favor of sprouting definitions.

"I had the most lovely time, darling," Anne said, still drowsy, the world muffled through her sleepy eyes. She was smiling, her face half-turned away as it often was when she was within herself. Her smiles had a quiet, agreeable—almost self-effacing—quality. Meg worried that people took advantage of Anne. So much of Anne was inside. She didn't see the world and the world didn't see her until there was a sudden collision.

"Is Ted going to pick you up at the airport?" Meg asked.

"Oh, yes. He usually waits an hour at the airport for me. It's funny, because I couldn't imagine him doing things like that when we were first going out. I always took a cab from the airport, and if he dropped me off he never came in—just let me off at the curb. He thought it was funny that I should expect him to wait with me. Now he waits until the plane takes off. You'd think it'd be the other way around, that he would care less and less. But he seem—s to get more and more protective and worried. He says I'm so blind to the world and he worries because I don't notice things. But that's what you were always telling me."

Meg had never been sure of Ted, always late, very forgetful, too keen on his own convenience, his own ideas of what was practical or not. But Meg always held her tongue. Long ago she'd learned you could never judge two people, the private lives they shared and knew it was best not to say too much. It was dangerous thinking one could teach others lessons in love. And now what was Meg saying?

"I can't tell you how happy I am these days," Anne said. "I'm almost afraid of saying so. I guess I should hurry up and knock on wood. It's so easy to love someone for a couple of weeks, a couple of months. But to love and be loved year after year—ten years is such an incredibly long time—it seems—like a miracle. It is a miracle, isn't it, darling? A miracle I didn't think could exist for me. And now there's this baby."

"Oh, honey." Even as a child there had been so little Anne had expected; Meg had had to build for her what seemed—for everyone else given expectations.

"There's Uncle Howard—we were just talking about you. Are your ears burning?"

Howard laughed.

"These were the only chocolate covered peanuts they had," he said, handing the candy bar to Anne.

"Oh, they're perfect. Thank you, Uncle Howard."

The hum of an intercom hovered above them The flight to L.A. was ready for boarding. Anne waited until the last possible moment.

"Good bye, darlings," she said tearfully, kissing them on their cheeks. "You will come to visit when the baby's born?"

"Of course. Of course. We can't wait," Meg and Howard said, anxious that she not miss the plane.

Anne waved before disappearing into the tunnel.

"That's our wonderful girl," Howard said proudly.

"Girl? She's a woman, Howard."

"That she is. That she is."

They were still a handsome couple, straight and slim, Howard standing a head above Meg, their arms interlocked. Through the huge windows they watched the plane disengage from the airport, taxing slowly away.

"There she is," Meg said. "She's waving at us." But of course Meg couldn't possibly see whether Anne was waving or not.

It was still very early so the Lindseys drove to a pancake house near the airport and had a leisurely breakfast of plate-sized pancakes and crisply charred sausages. Lingering over coffee they reminisced about Anne growing up, all the houses they had lived in, the various people who had come in and out of their lives. They gave each other a warm squeeze before parting for the day. Meg went to work and Howard, newly retired, went to play his daily round of golf. Even in pouring rain he never missed a day at the club, just him, the bartender, one or two other regulars who couldn't live without at least a peek at the green. There were times when he wished Meg would retire too. But not often—he liked going off on his own, having his own things to do, even if now it was at a club wrestling with handicaps and not in an office managing the hustle and bustle.

Meg hated the idea of retirement. She owned an arts and craft store which specialized in needlework and knitting supplies. It was officially named Arachne's, a name few in town could pronounce, spell, or remember much less guess the allusion to. For her customers the store was simply Meg's. Meg often sold things on consignment for her artist friends. She had a soft heart and when something didn't sell, she'd often buy it herself, a present for one of her many friends across the country.

Arachne's was born when the school district had phased out Meg's job as a roving art teacher. She'd been dismayed at first, but soon realized she liked having the store so much more—a permanent base arranged in her image instead of ticks of time shifting from school to school. In the end, the teaching had proved too exhausting and the benefits too few. She'd liked teaching children, but what could you teach them when the lessons were half an hour, once a month, and usually at the end of the day when the children just wanted to go home? She now taught at the store, embroidery, knitting, teaching adults instead of children, the difference surprisingly minuscule. Restlessness and fatigue seemed endemic.

Her store was part of a mini mall, the mother store the town's only Safeway. There were only a dozen small shops and two restaurants in addition, one Szechwan/Hunan Chinese, the other Italian specializing in kosher Sicilian pizza. Her good friend, Amanda Crawley, owned the bookstore across from her and when business was slow they'd meet half-way at the concession stand that straddled their stores, gossiping and drinking sugary lemonade.

They were meeting a little too often these days. Business had been very slow the last couple of months at the mall and Meg had suffered. Now that she was the family's primary income earner Meg felt an unease that she'd never felt before. More than personal pride was at stake. And at fifty-nine she couldn't see herself starting all over again if her business failed. She knew she could if she had to, but at the moment it seemed like an impossible situation to have to face, having to renew herself yet again when she'd just begun to settle. This cat's nearly had it, she thought.

When Trish came to work that afternoon, there wasn't anything for her to do.

"Why don't you go in the back and study. If things get busy I'll call you," she said to her.

A high school student, Trish worked for gas money and the occasional sale at the mall. Meg was trying to encourage her to study, to apply to college, but Trish's mother hadn't gone. Meg saw some hope. Trish was finally learning to save money. Fifty dollars and counting to buy her boyfriend a waterbed for Christmas.

At the end of the day Meg had barely a hundred dollars in sales. Hiding her dismay, she sent Trish home and began closing the store. She was just about to turn off the lights when Amanda and Brenda Kinderborn knocked on the glass door.

"What a surprise! Come on in! I was just about to leave—we almost missed each other and I would have missed the best part of the day."

They smiled, their lips and eyes apologetic. Meg could tell something was up.

"Look, dear—we have something we need to discuss with you," Brenda said. Both Brenda and Amanda were several years younger than Meg, but sometimes they seemed years older, especially Brenda who had such a matronly way about her. Meg didn't know whether it was because she herself had never matured in beat with her chronological age or because Brenda and Amanda had outpaced theirs. It was a happy happenstance. She couldn't think of better friends.

"Should I sit down?" Meg asked lightly.

The three of them went into the back room where Meg held her classes. Brenda and Amanda didn't seem to know how to begin.

"It's something we think you should know," Amanda finally blurted out. Her large gray eyes were dilated with watery concern.

Her hair is beginning to gray at the temples, Meg thought. She touched her own hair, still a soft brown. The women in Meg's family aged wonderfully well. At seventy-four Meg's mother was still a stunner. The men died early, their looks never challenged. Meg was one of the rare women in her family to have been married only once.

"Well—what is it? It can't possibly be that bad," Meg said, trying to relieve the tension.

"Meg, Beth Lindbloom has been going around town telling everyone she's having an affair with Howard," Amanda said. Meg laughed.

"Oh, come on! You don't believe her, do you? It's just some silly joke of hers. She's crazy. It's just another one of her infantile rumors."

Her two friends stood up, embarrassed.

"I'm so glad everything is all right," Brenda said. "You and Howard are still coming for dinner Saturday?"

"Of course. We'll be there bright and early. You're sure we can't bring anything? I feel like we owe you several dinners already."

"Just your lovely selves, dear."

Beth Lindbloom had been going around for months spreading rumors about Meg. This one was the best, though, Meg thought. She chuckled as she drove home. Then slowly her thoughts returned to business and she became anxious again, biting her lower lip and recalculating figures in her head.

Two days later she remembered it all quite suddenly. She and Howard had spent the day up in the mountains. Coming home she remembered Beth.

"You'll never guess what Amanda and Brenda told me the other day," she said, laughing. "They said Beth has been going around telling people she's having an affair—you'll never guess with who! You!"

Howard didn't laugh. He gave her a quick, angry look and continued to drive. So it's true, she thought. She was still laughing. She couldn't say anything. Or feel anything. Her brain seemed to have seized together like unoiled machine parts.

"I don't know why you're so surprised," her only sister Marianne said to her over the phone. "But you're like that. Your whole life you've been like Sleeping Beauty. You just sleep walk through life. You don't see anything coming and when someone hurts you, you're surprised. I told you that woman meant trouble. But you wouldn't believe me. Now she's sabotaged your whole life—I just can't believe you're so surprised. I could see it a mile coming."

"Don't tell Anne. And don't tell mother."

"Alright. She's gone to the track anyway. Mother needs another quick thousand. I wish I had her luck. I could always use a quick thousand."

She'd never imagined Howard having an affair; she'd always thought she'd be the one, not stoic, responsible Howard. Meg had been tempted, but it'd always been enough, just knowing that she still had the powers to attract. That she wasn't old and that she never would be. Over and over she went through everything that had happened in the past few weeks, always ending with Howard in the car, herself laughing, his face angry and hostile. But nothing made sense. She kept going further and further back—because there had to be a key somewhere.

Beth Lindbloom was forty-one, divorced, a mother to a fifteen-year-old daughter who rarely looked up from the floor. Beth slyly slipped her bitterness under a trademark laugh, booming and jovial, a laugh that signaled to the world she was strong, independent, vibrant, successful. She dressed beautifully and spoke confidently about everything—she was a supremely knowledgeable woman. A C.P.A. she was far wealthier than Meg, but that hadn't mattered. Together, they'd made a great pair, sharing a mischievous sense of humor, a delight in the absurd, co-hosting parties and naming themselves Butch and Sundance. When the friendship soured, it was immediate and sudden, leaving Meg shocked. She'd never been able to figure out what she had done.

The rumors had begun with silly accusations. Everything Meg had said was turned upside down by Beth. Beth told everyone that Meg had encouraged her daughter Kimberley to become sexually promiscuous. All Meg had said was that she didn't see the harm of Kimberley dating, and she had said this only after being pressed by Beth. Meg was ill-equipped for soured friendships. She threw up her hands, avoiding Beth whenever she could. Whatever she had done, it must have been terrible for Beth to hate her so much.

It was not like Meg and Howard to discuss something so painful. They would suffer alone and come to their own separate resolutions. Life did not stop and they were not the kind to pretend that it had. Nor did they believe that the world revolved around their lives. Saturday night they dressed for dinner and drove together to the Kinderborns, strangely silent in voice and body as if they were minimizing their presence for the other's benefit. Meg was relieved when everyone acted normally. They were both welcomed and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see them together.

The Lindseys, Crawleys, and Kinderborns frequently had dinner together. Being accommodating and good-humored people, they got along wonderfully well, even though they were all very different people, in looks as well as personality. Even as couples their ideas of marriage differed according to their needs and comfort. The Crawleys were both very political and believed in sharing all their passions and interests as a couple. The Kinderborns didn't think the marriage sphere needed to be all encompassing. And as long as they saw eye-to-eye on the basics of love and family, they were content in having different views and interests. In fact, they expected it and thought the Crawleys a little strange. The Lindseys were more like the Kinderborns, although they had begun their life together thirty-one years ago more like the Crawleys. Newly-married, Meg had thought the perfect wife was one that loved doing everything her husband loved doing. She had gone fishing and camping in the dead of winter, played golf, even hunted, hauling deer carcass for miles upon miles. She had a deadly aim with a rifle and rarely missed, much to the annoyance and admiration of her husband. Had Howard appreciated her efforts? He would have been just as happy going with the guys or even alone. His appreciation was for what he was doing, not who had come along. So Meg had begun staying home, defining slowly the boundaries of selfhood and couplehood. And her secret was that she often liked being alone and no longer felt guilty about it. Is that where she had gone wrong?

"Have you seen that new movie that just came out, Mark?" Steve Kinderborn asked. "It's that new thriller about the nanny and the husband?"

Suddenly the room was quiet, Steve realizing what he'd just said.

"Another hors-d'oeuvre?" Brenda asked, passing the platter around.

"Excuse me." Meg got up to get some water from the kitchen. She had the glass in her hand, and then overwhelmed, couldn't move. Noticing her slumped posture, Amanda came over and put a hand on Meg's shoulder.

"Are you all right, Meg?"

"Yes. I—I just never would have believed it. Not in a million years."

"Oh, honey."

Anne called the next day.

"Mom told me. Is there anything you want me to do? Should I fly back up?" she asked.

"Oh, no. No. Everything will be all right. Only—don't say anything, you know, to Uncle Howard—he'd be devastated if he knew you even knew."

"Of course. I just—I can't believe it. It just seems so unreal. Are you sure you don't want me to fly back?"

"No, Anne. But I'm so glad you called, honey."

It was Sunday and Anne's call reminded Meg she had to visit Aunt Iris. Meg's great aunt was singular in being the only woman in her family never to have married. She'd been a traveling saleswoman, selling everything from knives to face creams, even running an antique shop for a dozen or so years before retiring. A family legend, she was known to be irascible and unaccommodating, peculiar for her dislike of children. She had once dropped the infant Marianne rather than hold her. It had been an accident, Iris recoiling at the last minute as if Marianne had been a giant cockroach. She claimed kids gave her a migraine—something about the way they smelled to her.

But Meg had somehow endeared herself to Iris. In childhood, some gesture or sad smile from Meg had triggered a memory in Iris and it bound Iris to her. Meg was the only family member she had kept in touch with and when she retired, she chose a retirement village near Meg.

Iris was a tiny lady with almost no hair left. Her ferocity was in her eyes.

"Come on. Now that you're here you can walk me to the park. That's what they call it—a park—when it's just a large over grown lawn with some skinny trees stuck around it."

Iris leaned on her cane and led Meg outside.

"You look depressed. What's up?" Iris asked.

"I was talking to Marianne. She says that I sleep walk through life. Like a sleeping beauty."

"Why are you listening to Marianne?"

"Don't you think she's right? I do. I just don't see anything. My whole life I've just been sleep walking. It's so true. And all those times I warned Anne not to be so blind to things! I was just as bad—the blind leading the blind."

"Nonsense." Iris sat down on a wooden bench. The day was bright and she wished she had brought her sunglasses. "You see what you want to see. What's wrong with that?"

"Because. You can't go through life just seeing what you want to see. It's like Marianne said—I never see what people are up to—I never see what's coming and then when it does, I just act like an idiot."

"Marianne! Why are you listening to Marianne? She just sees what she wants to see."

"But you just said that about me."

"Yes, but—oh, you're being too stupid to see what I mean."

Iris was restless, trying to find the words to convey her meaning. She'd always said that she'd been around too many simpletons selling too many stupid things and that it had ruined her mind. She took a walk around the park, leaving Meg behind. As she strolled, she stooped down, collecting whatever litter happened to be in her way.

"Look at that—just look," she said when she got back, her hands full of old candy wrappers and disintegrating bits of paper. "I still have better than twenty-twenty eyes, if you can believe it. But what's the good of that? The older you get, the more garbage you see. It's everywhere."

She threw away the debris and sat back down. Her breathing was labored and it took her several minutes to regain her strength.

"Marianne has had four husbands. And the one she's married to now is a barely recovered alcoholic, I hear."

"He's not very nice to her," Meg said. "She's too good for him. She was too good for all her husbands. They were all such stinkers."

"I've never seen it that way."

When she got home she found Beth Lindbloom and her daughter waiting for her on her front doorstep.

"We need to discuss some things," Beth said.

Meg unlocked the house and asked her in. Beth seemed taken aback by her politeness. She had expected hostility and would have preferred it. Irritated, she marched into the living room. She didn't sit down, but stood firmly, her daughter's hand clutched in her own.

"You should know, Meg, that Howard and I are in love and we plan to marry. We want you to step aside. He's going to be a father to my Kimberley. You're just in the way, Meg. You know that. You're just in the way."

"I see. Well, I'm sure everything will work out for the best, Beth."

Meg walked to the front door and held it open for Beth. Beth stood defiantly for a few seconds, and then lost heart. She rushed out of the house, her daughter pulled forceably along.

Meg was stunned for a few minutes, and then she began to laugh hysterically, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm in a damn soap opera," she said out loud, repeating it over and over again until it was an inaudible whisper. When she ran the whole scene over again later that evening, she was struck by the way Beth had stood so firmly before rushing out of the house. Beth had expected Meg to leave. She was sure of it. That somehow in Beth's crazy mind, she'd really expected Meg to rush out of the house and disappear out of the picture, leaving Howard free. She could easily erase and replace Meg and would Howard know the difference? Would anyone? Perhaps she should have run—only where would she have run away to? It was always Howard she came home to. She could go live with Aunt Iris, she thought, laughing again. A retirement village was beginning to feel very appealing. One with huge golden gates that kept the world out. Aunt Iris would take care of her.

Meg didn't tell Howard about Beth's visit. She knew it would only further humiliate him. She quietly set out dinner for him and went into the living room.

She never really slept anymore. Lying on the living room couch, she listened to the television murmur from the bedroom. Howard could never sleep without the television on. She could hear him snoring. When she was upset, Howard's snoring could always make her feel worse. It took her back to their early days of marriage, when each argument had seemed irreconcilable and divorce just a footstep away.

Around three in the morning Howard wandered into the living room, slightly dazed.

"I had the strangest dream," he said. "I was standing outside the house and a red sports car came racing by. It pulled up the driveway, waiting for me to get inside. Only I didn't. I went back into the house."

Howard sat next to her and shook his head. He was silent for almost fifteen minutes.

"I don't know how all this got out of hand, Meg. It's just—it's been a long time since a woman's been interested in me. I just got my head turned. It's a poor excuse. I know."

So it was supposed to be that easy? Could she just let go? Time heals all wounds, but who could afford to wait for time? Meg took his hand.

"A red sports car?" she said smiling.

"I went back into the house. I remember."

"I certainly hope you did."

The look in her eyes said too much. Howard looked away guilt-ridden and she knew she had to quickly remember what he had looked like, before she'd found out about his affair or she would never look the same to him again and there would only be ugliness. Anne was right, it was a miracle to remain consistent, knowing the past and feeling the future, yet remaining calm for the purpose of loving. But, Meg thought, how can it be any other way to survive?

"Let's go to bed," she said, formally closing the chapter. That was all they needed, but it wouldn't be the end.