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margie 1
margie 2
margie 3
margie 4
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| *The Heart of Marjorie* |
| Page 4 and Epilogue |
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| She returned, finally, lovelier and livelier than ever. I tried to avoid her. Her levity seemed somehow inappropriate considering the torment she had unknowingly dealt me. A messy meltdown on my part was not out of the question. I needed to blow my nose. And now a peek down her blouse might release unprecedented levels of hopeless, bottomless want that I did not know if I could handle. And at the reptilian level of things, I was just plain mad at Margie. She'd been unfaithful to me. Given to another man what I felt was mine. A lot of delusions went into this arriving at this conclusion, but that made it no less real. Oh no, here she comes... "Did I miss anything?" She began surveying the jewelry Howard had put out while she was gone. "Not really. I got pissed at Nathan and told him off. It was sort of funny." "Poor Nathan. He's such a pain," she said shaking her head and smiling. I wanted to ask her, "So how'd it go?"- compelled by the same instinct that makes moths want to get a closer look at that candle. Fortunately, I couldn't get the words out. But then she tossed me a scrap that I nearly choked on. She was holding her left upper arm with her right hand as she wriggled her fingers. "That blood pressure thing always makes my arm feel all weird after. Ever notice that?" "Yup." My head swam and my ears rang. It was basically a rhetorical question, so my answer didn't seem as abrupt as it might have. She found a herringbone gold choker that she liked. "Darn it, it has one of those crappy circle clasps I can never work." Opportunity. "I'll do it for you." This modest windfall did wonders for my spirit. I felt the warmth of her neck against my stress-chilled fingers. It was odd, but touching her calmed me down. And she seemed to welcome it. You can sense when a woman goes tense when touched. They have to keep their guard up. She looked in the table mirror. "What do you think?" Free study of her collarbones and freshly stethed chest. "It's beautiful. Get it." "I would, but I don't have any money." She bit her lip pensively, then brightened and and said, "I know: I'll hide and buy it Friday!" " No, I'll buy it for you now." So I spent twenty-one bucks on Margie. The touch was worth ten times that. She was truly stunned that I wouldn't accept repayment. "I can't believe you're doing this", she kept saying- as though she had no idea she could possibly inspire such a gesture from me. I've always been great at hiding my deepest feelings- a skill which earns you nothing. This cozy interchange marked the denouement of my twenty-four hour bout with insanity. Nothing intense can last very long. And so by means of sheer emotional expenditure I had ridden out the hormonal storm within. Margie was a mammal, not an angel, and as such required scheduled maintenance, of which routine physicals were a part. I didn't have to like it; I just had to deal with it... And if I played my cards right... well, who knows? My resolve was tested one more time during that afternoon. Margie began talking to a very tall, very butch girl in a WHS jogging suit. Obviously a teammate ( I experienced a stab of jealousy when at first I thought she was talking to a guy). I attended to other things as Margie chatted out of earshot. A few minutes later I looked up and happened to see Margie with her left hand up by her chin and her right hand extended before her zig-zagging in space, her fingers clasping an invisible something as she performed what was unmistakably a pantomime of that morning's stethoscope exam she had undergone. The other girl laughed in amused agreement. The point of this charade was clear: that new doctor sure did listen to a lot of different places. Recall that Margie's prior sports physicals had been conducted by Doc McGeezer with his austere three-point auscultation technique (right lung, left lung, heart). Of course, I was both turned on and pissed off by this- but at this point, I was mostly burned out. I had achieved an uneasy peace with what had happened and to preserve it there were a lot of things I really couldn't dwell on, and this fit into that category. Five days later, on my twenty-sixth birthday, Margie presented me with a gift that she had picked up on a shopping trip in Freeport. It was a green plaid tie patterned after the tartan of her Scottish family name She said that they didn't have one for my last name (which is French, so I wasn't surprised). "But this will be good, too," she said, "because you'll think of me when you wear it... Plus I think it's studly." I'm not sure who initiated the hug. I drank her in- absorbed her with the heightened sensations attendant to eating good food when you're starving, or drinking cool water when you're parched- every nerve of my being at the ready. I felt her skull and spine and ribs in my hands and her breasts against my chest. Smelled her citrus-scented hair and felt her warm breath against my neck. And I was being hugged back. I knew, deep down, that this was as close as I would ever get to Marjorie, so I made it count. A couple of days later a guy came up to me and introduced himself as Margie's dad; not overly cordial- rather businesslike, then ostensibly sorted through some windbreakers and left without saying anything else. Apparently I had become something of a presence in his daughter's life, and so I became a matter of concern to him. I'd have done the same if she'd been my daughter. He did a great job with her. Margie was brought up right. On Margie's last day of work I took her out for an ice cream lunch. She told me that she hoped I'd come watch her at a meet sometime. I knew I couldn't, because of how I felt about her, but I said I would... Of course, I could hug her after a four-mile run and her heart would be... but no, I had to stop that stuff. It was just going to drive me crazy. Forget about it. Margie became one of the top cross-country runners in the state and received some nice write-ups in the paper. I followed her successes, though with a certain pang of melancholy- the world was discovering my butterscotch beauty, my wee lass. She placed sixth in the state class B meet. I was proud of her. Marjorie spent part of the last semester of her senior year as an exchange student in Africa (sadly, I have forgotten what country). I learned this when she returned and wrote an article for the paper about her experiences- a beautifully done piece, clearly written, characteristically thoughtful, and expressed in her own voice. I didn't save it for the same reason I never watched her run. But I still have the tie and wear it regularly. EPILOGUE: About three years later this doctor presented his views in a news article regarding a tragic case that occurred a few school districts away in which a girl with a previously diagnosed heart murmur dropped dead after completing a cross-country run. He defended the examiner's decision to allow the girl to participate and said that he himself has allowed athletes with heart murmurs to compete in demanding activities, such as cross-country. He said it was likely that the girl's death was not related- at least in a direct way- to her congenital murmur. He conceded the limitations of a stethoscopic exam in detecting certain serious heart disorders- but said it is still an excellent means of examination if done properly. He did say he'd like to see echocardiograms and EKGs done on certain athletes of whom this girl would have fit the profile. A few years after that I met a tough-talking, but frightened divorcee with a rapid and irregular heartbeat. I sent Tammy Jo to this same doctor. He still had the black Sprague-Rappaport scope. In the waiting room I concealed my prominent teepee with a Sports Illustrated as Tammy chatted nervously. This examination caused considerable angst and anguish on my part- that Tammy's heart would for a moment belong to another- but one thing made it tolerable; I knew I could go to sleep that night with my ear over her heart (which I did)- an option I never had with Marjorie... But between Marjorie and Tammy there were some other nibbles, freebies and windfalls- including my "hat-trick" summer of 1985. But those adventures will have to wait for another time. Catch ya'll later and keep the faith... |
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