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Marga

A Novel by Susan Wickett-Ford

From the Associated Press, Sunday, October 1, 2017 

Catalonia’s defiant bid to hold a referendum on independence from Spain degenerated into ugly scenes of mayhem on Sunday, with more than 800 people injured as riot police attacked peaceful protesters and unarmed civilians gathered to cast their ballots in a vote the government had banned as unconstitutional. Eleven officers were also injured.

Hundreds of police armed with truncheons and rubber bullets were sent in from other regions to confiscate ballots and stop the voting, and amateur video showed some officers dragging people out of polling stations by the hair, throwing some down stairs, kicking them and pushing them to the ground. Anguished, frightened screams could be heard.

When you open a magic door, just a little, and peek through, you may not understand the world you see. You will certainly misunderstand it, in fact. If you open the door wider, and walk through, and wander around this new land, you may learn a lot but you will see everything through the eyes you came in with. And you’ll have to find a bathroom, sooner or later. Probably at Starbucks.

As a visitor, what charms you and what you call magic, is somebody else’s hard work. Or hard fate. Someone else’s life. 

This did not turn out to be as inspirational a quote as I’d hoped. I’m just saying, forgive me, Catalan people, if I seem to think I know you. I cast about for a week in the midst of your valiant upheaval, and it spun me around. I can’t not talk about it. You are dispirited, I know. But I’m spirited. I’m gobsmacked. I love you. 

—Marga

Preface

2 Chapter One The den is stuffy. There’s a smell in here I can’t identify. I pause in the doorway. It’s not terrible. It’s human, sort of organic. Potato chips, old socks, dust pockets that I might get in there and find, turn the whole room over. If I was allowed. Or wanted to. It’s his den. It’s Bob’s. A rectangle of light outlines the curtains (Sears, vintage 1990), keeping any glare from the TV screen. 2pm and Bob is in the recliner. We used to joke about that, his Archie Bunker chair. Now he’s sunk in another two inches and forgotten the irony. Bob was a sanitation engineer, a garbage collector, and then a supervisor. “I made a life in garbage,” he would say, with a twinkle. And you’d love him for it. You would just love him. This big man. I was a teacher, a high school Spanish teacher. Was was was. Things I miss: the kids, when they smile at you. My friend Judy, our quick conversations over the copy machine. Our feeling of being in the trenches together. Things I don’t miss: the kids,

3 when they don’t smile at you, or even see you. I wasn’t the best, or the worst teacher in the world. I worked very hard at it. I miss the moment when I’d start to plan. I’d feel a rush of excitement about the coming year, laying out my calendars and course descriptions. I’d feel creative and organized, free to dream, my plan untouched by the complication of actual students. And then I’d stash my fresh notebooks in the drawer and go to the lake, because it was still summer. Bob and I, we love to swim. This summer -- my second in retirement, his first -- we hardly ever go to the lake. I don’t know why. But football season has started. Bob is in six different Fantasy Football leagues. Six. This, apparently, is what he dreamed of doing when he left his job. He hasn’t even noticed I’m standing here, rag in hand. I’m so tempted to dust him. “Bobby?” “Hang on,” Bob mutters. A long pass rockets off the arm of Russell Wilson and soars through the air. It drops into Tyler Lockett’s arms. “Yes!” we both cry. I perch on the arm of his chair. A flag is thrown. Holding, offense. The play is called back.

4 “What?” Bob shouts. “What?” He throws the remote across the room. Actually throws it. It hits the curtain with a puff of dust. “Criminy.” I stand up. “That’s not holding!” Bob yells. “Look! Look!” I look at the replay. But, I mean, it’s football. All the guys are grabbing and holding and pummeling each other. Even the happy ones. “Could we talk a moment?” I walk over to the window, pick the remote off the floor, and hand it to him. Bob pauses the game. “You know the trip?” I say. “The trip.” “The dream trip, to Barcelona? With the book club?” “Is that still happening?” “Well, that’s the thing,” I say. “Everybody dropped out. Even Judy. Her daughter’s pregnant.” “That’s too bad.” “That she’s pregnant?” “No, I just know you were looking forward to it.”

5 “Yes. I was. And…” I take a deep breath. “I have a question for you.” I throw the dust rag on my shoulder and pick up my ukulele. “Uh-oh,” Bob says. He loves to tease. “Would you like to see Barcelona?” I sing, to my own little tune. “Fly away across the sea to Barcelona? Visit Dali and Gaudi in Barcelona, just you and me…” Now for the dance break. Step-ball-change, step-ball-change, and turn... Just as I complete a full rotation I see him glance at the game. My smile falls off. “I’m watching!” he protests. “You’re looking at the game!” I cry. “And it’s paused!” “I just don’t want to go to Europe, OK? I spent my whole life saving up for retirement and I don’t want to blow it in the first few months.” I could cry, I’m so mad. I’m so mad at myself. What was I thinking, doing the Shirley Temple routine? How must I look? A grown woman. Seriously. My face burns and I can’t even move. “What’s dolly-in-guhdee?” Bob asks. “What?”

6 “Dolly-in-guhdee,” he repeats. “Dali and Gaudi,” I annunciate. “Spanish artists? Architects?” “Right. I just don’t like museums and churches and stuff.” “I’ll go alone then.” “Uh-huh.” “Young people do it all the time. Travel alone. I never did.” “You’re not young.” “I’m aware.” You must hate Bob by now, but really, this is so unlike him! “And I speak Spanish,” I say. “Yeah. Well…” He presses Play. So I guess that’s it. Case dismissed. I turn my back and walk into the kitchen. Seth, our sweet, 25-year-old beanpole, is reaching into the fridge. He straightens up with a Red Bull in his hand and looks down at me. “You OK?” I nod. “Seth, how would you like to go to Spain with your mom? Trip of a lifetime?”

7 He thinks for one moment, curling his eyes up to the ceiling. “No,” he says. “But everything you do is on the computer, right? You work from home. From, garage,” I correct myself. Seth lives in our garage. He feels strongly that this is different from living with his parents. “You could work from there.” “Why would I do that?” “To see the world! To meet people! Oh my God, to live!” Oops. I bite my tongue, but it’s too late. His face shuts down. “I have a life, Mom.” “I know, I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I had my heart set on this trip.” “Well. What do you want to do?” “What do I want? What do I want? You mean, if I wasn’t worried about you, or our finances, or abandoning your dad, or who will water the hydrangeas? I want to see the Familia Sagrada! This great, crazy cathedral! Who would think of such a thing? Who would build it? Who are these people? I want to go, Seth. I want to go to Barcelona.” “Well, go, Mom. We’ll manage.”

8 Oh my God oh my God oh my God. Even though I normally say “gosh.” The roof of my mind explodes into a vaulted ceiling and suddenly I know with certainty that I will stand there, my feet on the cathedral floor. I will stand there looking up.