Michelangelos Shoulder | Page 4

to everything.
Charlie stretched and checked his watch. The ten o'clock ferry from
Peaks Island was edging to the dock. Soon a few dozen passengers
would walk off the ramp, carrying shopping bags, slipping day packs
over one or both shoulders, holding dogs on leashes. Margery, short
and polite, would be toward the end of the line, one hand on the railing,
blinking as she looked up at the city buildings and around for him.
They were similar physically and recognized each other as related, not
lovers, not brother and sister, but distant cousins perhaps or members
of a tribe--the patient, the witness bearers. "There you are," she said.
Charlie stood and they patted one another's shoulders.
"You look very well, not a day over forty," Charlie said, standing back.
"Here, let me take that." She handed him a stout canvas bag. "Jesus!
What's in here?"
"Rocks and books. You're looking pleased with life. How's the world of
architecture?"
"All right. Still looking for the perfect client." He rubbed his stomach
with his free hand and pointed across the street to Standard Baking
Company. "Croissants," he said. "A croissant a day keeps the doctor
away. Are you hungry?"
"No. Let's get on with it."
Charlie led the way to his car, an elderly red Volvo. "Rocinante,"
Margery remembered.
"As good as ever." Charlie lowered the bag into the back seat.
"Could we swing by the library? I need to return these books."
"Sure. What have you been reading?"

"Tolstoy. The Russians. Dostoyevsky, Chekhov."
"That'll get you through a long night."
"There's no one like Tolstoy," Margery said. "So serene. Cosmic and
down to earth at the same time."
"I wrote a novel once," Charlie said.
"What happened?"
"It wasn't very good." Charlie stopped by the library book drop.
"At least you finished."
He watched her slide three souls and twenty years work through the
brass slot. "There's a story I love about Chekhov," she said, getting
back into the car. "He paid a visit to Tolstoy. Late in the evening, on his
way home after a certain amount of wine, he cried out to his horse and
to the heavens: 'He says I'm worse than Shakespeare. Worse than
Shakespeare!'"
"Wonderful," Charlie said. "Chekhov--didn't he die after a last swallow
of champagne?"
"It was sad," Margery said. She turned and stared out the side window.
They drove out of town in silence. The cemetery where Margery's
father and son were buried was an hour and a half up the coast and
midway down a long peninsula. The drive had become an annual event.
Margery had no car. Charlie drove her one year and then had just
continued. This was, what, the fourth or fifth trip? He couldn't
remember.
"Margery, did you see that picture of President Bush on the carrier deck,
wearing the pilot get up?"
"I did."
"Wasn't that ridiculous? The little son of a bitch went AWOL when he
was in the National Guard. I read that it delayed the troops their
homecoming by a day and cost a million dollars."
"Light comedy," Margery said. "The Emperor Commodus fancied
himself a gladiator. Romans had to watch him fight in the colosseum
many times. He never lost. His opponents were issued lead swords."
"Nothing's changed," Charlie said. "Commodus?"
"Second century, A.D. We're not a police state, yet. Things get really
crazy under one man rule. Have you not read Gibbon?"
"The Decline and Fall--never got around to it."
"Good for perspective," Margery said.

"That green!" Charlie waved at the trees along I-95. "We only get it for
a week when the leaves are coming out."
"Yes." Margery settled into her seat. Perspective was a good thing,
Charlie thought. Even keel and all that. But there was something to be
said for losing it. If he could have his choice of cuties, he'd just as soon
have one of those dark eyed Mediterranean fireballs--breasts, slashing
smile--someone who spoke with her whole body.
They arrived at the cemetery in good time. Margery declined his offer
to carry the special rocks, wanting to bring them herself. They were
intended to protect the base of a rugosa she'd planted the previous year.
As usual, Charlie accompanied her and then returned to the car. She
would take as long as she needed to arrange the rocks and to say or hear
or feel whatever she could.
Charlie had no children; it was hard to imagine what she felt. Her son
had skidded on a slick road and been wiped out by a logging truck, a
stupid accident, pure bad luck. Her father had died later the same year.
Margery had been on hold since, he supposed, although he hadn't
known her when she was younger. The lines in her face seemed to have
been set early. We