It's Friday night, and Matt’s working late as usual, so Jay talks us into the Brunswick Tavern.
“Hemingway used to write there,” he crows.
Wrong. He used to write at the Pilot Tavern and that’s been torn down for years. I grab him and pull him aside.
“What gives Jay—Why the hell are you so all-fired up to get us to the Brunswick House?”
He colors. Now I know he’s got an angle. “C’mon, give over—What’s up?”
“Look, I just heard through a friend of a friend that Matt’s there every Friday night—with a different chick.”
My blood boils. “You gotta be kidding.”
“No, I’m not. And I want Margot to see.”
I raise an eyebrow, which he ignores.
“C’mon Paul, she’s got a right to know. God! That low-life scumbag—stringing her along while she puts him through school.”
“That’s her choice, not yours.”
“Don’t be a Boy Scout, Paulie—I know you gotta thing for her.”
I grab him by the collar and give him a murderous stare.
“You’re not saying a damn thing—you hear me?”
“Yeah—I hear you.”
I let him go and watch him almost fold like an accordion, his knees buckling. I reach out and hold him up.
“C’mon buddy—nobody ever said you were a fighter.”
“Yeah—I’m a lover,” he whimpers.
“Nobody ever said that either,” I smile.
There’s a quick change of plans and we head to The Black Hart. Jay’s pissed, but Margot’s none the wiser.
We sit in the beer pub and I buy the first round. Before long, we’re all complaining about our Profs.
After a few minutes, Jay comes back from the washroom, looking ill.
He tilts his head in the direction of the bar lounge. I excuse myself to use the washroom.
I follow his cue and discover the reason for his deathly pallor. There, sitting in a booth, is Matt with his arm around a girl. He’s so wrapped up in her, he doesn’t see me standing in the doorway, mouth agape.
I panic. The only excuse I can think of is to say the beer’s tainted and get Margot the hell out of there.
I’m just about to return to the table when I bump into Margot and as she spies Matt and the girl, they begin to kiss.
Margot heads straight to the table. “What the hell is this, Matt—your version of working late?”
He stands up apologetic and tries to calm Margot, but the other girl puts two and two together.
“Are you his girlfriend?” She asks Margot.
“We live together—I’m his fiancée,” Margot spits back.
They face each other like she-cats squaring off for territory, and then, the girl changes her mind.
“You bastard,” she hisses at Matt and swipes him with her talons.
She then heads for the door. Matt grabs a napkin from the table, dabs at the claw marks she’s left on his cheek, and then leaves, hurrying after the girl!
Margot slumps down in the booth.
Jay pokes his head in the doorway, but I wave him off. Party’s over for tonight.
I slide in beside Margot who’s strangely calm.
“I know who she is,” she says softly.
“You do?”
“She’s one of his thesis advisors—he’s been trying to impress the Profs and figures she could help.”
I’ll bet, I tell myself, trying hard to focus on her, instead of Matt.
“It’s okay—no big deal—we can work this out,” she says dully.
She’s detached—unaware she’s methodically shredding the blood-stained napkin he used to wipe his face.
“It’s all right to cry, you know,” I tell her.
“What makes you think I want to cry?’
She looks so beautiful and vulnerable, I melt. I want to take her in my arms, but of course, I can’t.
“I was at a funeral once for a young couple who got married in high school. Their three year old died of a congenital disease.”
Margot stares at me, not sure where this is going. Tell the truth, neither am I.
“The parents knew it was coming—prepared themselves—told themselves it was all right.”
“What’s your point, Paul?”
“I used to play with little Sarah—pretend I was Ernie and Bert. No one cried for that little girl. Everyone was going to leave that graveyard without crying—so, you know what I did?”
“No, I have no idea.”
“I put on my Ernie voice and said, ‘Hey, Bert—do you think it’d be okay to say good bye to Sarah?’ and then Bert said, ‘Sure Ernie—you love her.’”
Margot’s eyes filled with tears.
“So, Ernie and Bert said goodbye, and then the parents said goodbye—and then, one by one, everyone said goodbye. And we all cried.”
The tears were running down my face now and they were running down Margot’s. It’s okay to cry,” I said.
She reached out and held my hand tight and we both sat in the lounge of the Black Hart and cried.
Margot didn’t leave Matt. He came home later that night and they made up. They got married last month and are still going strong.
Margot and I are still best friends—occasionally, we go for drinks and laugh—but we do not cry.
We’re both still practicing our art—muddling through each day—sifting through the wreckage.
Margot’s kind of heroic in a sad sort of way.
She reminds me of the Jewish high priests who sewed up the curtain when the veil of the temple was rent.
They knew somehow the priesthood had changed, but they still went on, clinging to their traditions.
Margot’s like that and I guess in a way so am I too—both clinging to the wreckage in our apprenticeship of pain.
