A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) by Terence M. Green Read Free Book Online

mouth, watch as her eyes roll back in her head, as she swallows in gulps.
    Steadying her as she drinks, I think, suddenly: Margaret. Margaret Loy. I picture her screaming in the kitchen of a thatched cottage, a baby in a box, while a small boy cries on the dirt floor beside her.
     
    In Simpson's the next day, I watch her again, working up my nerve. But I do nothing about it. I cannot think of a believable ploy to approach her. I need an excuse, but can think of none.
    Life stalls, eddies.
    Her face, her eyes, her mouth.
     
    "I don't know what to do, Gramma."
    In a surprising move, she reaches across and touches my face, my lips, running her fingers along my cheek.
    I let her touch me. I let her probe for the source of the person sitting beside her. Then I take her hand in mine, hold it, feel the fingers curl about mine, feel it relax.
    How, I wonder, did this happen? How did it become Margaret Loy and me? It has come out of nowhere. And it occurs to me, just as abruptly, a sudden insight, that perhaps everything comes out of nowhere.
    "Help me," I say to her.
    The fingers tighten. I sit there. Together, wordlessly, we plot.
     
    I wait until Friday, until the end of the workday, guessing that she will be working Friday evening, as she was last week, as I now imagine she does every week as a matter of course. She sees me coming across the floor, smiles that curious smile, waits.
    "Good evening."
    "And good evening to you." Her eyes glance at my head. "And how is the hat?"
    I am sporting the new Homburg, feeling resplendent. "Couldn't be better. One of my finer purchases." I touch the brim. Her hands, fine boned, rest on the glass counter.
    I ask it. "Would you enjoy a cup of tea? Some coffee? A drink after work?"
    A beat. Several beats. What I have sensed before is true. She is older than me. I feel it fully now. This has been part of the mystique, I realize slowly—my inability to be more worldly than her. Something I perceive dimly as her experience. Her hesitation is the interval of assessment, of intuition, of decision.
    But her answer is kind. And warm. "What a pleasant idea," she says.
    My spirits soar.
    "And how would we go about this? I don't finish until nine." She waits.
    "Does someone come to pick you up?"
    "No." She is smiling broadly now, understanding the game, the necessary moves, but the smile is still laced with reserve. I am being studied carefully.
    "Have you had dinner?" I ask suddenly. Maybe there are more possibilities.
    "Yes. An early one. At five."
    I shrug, return to my original idea. "I could have a bite to eat. Do some shopping. I'd be back at nine to meet you here."
    The corners of her mouth uplift into a grace. "Why not?"
    And I am happy. It is that simple. "My name is Martin Radey."
    She nods, continues to smile, bemusement and recognition crossing her features like a cloud's ground shadow on a sunny day.
    "Margaret Curtis." The eyes staring into mine are hazel, and with her name I now know what she knows. We have indeed met before, at my sister Teresa's wedding. We danced, once, the day her brother Peter married my big sister Teresa. I have not seen nor thought of her since. "Call me Maggie," she says, carefully, imparting an intimacy, bonding us to that vanished moment. The word is both shadow and sunshine, hope and loss, and infinite possibility.
     
    "And what is it that you do now, Martin Radey?" She has appropriated the pouring of the tea. I watch her hands, one holding the curved handle, the other pinning the lid to the teapot so that it does not tumble off. We are at a table in Bowles' Restaurant, at the comer of Queen and Bay.
    "I work in the receiving department at Don Valley Pressed Bricks and Terra Cotta."
    "And where is that?"
    "Adelaide Street East. Not too far from here."
    "Is it a good job?"
    I shrug. "It's a job."
    "But is it a good job?" She places the teapot carefully at the side of the table, wipes the spout with a napkin.
    "It's the only job I've ever had. The only real,