Out of the Garden

They argued about the poem.

Marge said she didn't get it, and Steve, who read poetry all the time said, "What don't you get?"

Even the question, posited that way, annoyed her, so she wasn't exactly in a position to have a detached discussion about the implications of a poem. In fact, the whole day, or at least the afternoon, had been upsetting. She'd cried her way down the Powell Street hill, the cable cars clanging their relentless adventure and cheer, sidling down from where they'd parked on Bush Street. The high street had been her idea, since it was Sunday and they might find a free parking place on their way to the paying garage, and they did.

The steep hill had made Marge cry because it took her back to another time—not so long ago—when they'd driven downtown: she and Steve and Lucy, who was still alive then, in a hurry to get to the theater the evening of the day Lucy's plane had arrived late. Marge remembered walking behind Lucy, who was rushing along because she knew her mother couldn't stand to be late, rushing along with her thick legs in their black hose, her black-wrap dress, her patent sandals flopping with clacks against the pavement. Marge remembered thinking that Lucy was nearing middle age herself, shifting her mother to a generation of old people.

But Marge took a great deal for granted then, too, and was crying Sunday afternoon six months later because her world was changing and so was everything: Borders had its doors open but bookcases were pushed against the entrance area, odd tables, the detritus of a once thriving business. Next to that sad scene was the Disney Store—or what had been, years before—windows hidden behind paper, for rent, for rent.

All these empty spaces!

Her tears caused her to bump into people: Excuse me. Sorry! Steve, tall and gray, would wait from time to time for her to fall into place beside him. It was the familiarity of Union Square, she told herself. Lucy and I have been here too many times. Am I to be banished from Union Square because I can't handle it?

Macy's was worse, walking past the table settings, the Nambe bowls and crystal candlesticks, the flowers. The tears came again and Marge hid in the restroom this time, waiting for them to subside. Surely she didn't have to write off the full sixth floor of Macy's because it suggested the Thanksgiving they'd had at Lucy's, the beautiful effect of the reds and golds, one that couldn't occur again? Surely there was, if not an end—she didn't expect this to ever end—a relief in grief to some extent?

By late afternoon she'd gathered her wits about her, whatever one would call it, for a few hours, enough to make dinner, enough to get into the evening. Then she read the poem in the New Yorker. It was about two men, both of whom had been in driving accidents: one hit a snow bank, and the other hit a girl walking home, killing her. The first had told anecdotes about his good luck; the narrator of the poem was talking to that man. "I don't get it," Marge said. "The last stanza." "Read it aloud," Steve said, hitting the mute button on the TV, leaning back in his chair that matched hers.

Marge read:

Lucky you, whose personal faith has widened
To include an angel assigned to protect you
From the usual outcome of heedless moments.