The MC’s Matriarch

Marge’s POV

Current Day

“You want to hear about the first time I slept with Frank?”

Bobby stopped opening his laptop. “I asked how you met.”

“Then you ought to be more specific.”

“How the hell was that not specific?”

I smiled at him across the bar at the Devil’s Den and pulled the notebook closer. “You walked into that one, baby.”

He pushed the laptop aside. “I can leave.”

“You can sit your ass down and look at these pictures.”

I slid the box toward him before he could make good on the threat. He had brought me the notebook that morning, along with three pens and an offer to put everything on his computer. I had asked for something to write in. Apparently, that required technical support.

The stage lights were off, and the whole place still smelled of floor cleaner. I’d chosen the morning so nobody would interrupt us, then spent half of it hoping somebody would.

Bobby took the photograph from the top of the pile.

“You were nineteen here?”

“On my wedding day, yes.”

He studied it, then looked at me.

“Go on. Say something about how young I look.”

“I was going to say you look happy.”

I reached across the bar and straightened the photograph between his fingers. Frank had his arm around me, and I was pressed against his side. I could remember wanting everybody to finish taking pictures so I could have my husband to myself.

“I was.”

Bobby set it beside the notebook. “You should start there.”

“With the wedding?”

“With whatever you remember when you look at it.”

I uncapped a pen, held it over the page, then put the cap back on.

“That’s a hell of a lot.”

“Good. You’ve got three hundred pages.”

“Listen to you. Counting my words before I’ve written any.”

“You asked me to help.”

“I asked you to buy a notebook.”

“And you called me twice to make sure I hadn’t forgotten.”

I waved him off, but he was right. The first call had been about the notebook. The second had been because I wanted him to come sit with me while I opened the box.

He didn’t need to know that.

Bobby drew another picture out, careful with the bent corner. I had expected him to make some crack about the clothes or ask whether Larry had ever looked young. Instead, he kept looking between the photographs and the blank page.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Bobby.”

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the bar. “I wish you’d started this before.”

“Well, I’ve been busy raising a bunch of grown men who can’t find clean towels without supervision.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“After you got shot, I kept thinking about things I’d never asked you.”

I stopped sorting the pictures.

He was looking down now, his shoulders hunched. I knew that posture. Usually, I could get him talking with a hand on his back and something to eat. There was food in the refrigerator, but I stayed where I was.

“You can ask me now.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“I mean the rest of it, too.”

He looked up. “I thought you were going to die.”

I reached for his hand. He let me take it, although he was twenty and wearing a patch and perfectly capable of pretending he didn’t need anybody.

“I was fucking scared, too.”

His fingers tightened around mine. I rubbed my thumb over his knuckles, the way I’d done when he was younger and too angry to explain what hurt.

“I don’t want you doing this because you think you have to leave something behind,” he said.

“I’m doing it because I want you to have it while I’m here to hear you complain about the dirty parts.”

“Marge.”

“I want to tell it, Bobby. I just didn’t expect getting started to be this damn hard.”

He nodded and stayed with me until I let go.

He reached for his laptop, then stopped.

“What?” I asked.

“I can scan these for you. You keep the pictures, and I keep a copy somewhere you can’t spill coffee on it.”

“I know what scanning is.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re not taking this box home and returning it next Christmas.”

“I can do it today.”

“After I’m finished.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re not reading over my shoulder.”

He glanced at the bar between us. “That would take some effort.”

“You’d manage.”

He grinned and leaned back on his stool. I was glad to see it. I had missed that grin while he was sitting there trying to tell me how scared he’d been.

He looked at the wedding photograph again.

“Can I have a copy of that one?”

“Of course you can.”

“I mean a real one. Something I can put in a frame.”

I slid it toward him, but he shook his head.

“You keep yours. I’ll get another one made.”

I left my hand beside the picture. “You want me looking over your shoulder at home, too?”

“You already call.”

“And you could answer a little faster.”

“I answer.”

“Eventually.”

He laughed, and I reached across to straighten the collar of his cut. He put up with it, just as he always did when I found some excuse to fuss over him.

“Does anybody else know you’re doing this?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Want me to keep my mouth shut?”

“For now.”

He nodded without asking why. I appreciated that more than I could explain. It was one thing to tell a story when somebody asked over dinner. Sitting down with Frank’s pictures and trying to put our life on paper had left me wanting to pull the box against my chest.

Bobby glanced toward the door, then back at me.

“I can stay if you want.”

“I know, baby.”

He waited while I picked up the pen again.

“Go on,” I told him. “Let me get something written before you start charging for all this help.”

“I bought you the notebook.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“You have a tab?”

“I do now.”

He gathered his laptop and stood. I caught his shirt before he could turn away and leaned across the bar to kiss his cheek. He complained, but he bent without making me tug twice.

“Call me,” he said.

“You’ll answer?”

He gave me a look.

I was still smiling when the door closed behind him.

One corner of Frank’s photograph had curled. I held it flat with two fingers and looked at his arm around my waist. He’d pulled me close so often I used to complain that he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

I pressed my thumb against his hand in the picture.

Then I moved it aside and found the one of him in uniform.

I had heard this part in his own voice, lying beside him after the lights were out.

I uncapped the pen and wrote the place and year at the top of the page.

Bien Hoa, Vietnam. October 1972.

Then I took a breath and began with the part Frank had always struggled to tell me: the men who didn’t come home.