THE OTHER MARGARET by William Eisner

What was the content of the ad?
“Young at heart widow, 55, ACLU member, opposed to war, loves good books, good music, good movies, seeking long-term relationship with mature, like-minded man. Send photo. Box 61335.”
What decided Meadow to answer the ad?
The box number: it was his date of birth. He saw in this some benevolent cosmic hand beckoning to him.
Did Meadow answer the ad truthfully?
Alas, no. He sent a photograph taken five years earlier, said he loved classical music when his favorite composers were Irving Berlin and Rodgers and Hart, said he loved good books when his only reading consisted of studying the Los Angeles Times from one end to the other.
Did they meet?
Yes, at the Bonaventure Hotel in downtown L.A. She described herself as five-six, blond, wearing a red jacket. He, wearing a suit and tie for the first time since his wife’s death ten months earlier, arrived fifteen minutes early, and uneasily scanned the lobby searching for the red jacket. She was only fifteen minutes late but he was about to give up.
What was Meadow’s first impression of the woman?
He found her not unattractive, though she would never see fifty-five again, nor sixty for that matter. She was also larger and heftier than he would have liked.
What most struck him about the woman?
Her name: Margaret. It was the same as that of his dead wife. Here again, he sensed some cosmic hand at work.
What then?
They sat in the hotel coffee shop where Meadow, ill at ease since this was his first date since courting his wife forty-five years earlier, had difficulty looking Margaret in the eye and answering her questions.
Did Meadow have a larger problem than answering Margaret’s questions?
Yes indeed: he had to urinate. He had had to urinate since arriving at the Bonaventure but was afraid to go to the men’s room for fear of missing the red jacket. For Meadow, urinating quickly became an emergency and the problem was now approaching crisis proportions. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll answer you in a minute.” He headed for the men’s room, a location he made it a habit to pinpoint in any new place he entered.
On returning, what answers did Meadow give to Margaret’s questions?
“I mess around my garden, prune the roses, the hedges, mow the grass, plant and water things, take walks along the beach . . . ” He remembered her ad. “I read a lot, listen to music . . . I don’t go to the movies. It’s no fun alone.”
What did Margaret reveal about herself?
She owned a boutique in Brentwood, Special Moments, that sold intimate apparel. She had two children, both boys, one in San Francisco, the other in Portland. Her husband had died two years earlier; she had buried herself in work.
What were Meadow’s answers to Margaret’s questions about his family?
He had three children, plus six grandchildren, scattered around America. He saw them once in a great while; they rarely called; they had their own lives, were busy and far away. His father had sold plumbing supplies, his mother had taught grade school, his brother was also a salesman and his sister a homemaker, both on the East Coast. “We’re just ordinary people,” he concluded. “We plug along, pay our taxes, and pursue happiness.”
Did Meadow tell the whole story about his parents?
Not really. He did not mention that his father was rarely home and when he was, was only a shadowy presence, nor did he mention that his mother was compulsively neat, humorless, and a severe disciplinarian.
How did Meadow compare this Margaret with his first wife?
The other Margaret was a knife blade of a woman, this Margaret was comparatively fat. This Margaret’s eyes, an unwavering gray-green, narrowed when she asked a question, and this he found intimidating. Though the other Margaret could be intimidating as well, often telling him what to do and when to do it, once remarking that he had as much initiative as a houseplant.
How did this first meeting end?
They exchanged addresses, phone numbers. He picked up the tab.
What happened subsequently?
She called the following day, inviting him for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Brentwood. This time she offered to pay the check but Meadow gallantly said that would be ungentlemanly of him and paid. She invited him for dinner at her condo the following Saturday evening.
What were Meadow’s further impressions?
He did not find her company unpleasant, though he wished she were slimmer, petite, rather than the husky woman she was. He found her laugh too loud and rather gross.
What did Meadow bring to the dinner at Margaret’s condo?
He was unsure what to bring, debated between flowers (perhaps too intimate) and chocolate (but then she was already marginal in the weight department), and finally settled on a bottle of wine. He agonized over red versus white, domestic versus imported, finally settled on a Napa Valley pinot noir, thought red more macho than white.
What was Meadow’s impression of Margaret’s condo?
He found the place shabby: the couch spavined, the legs of the coffee table scratched as though a cat had worked them over, the wall-to-wall carpeting stained.
On arriving at Margaret’s, did Meadow have a problem?
He sure did: once again, as in their meeting at the Bonaventure, Meadow had to urinate and it was rapidly becoming an emergency. “Where can I wash up before dinner?” he asked.
“The bathroom on this floor isn’t working,” Margaret said. “You can use the downstairs one.” She pointed to a door. “Just down those steps. The light switch is on the left.”
Then what happened?
Meadow hurried to the door. He groped for the light switch, didn’t find it, then instead of a first step, his foot dropped into a void. He tried to grab a railing as he felt himself falling but there was nothing to grab. His head cracked against something. The next thing Meadow knew he was staring up at a light and Margaret was standing over him. He was awash in a sea of urine. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m embarrassed as hell.”
“It could happen to anybody. I should have warned you. That first step is tricky . . . Let me help you up.”
He took her hand, came to his feet, let out a yelp. “My right leg hurts. I can’t stand on it.”
“It might be broken. I’ll take you to the UCLA emergency room. It’s only fifteen minutes away. But first we have to do something about those pants.”
She had him sit, pulled off his pants, shorts. “This is terribly embarrassing,” he said. Margaret shrugged. “Women do this sort of thing . . . The best I can do is put these clothes in the dryer.” After she dried his clothing and helped him on with his pants, he hobbled to her car – an ancient Chevrolet Impala with a dented front fender – leaning against her. Meadow was surprised at the strength in her shoulders and the ease with which she supported his weight. “I suggest you lie on the backseat,” she said.
What was the diagnosis?
“Both your fibula and tibia are broken,” the doctor said, pointing to the X-ray. “I’ll put your leg in a cast then you’ll have to keep your weight off it for about six weeks.” He touched a bump on Meadow’s head causing Meadow to wince. “That’s a nasty bruise,” the doctor said. “Do you have a headache?” Meadow shook his head. “There’s always a risk of concussion. If you develop a bad headache, come back in. In the meantime, let’s fix that leg.”
After his leg was set, as he hobbled back to the car, on crutches, Meadow said bitterly, “Christ, it’s my right leg. I won’t even be able to drive.”
How did Margaret make amends for his fall?
“I doubt if you can take care of yourself either,” she said. “Look, I feel responsible for this. I should have fixed the upstairs toilet. I’ve got a spare room. Why don’t you camp there? I’ll look out for you until your leg is healed.”
Did Meadow accept Margaret’s offer?
With a sigh, with misgiving, with apprehension, he accepted. They drove to his home in Santa Monica, filled a suitcase with his clothing, toilet articles, and such else as he might need, and installed him in Margaret’s spare bedroom. At his house, he noticed that Margaret scanned the place with the reckoning eye of a realtor. The headache the doctor spoke of never developed though the bump on his forehead turned a sickly green.
What discovery did Meadow make about Margaret?
That she was an excellent cook, far superior to the other Margaret. She left sandwiches in the refrigerator for his lunch; when she returned from her boutique, she prepared dinner with astonishing speed: casseroles, ham patties, veal parmigiano, sautéed vegetables, and on the weekend, a splendid meat sauce.
What did Meadow do for exercise?
Mornings and afternoons, on crutches, he hobbled around the neighborhood.
Did Meadow accommodate to Margaret?
In a way. He got used to her body: her butt and thighs too heavy, her thick legs, her broad shoulders, her pudgy face. He thought of sex, was apprehensive, her too-large body intimidated him. Sometimes one of her sons called, for some reason always on her cell phone. She often raised her voice in these conversations and came away upset, though she never explained.
What did Margaret reveal of herself to Meadow?
One night, after dinner and after two glasses of wine – the Napa Valley pinot noir that Meadow had brought that first evening – Margaret said, “I’ve been married three times. The first time right out of high school, to a compulsive cheater. He’d try to make any skirt that crossed his path. My second was a compulsive drinker. Another loser.” Then, voice softened, she said, “My third husband was a fine man, educated, cultured, twelve years older than I. He’d do anything for me. One day he dropped dead of a stroke. Broke my heart. I still use his name: Margaret Hanes.” She said the last name as if it were magic. “Actually, there’s an urn in my bedroom that contains his ashes.” She looked down as she said this, as if she had inadvertently revealed too much. “I was lonely,” she went on, “messed around a little, finally put an ad in the paper, and here we are.”
What was Meadow’s reaction to these revelations?
He thought her recitation had a practiced quality, had been given before and more than once, and guessed that much was left out. “Tell me about your children,” he said.
Margaret sighed. “We don’t see eye to eye on many things. And the oldest is always hard up for money.”
How did that evening end?
Margaret leaned back and asked, “Are you interested in sex?”
“It’s been so long I’m not sure I remember how to go about it.”
“I’m sure it’ll come back to you . . . despite that cast on your leg.”
On crutches, he hobbled after her into her bedroom. Meadow, perhaps intimidated by Margaret’s directness, something the other Margaret would never dream of doing, had technical difficulties. Finally, they achieved something though Margaret did not seem overjoyed at the result.
As the days passed, was there anything about Margaret that disturbed Meadow?
Small things began to bother him: dishes after dinner remained piled in the sink and this disturbed him sufficiently that he did them the following morning; clothes were left lying around. He made his bed; she rarely made hers. Her gross laugh, which had a snorting component, had grown more irritating. Their sex improved but Margaret did not appear satisfied. Sex with the other Margaret required overcoming her reluctance, making it a rare event, and was accompanied by a dim shadowy hysteria.
What radical suggestion did Margaret make?
That Meadow get rid of the other Margaret’s things. When they visited his house to get additional clothing, the mail, Margaret inspected the contents of the closets and said, “I see you still have your old wife’s clothes and shoes and things.”
Meadow struggled for an answer. He had considered but could never bring himself to give the clothes away. Sometimes he buried his face in them, searching for the odor of her body. “It’s pointless to make a shrine of your wife’s things,” Margaret said. “If you want me to help, there are lots of charities around that would be delighted to get all this.”
Meadow, unsure but sensing that Margaret was right about letting go, allowed himself to be convinced. She folded all of the other Margaret’s clothes into cardboard boxes, did the same with her shoes, handbags, undergarments, even her face creams, then had a Goodwill truck come by and take it all. When she was done, not a vestige of the other Margaret remained in Meadow’s house. “Now, George, you’re free,” Margaret said, “and can start a new life.”
Meadow had not watched, in fact, could not watch, as Margaret disposed of the clothes.
Did Margaret do anything particularly egregious?
She sure did! Looking around the house, at his bookshelves, Meadow noticed something missing. “Where are my photo albums?” he asked.
“Gone. Into the trash. Starting a new life means just that. Getting rid of the old baggage.”
“Pictures of my children are not old baggage,” he sputtered. “You should have asked before pitching them out.”
Margaret shrugged. “Change is cruel but you get over it.” She gave her snorting laugh. “A new life means exactly that.” He felt that something had been settled between them, not sure what.
Over time, what conclusions did Meadow reach about Margaret?
That her ad was all baloney. The ad had spoken of good books, good music, good movies, but there were no books in her home other than an ancient set of Britannica and some paperbacks. There also were no CDs and when the radio was on she tuned it to a golden oldies station. He also found her taste in cinema, mostly video rentals, was for black-and-white weepies and John Wayne movies. He was tempted to inquire about her ACLU membership but in listening to her remarks about minorities, the homeless, and gays, he concluded that item was false as well. It was unclear whether she was opposed to war. The ad was concocted to attract a certain type of individual, of the kind she probably admired, possibly resembling the dead Mr. Hanes. Of course, in his answer to the ad, Meadow recognized that he too had been false.
What problem did Margaret now have and how did this affect Meadow?
A competitor had opened only a block from her boutique, selling similar items at much lower prices. She returned from the store tired, grumbled about her business, and insisted they eat out. She favored Italian and the restaurants she chose were not cheap. She ignored the check. Meadow was always on the verge of asking to split the tab but never did. His monthly pension disappeared in restaurant bills. Still, she had given him shelter and taken care of the small logistics of life that with his broken leg he would have found difficult if not impossible to carry out. And, unlike the other Margaret, she did not believe in ghosts, was not ruled by the conjunction of the planets, by signs and portents.
What happened after the cast came off Meadow’s leg?
He took longer and longer walks, then visited his house. Margaret did not open Special Moments until ten and slept late, so Meadow, an early riser, chose to walk in the morning. He drove to his home, noticed with dismay that his garden needed attention, though the sprinklers had kept things flourishing. He set about pruning and weeding and paid a local high school boy to mow the lawn. He went to bed early but Margaret stayed up late, working on the books of the boutique or watching television or a video. They had dinner then Meadow became somnolent and excused himself. He was usually asleep when she went to bed.
Did they have moments of tenderness together?
At times. Occasionally, Margaret cooked a special meal, was obliging in giving him satisfaction during sex, walked with him evenings along the beach in Santa Monica, holding hands as they watched the sun, a glowing red coin, sink slowly into the Pacific. She invited him to visit Special Moments.
What impression did Margaret’s boutique make on Meadow?
He looked about at the stock: racks of lacy see-through things in pink and violet, some in tiger or floral patterns, nightgowns not meant to keep one warm. He imagined all this peek-a-boo fabric and its sexual promise revealed in dim bedrooms and anonymous hotels, thought of smoky whorehouses. “Any of this stuff appeal to you?” Margaret asked mischievously.
Meadow managed an ambiguous, “Interesting the way a whole industry is devoted to the mating instinct.”
Margaret responded by showing him the storage room in the back. Though no businessman, Meadow concluded, and mildly mentioned, that perhaps she had too much inventory. “You can’t sell from an empty wagon,” Margaret grumbled.
On leaving, Meadow noticed the stained carpet, her chipped and cluttered desk, became aware of a general shabbiness not unlike her home.
What radical proposal did Margaret now make?
“You know,” Margaret said one day, leaning back on her sofa, “if we’re going to live together, there’s no point in maintaining two houses. Either you sell your house and move here, or I’ll leave this place and move there . . . What do you think?”
How did Meadow react?
“That’s a big step,” Meadow said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Is there that much to think about?” she asked. “We’re not talking marriage, but there is a commitment. The question is are you ready for that?”
Was Meadow ready?
He was unsure. He did not care for her condo, found it both ugly and restrictive, missed the expansiveness of his house, missed being close to his garden. But he felt the days and weeks and months tramping by, a marching irresistible army. She was shelter, someone beside him, an important blip on the flat-line of his life. Though he knew that Margaret was far from an ideal companion, living with her was better than living alone. He recognized that in case of difficulty he could always leave her home but could not leave his own. She would have to leave and this, he dimly perceived, might not be easy to accomplish. As he considered this, Meadow studied the liver spots on his hands, saw in them the dawn of old age, before him the darkness of memory loss, illness, oblivion. He also saw cosmic destiny at work, replacing one Margaret in his home with another.
How was all this finally resolved?
Margaret left her condo and moved into Meadow’s house. It developed that she did not own her condo but had leased it partially furnished, and the lease was about to run out. Margaret handled all the moving, selling some of what little furniture she had. But despite all her talk about a new life, she retained the ashes of Mr. Hanes, placing the urn in the bedroom. Meadow surmised that she always carried the ashes with her, like the bones of a saint. She rearranged Meadow’s house and when she was done he barely recognized the place. And Margaret’s clothes had replaced those of the other Margaret in the closet. He gave her the other Margaret’s keys to the house and her clicker to open the garage.
What were Meadow’s feelings after the deal was closed?
He could not set aside a sense of foreboding, that he had blundered.
How did their relationship fare after they combined households?
Meadow was not prepared for the rapidity with which things went downhill. Margaret complained every day that business at the boutique was going poorly, her old customers defecting to the new competitor. She returned home, pored over her books, grumbled, face dark. One night she said, “Take Viagra or one of those things. You can’t satisfy a woman with a limp pecker.” The idea of taking drugs in order to have sex was repellent to Meadow. This coupled with the insensitive way she had broached the subject upset him. He worked longer in his garden, was meticulous in his care of the roses, in pruning the Eugenia hedge, in fertilizing, mowing.
As her business deteriorated, Margaret became more irritable yet. She found fault in small things – the way he dressed, his rising early and making noise – and characterized his views on politics as just plain stupid. She behaved as if he were the interloper; he grew afraid to open a conversation, afraid that any topic, even the weather, would trigger an argument. As they sat together like some mismatched sitcom couple, the silence itself seemed hostile. He thought she had become larger, put on more weight, and now, in the expanse of her face, her mouth struck him as small and mean. He thought his movements stiff, robotic, had a sense of his own vulnerability.
What were Meadow’s reflections on how he had gotten into this mess?
It had happened one simple step at a time. Locked in the cold amber of loneliness, he had allowed himself to be manipulated, had been passive. She had taken over his home so that it was hardly recognizable, thrown out what was dear to him. And all this in the name of starting a new life. Meadow remembered her ad: all false, a trap to ensnare some poor slob she could manipulate. He would ask her to leave. Yes, that’s what he would do. All that she did he now found irritating. Her general sloppiness, hair dye in the bathroom, her snorting laugh, the grossness of her body. He complained of insomnia, started sleeping in the second bedroom. He did the dishes, bought prepared food at the supermarket when they did not eat out. He had become, he realized, the wife – and a suffering one at that – in their relationship.
What proposal did Margaret now make to Meadow?
“I need some cash to keep Special Moments from collapsing,” she said one evening, eyes gray-green stones sunk in the pale dough of her face. “How would you like to be a partner? I’ll bring you in as half owner.” She went on with additional details, named a sum. And in the false sincerity of her pitch, Meadow thought he saw the whole of her, the true Margaret Hanes.
How did Meadow react to Margaret’s proposal?
In her difficulty, Meadow found his courage. “I’m sorry about your boutique,” he said. “But I’d like you to leave.” He blurted out the last sentence, had intended a more artful approach, but at the sight of her, sprawled on his couch, asking for money, this is what emerged.
What was Margaret’s reaction to Meadow’s request?
Her eyes narrowed and she said, “What did you say?”
How did all this play out?
As high drama. “This is not working, at least not for me,”
Meadow said. His hands were cold and he tried to keep his voice authoritative. “I want you to leave my house.”
Margaret was now sitting up straight, face primitive, barbarous and feral. “You little turd,” she said, her narrowed eyes pinning him like a butterfly. “You made me give up my condo, lured me into this place, and now you want me to leave? Well, if anybody is going to leave it’s you, not me.”
Her words, fired at him like bullets, caused panic to rise within Meadow. His own life undermined him: a disciplinarian mother, the dark-souled creature that was the other Margaret, a female boss in his last ten years at the office – he had often gone to work as if someone were holding a gun to his head – and now this. To allow her to stay, he recognized, was to descend into slavery. “You leave voluntarily or I’ll take legal action to have you thrown out,” he said and was gratified by the firmness of his voice.
Margaret rose from the couch, stood over him, a looming presence. She seemed enormous. Meadow flinched as her hand came down and whacked him across the face. He tried to come to his feet but she shoved him back into the chair. “You’re not taking any fucking legal action, or any other action, you little shit,” she said with a crazed expression, about her a medieval ferocity. “You think you can push me around, manipulate me like your old wife? If anybody is going to take legal action it’s me, to have you thrown out.”
Her words came to Meadow in shards, the light in the room unnaturally bright. He was afraid to speak for fear of breaking down. His cheek smarted where she had struck him. Finally, he managed, “We’ve become enemies. Enemies don’t live together.”
“Well then get out,” she said, still looming over him.
Meadow finally came to his feet. “Think about it calmly.” He said this slowly, carefully, as if in speech therapy.
“I’ve done all the thinking I’m going to do. You think about it.”
Meadow disappeared into his room, thought of an animal chased to its hole.
What were Meadow’s thoughts as he lay in the dark of his room?
“I’ve got to get rid of her.” He said the words aloud, wanted to carve them into the wall like a prisoner on the walls of his cell. The other Margaret had once called him a man in danger of tripping over his own shadow. He was not that and he would prove it. That night, sleepless, a plan came to Meadow. He put it into execution the following morning.
What was Meadow’s plan?
A variant of the way Margaret had rid herself of the ghost of the other Margaret. When Margaret was off to work, Meadow went to the supermarket and loaded his car with empty boxes. He then methodically and carefully folded her clothes and placed them, as well as her shoes, bags, undergarments, and all that belonged to her, into boxes. He called a locksmith and while waiting for him to arrive, neatly stacked the boxes with her belongings on the front lawn. He dragged out the few sticks of furniture she had brought and arranged them on the lawn as well. He wrapped the urn containing the ashes of Mr. Hanes in plastic and placed it on top of the boxes. In an afterthought, he turned off the sprinklers. He then altered the code on the entry system to the garage so her clicker would no longer work. After the house was emptied of all vestiges of Margaret, the locks changed, Meadow returned to the supermarket and stocked the house with provisions, fearing the place might become a fortress under siege. He then made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drank a glass of milk, and waited for her return.
What happened when Margaret returned?
Meadow watched through the window as Margaret’s old Impala pulled up and the garage door did not open. She came out of the car, regarded the boxes on the lawn, picked up the plastic-wrapped urn, set it down, stared at the house. She tried the key, then knocked, hard. “Open the door, goddamn it! What do you think you’re doing? I know you’re in there you son of a bitch.” She kicked the door. Meadow wanted to hold up a sign: If your partner locks you out of the house, your problem is not with the door.
The phone rang. Meadow debated whether to lift the receiver. Her car was still in the driveway; it was surely Margaret on her cell phone. But then maybe it wasn’t. He had never bothered to install an answering machine. He picked up the phone. It was indeed Margaret. She yelled the same words she had at the door. He said nothing: any words would constitute the start of a negotiation. “You can’t leave my stuff on the street,” she shouted. He hung up the phone. She knew the obvious answer without his needing to say it. She appeared on the lawn, took the urn, sheltered it in her arms as if it were some abused creature, then disappeared toward her car. The phone rang twice again but he did not answer. Two hours later a truck pulled up and loaded the boxes and furniture, probably to be stored in the back of her boutique. The phone rang and rang. Meadow finally picked up the receiver. “Where the fuck do you expect me to sleep?” He hung up: here, too, the answer was obvious.
Did Margaret try for reconciliation?
She called the following day, voice now softened. “You have to understand, I’m totally stressed. You can’t believe what business problems will do to you. I overreacted. You’re a good man, George, and I treated you unfairly. I know that and I’m really and truly sorry.” Meadow listened, thought of Mr. Hanes, his stroke and what might have contributed to it. He did not answer. “Let’s start over,” she went on. “I’ll cook for you.” Her voice became sultry, “And I’ll treat your sweet little pecker real good.” At this last, Meadow hung up the phone. She appeared at his door, rang the bell. She called twice more, repeated her conciliatory pitch. When she did this, oddly, his cheek smarted where she had struck him. Her last phone call was ten days after he had thrown out her belongings.
How did Meadow fare after Margaret was gone?
Not all that well. He settled in the house, waited for something more to happen. Nothing did. The phone ceased to ring. To his astonishment, Meadow found that he missed her, their dinners out, their occasional walks on the beach, and, paradoxically, even her snorting laugh. It occurred to him that close communion makes us what we are. He rearranged the furniture the way it was, stared into his wife’s empty closet, felt sadness settle like a chunk of lead in his heart. He gazed out at the garden: it resembled a well-tended cemetery. Cosmic destiny had brought him full circle; he was back where he began: completely, utterly, and absolutely alone.
Did Meadow go back to perusing the personal columns?
Sadly but inexorably, as if pulled there by gravity, Meadow began again to peruse the personal columns. One ad started, “Young at heart widow, 55, ACLU member . . . ” He wondered how many times she had placed that ad. But as he looked further, another ad caught his eye: “Mature professional woman, seeking companion . . . ”
Did Meadow answer that second ad?
He hesitated, he procrastinated, he agonized, then finally, with hope and anxiety in his heart, he answered.

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William Eisner is the author of a collection of short stories, Done In By Innocent Things, published by GreyCore Press and a novel, The Sévigné Letters, published by Baskerville Publishers.