When Madeline Was Young Read Online Free PDF Page B

went after Aaron. Good for her, is what I say. I'm all for that kind of capture. But on a level playing field there would have been no competin g w ith Madeline. The glamour-puss made her own slips, her own camisoles, her own winter coat--she was that particular. So what if she was no intellectual giant? What hot-blooded man cares about that? Madeline had powers beyond the standard dumb blonde--genuine star quality, that calculating femme-fatale lustiness beneath the cool platinum purity. I'm telling you in her own way she was a deep thinker. But had she ever read anything more difficult than a fashion magazine?" Figgy rubbed her hands together with the thrill of this part of the story. "Say there hadn't been an accident. Your father would have died a slow death, a cruel death, if he'd stayed married to that gorgeous twit, absolutely. He would never have gotten a divorce, never!" She threw her head back and laughed. "He'd have taken to drink!"
    Because I made no comment, she seemed to think she had to elaborate. "Look-it. Your father, even with those thick glasses, has always appealed to women. He's one of those killingly thoughtful men--nothing showy, but if you happen to take a fourth glance you're smitten. Madeline was your father's real love, the passion of his life. He knew he'd never find someone to fire his jets the way she had--and let me tell you, as quiet and dignified as your father is, he couldn't keep his hands off her. She had this way of acting as if she tolerated his devotion, a total come-on, don't you think?"
    "Yes," I said.
    "Once she was out of the picture--so to speak--your father figured he might as well take a wife with broad hips." Figgy held her hands three feet apart, as if that distance had been my mother's girth. "And those sagging breasts! Those ill-fitting brassieres! She was a dead ringer for a Salvation Army matron. There was a hardy girl for you, someone who wouldn't slip off a bike and smash her head to pieces. A woman who was so hopeless she'd care for another man's wife. Wife Number One, Wife Number Two under the same roof--so Oriental!"
    I had only to raise my eyebrows.
    "You don't think so? Oh well, when we were roommates in college I always thought I could save Julia from frumpiness, bring her up in the world. Her big fat spanky pants drying in the bathtub gave me the giggles every morning. Don't mistake me, I loved the woman, you know that. Her secret playful streak, her intelligence--she was a walking reference for things historical, and she could recite poems stanza after stanza. I loved her like a sister."
    Julia had been dead for a few years when that conversation with Figgy, one of our last, took place on the Moose Lake porch. As had become usual in my talks with her, I'd been filled with the outrage of a good son. As always, I'd remained the well-brought-up nephew. In the early 197 0 s, the two of them had had an argument from which they never recovered. I did try to remember that Figgy was probably still trying to justify herself, still trying, as she ranted at me, to make Julia see the light. I regretted, as I had often done, that I'd never gotten my mother to speak about the early days of her marriage to my father. She always brushed my questions off, as if taking on a burden like Madeline was something anyone would have done. I would have liked to tell my aunt that her friend Julia had become more beautiful as she'd aged, radiant in a way Figgy would never have understood. Julia grew rounder and rosier, and even frumpier than she'd been, if that was possible in Figgy's book, as the era of the girdle gave way to the salubrious days of the sack dress and sweat suits. Like a child, I wanted to shout at Figgy that my mother was better! Wiser! Smarter! Deeper than Figgy could fathom. Although Julia wanted to do good works on a large scale, organizing and assisting in an Eleanor Roosevelt fashion, it's not hard to imagine how she could easily have been drawn into my father's life,