I Still Dream About You

Upon Further Reflection

THE MORE MAGGIE THOUGHT ABOUT IT, THE MORE SHE GUESSED she shouldn’t have been so surprised how her life had turned out, considering all the really bad decisions she had made. Oh Lord, why hadn’t she married Charles Hodges III when he’d asked her? His parents had adored her, and she had liked them. They had been wonderful to her. On her birthday, they had taken her to the Birmingham Club, atop Red Mountain, and she had been enthralled with its rotating glass dance floor of colored lights, where beautifully dressed people sat at ringside tables and drank exotic cocktails, and Miss Margo played piano every evening in the Gold Room, overlooking the city. Charles was a tall blond boy with blue eyes and skin as pretty as a girl’s.

The night Charles had asked her to marry him, he had taken her there for dinner and had planned such a lovely evening. She had just been crowned Miss Alabama, and when she walked in, the band played “Stars Fell on Alabama” in her honor. She was on cloud nine. They danced all night and after the last dance, when they returned to their table, upon his instructions, a black velvet box with a large diamond engagement ring had been placed on her dessert plate.

It had been a magical year. She and Charles had been the golden couple and had gone to so many parties and dances that summer. Charles was a wonderful dancer and looked so handsome in his tux and black patent leather shoes with the bows. She had loved how he felt when they danced. He had held her so tight that she could feel the warm dampness of his body through his jacket. He held her so close, it was hard to tell where he ended and she began. When she came home at night, the smell of his cologne would still linger all over her and her clothes for hours afterward. She had been too young to know that the magic of that summer wouldn’t last forever. She thought there was plenty of time for everything.

And if she hadn’t married Charles, she should have at least kept up her harp lessons. But she had only learned to play two songs before she stopped. Two had been enough to win Miss Alabama, but she couldn’t make a decent living playing “Tenderly” and “Ebb Tide” over and over again. And why had she chosen the harp in the first place? It was almost impossible to travel with. Why not the piccolo, the flute, or the violin? She’d never been very good on the harp, but she had learned to do a lot of large swirling movements that made her look and sound much better than she was. Even her harp teacher had remarked, “What you lack in natural musical talent, dear, you make up for in flair and style.” It was the story of her life and probably how she had survived this long: with a little talent and a lot of flair. Few people realized she owned only six or seven really fine suits and dresses, but they all had style. Thanks to the designer discount malls and the fact that she could tie a scarf in over forty different and interesting ways, she had always managed to look good on the surface; what was inside, however, was a different story. She didn’t know why, but she had always been a little unsure of herself and for years had been second-guessing every decision with “I should have done that” or “I should have done this,” so afraid of doing something wrong, always looking for some sign from the universe to help her decide what to do, that she usually wound up doing nothing. But today at five-thirty, thank God, she had finally made a decision that felt exactly like the right one. What a relief.

Maggie walked down the hall and picked up the mail in the silver dish in the foyer. Nothing but junk and a flyer advertising Willow Lakes, a retirement community for active seniors; she threw it in the trash can. When she went into the kitchen and turned on the light, she saw a business card on the counter from Dottie Figge from Century 21 Realty, who must have shown her unit again today. Dottie was a hard worker and had brought the same couple from Texas through at least three times in the past three weeks. At present, there was only one two-bedroom unit for sale in the complex, but Maggie suddenly realized that her unit would be available after November 3. She should probably call Dottie tomorrow and give her a heads-up. She wouldn’t tell her which unit, only that one would be available soon. She liked Dottie. They had been in the Miss Alabama contest together. Dottie had played the trombone and tap-danced, but now she was just another struggling agent like herself, hanging on by a fingernail. Two years ago, Dottie had announced that she was no longer a Southern Baptist and had decided to “embrace the Eastern.” She said that if it had not been for OM Yoga and her daily devotionals to Goddess Guan Yin, she would not have been able to keep going. It had been a little strange at first, seeing hundreds of little Buddhist prayer flags flying at Dottie’s open houses and crystals everywhere, but she was so sweet. The last time Dottie had sold a unit in Maggie’s building, she had given Maggie a ying-yang bowl as a thank-you gift. She didn’t know exactly what you were supposed to do with a ying-yang bowl, but she didn’t want to hurt Dottie’s feelings by asking.

After Maggie poured herself a big glass of wine, she went into the living room and sat down, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet up on the coffee table. As she sipped her wine, she thought about what else needed to be done to make sure everything went smoothly from here on. She wanted to leave not only debt-free, but worry-free as well. She was too tired tonight; first thing in the morning, though, she would make out a “Things to Do Before I Go” list. She couldn’t trust herself to remember every detail unless she wrote it down. She didn’t know if it was because she was so tired, but lately, she had started forgetting things, like people’s names or the name of a certain movie star she used to love. Last week, she’d forgotten Tab Hunter’s name. He had always been one of her favorites; how could she ever forget him?

She took another sip of her wine and thought about the Whirling Dervishes again. Oh, Lord. She hoped the Arts and Lecture people wouldn’t put them at one of those big ugly convention hotels downtown. Hazel had always said, “People always come to Birmingham expecting the very worst, so it’s doubly important that they leave having seen the very best.” She looked at her watch. Too late to call Cathy at her office now. She would call in the morning, and if Cathy hadn’t booked a hotel yet, she might be able to casually suggest something with a little more local charm, like the Dinkler-Tutwiler or even one of the lovely guest cottages at the Mountain Brook Country Club. But they did have a strict dress code there, and other than the annual Scottish Society Dance, men in skirts might be frowned upon.

She took another sip of her wine. At least, one thing she didn’t have to worry about: she knew the Dervishes would be entertained royally while they were in Birmingham. Last year, when the opera singer Marilyn Horne came, she had received over sixty-five “Welcome to Birmingham” fruit baskets. People in Birmingham were famous for their friendliness and southern hospitality. If anything, some people said they were overly friendly, too eager to please, so much so that when visitors left town, they were usually so exhausted, they couldn’t wait to get back home and rest.

But besides just being friendly by nature, Maggie thought the other reason they fell all over themselves wanting so much for people to like them was that they were still trying to live down all the bad press Birmingham had received during the civil rights movement. It had been devastating. Even now, whenever there were racial problems anywhere in the world, it seemed they still drug out the same old newsreels of Birmingham and the dogs and the fire hoses and ran them over and over again. It broke her heart. Not because terrible things hadn’t happened. They had. But the press had made it seem like every single person in Birmingham was a foaming-at-the-mouth racist, and it just wasn’t true.

In her letter, she had used the word “depressed” because it was a word people easily understood. But the best word to describe how she really felt would be “sad.” Maggie had never told anyone what had happened to her in Atlantic City the year she was Miss Alabama, and she never would. People in Alabama, and Birmingham in particular, had heard enough bad things about themselves to last a lifetime.