She wonders when her life became a tragic French novel, she wonders when she became one of those women in a high castle, swaddled in beauty and wealth and those things meant to distract her from any unhappiness.
Each weekend, when Nucky insists upon taking the children to the beach or trips to the country, Margaret finds herself watching from the shade of peppermint umbrellas or the branches of poplars, outside that postcard of her family, Teddy rolling up his trousers to dip his toes in the surf, Emily resting on her father's shoulders and reaching her hands for the carnation in Nucky's lapel. This is that beauty meant to cloud her vision: the happy family, alike in every way to the affectionate parents making sandcastles and pushing prams. The sound of the children's laughter is musical, but the most beautiful compositions have always made her cry.
She never believed herself an Emma or an Anna, hiding her melancholia under the artiface of a smile. You would be amazed what a pleasant coral lipstick can do, she thinks. She has, of course, in some ways accepted romantic misery for herself, even from that first time pressed against the bookshelves of the old man's study, afternoon sunlight tinting the boy's promises fancifully pink. She did not expect any fairy tales with her husband; her cheek was stinging weeks before there was a ring on her finger. But there existed a normalcy to those painful experiences. Why, of course, the rich young man come home from the grand tour would lose interest in the parlor maid. And what else was to be expected from a drunken immigrant? As the wife of a charitable and beloved politician, however, Margaret must live in a truly happy home.
And, of course, as she watches Nucky lift sand dollars and conch shells to Emily's eager fungers, Margaret is miles away from this domestic bliss. She is in another town when her husband gives Teddy a fiver and pats him on the head. She's a fading portrait as Nucky turns the pages of Emily's Peter Rabbit books. She wonders if the children will ever know him as anything but the kind and fair father. She hopes and prays not.
She is Mrs. Thompson, all silk and tiaras and witty remarks among company and kisses on skinned knees and cheeks, pulling her nightgown up and whispering sweetly when her husband is on top of her. There has been enough unhappiness in this family already, and like a good woman, she will bear it for as long as she can.
She wonders when her life became a tragic French novel, she wonders when she became one of those women in a high castle, swaddled in beauty and wealth and those things meant to distract her from any unhappiness.
Each weekend, when Nucky insists upon taking the children to the beach or trips to the country, Margaret finds herself watching from the shade of peppermint umbrellas or the branches of poplars, outside that postcard of her family, Teddy rolling up his trousers to dip his toes in the surf, Emily resting on her father's shoulders and reaching her hands for the carnation in Nucky's lapel. This is that beauty meant to cloud her vision: the happy family, alike in every way to the affectionate parents making sandcastles and pushing prams. The sound of the children's laughter is musical, but the most beautiful compositions have always made her cry.
She never believed herself an Emma or an Anna, hiding her melancholia under the artiface of a smile. You would be amazed what a pleasant coral lipstick can do, she thinks. She has, of course, in some ways accepted romantic misery for herself, even from that first time pressed against the bookshelves of the old man's study, afternoon sunlight tinting the boy's promises fancifully pink. She did not expect any fairy tales with her husband; her cheek was stinging weeks before there was a ring on her finger. But there existed a normalcy to those painful experiences. Why, of course, the rich young man come home from the grand tour would lose interest in the parlor maid. And what else was to be expected from a drunken immigrant? As the wife of a charitable and beloved politician, however, Margaret must live in a truly happy home.
And, of course, as she watches Nucky lift sand dollars and conch shells to Emily's eager fungers, Margaret is miles away from this domestic bliss. She is in another town when her husband gives Teddy a fiver and pats him on the head. She's a fading portrait as Nucky turns the pages of Emily's Peter Rabbit books. She wonders if the children will ever know him as anything but the kind and fair father. She hopes and prays not.
She is Mrs. Thompson, all silk and tiaras and witty remarks among company and kisses on skinned knees and cheeks, pulling her nightgown up and whispering sweetly when her husband is on top of her. There has been enough unhappiness in this family already, and like a good woman, she will bear it for as long as she can.
Reply
This was wonderful, and so beautifully written! Thank you!
Reply
I kept seeing promos on tumblr, so I thought I. might give the comment ficathon a shot.
Reply
Leave a comment