Free Pilgrims by Garrison Keillor Page A

gets that deep. People do go out on the ice and fish, yes. But farmers marry. Except the Norwegian bachelor farmers .
    â€œThe day I called you from New York, I was at my friend Ellie’s apartment on West End Avenue, looking out the kitchen window at the Hudson River and trying to imagine what you looked like. Where you were. I had thought about that phone call ever since I was a kid, picking up a phone and calling Papa’s people,and I used to imagine they’d speak to me (in Italian, of course) and tell me everything was going to be okay, not to worry. It was like having an imaginary best friend. When I dropped out of university, when I got pregnant and then lost the baby, when a man I had loved killed himself by jumping off a bridge, I imagined people from Lake Wobegon telling me to settle down, be patient, the world is full of beautiful things, open your heart, in time you will be okay, and remember: it could be worse. That was Papa’s motto, Mama told me. ‘It could be worse.’ So when I called you, it was such a thrill. I’d told Ellie about Lake Wobegon, the fairy tale of my childhood, and she said, ‘Just pick up a phone and call.’ I said, ‘I can’t. They’d think I was crazy.’ She said, ‘Call up the high school. They talk to crazy people all the time.’ So that’s what I did.”
    Margie ordered a third espresso and a basket of rolls with cheese. Such a revelation—landing in Rome and finding this magical stranger. She had thought about Maria so often since their first conversation almost three months ago, imagined the two of them becoming friends—Oh God, she needed friends, all she had were relatives and neighbors and people from church—and now suddenly here she was. Maria looked her in the eye and told about herself: She was sixty-four years old, she had worked in a big real estate office and was now retired, she had survived breast cancer, she was planning trips to Egypt and India, she had three boyfriends, maybe four, whom she saw now and then on weekends. Mario and Roberto who were married, Gianni who was not, and Benny who she believed was not but she couldn’t be sure. A man could be wonderful for two or three days and after that, you started to find out things you didn’t want to know. Much nicer to have several in rotation.Less danger of being dumped. “They’re always so happy to see me,” she said. “Even Mario, who I’ve been with since his previous marriage.” She saw no advantage to having a child, none whatsoever, and so she didn’t. A simple rational choice. “Children are all stink and noise and if something bad happens to them, you feel horrible for the rest of your life.”
    â€œAre you Catholic?” said Margie.
    â€œI am and I’m not. I love the church, it’s like my Papa, I’m sorry he died but life goes on, right? How about you?”
    Well, where to start? “I’m a teacher. I’m fifty-three. I teach high school. Carl and I have three kids. We’ve been married since I got out of high school.”
    â€œIs he the only man you’ve known?”
    Yes, he was. The only one.
    â€œIs he good in bed?”
    Margie looked down into her coffee. “We’re sort of having problems. We haven’t made love since after Christmas.”
    â€œThen he’s found someone else.”
    Margie shook her head. “He’s too busy.”
    â€œNo man is too busy. Your husband is out on the town.”
    â€œThere is no town to be out on.”
    â€œYou’re naive.”
    â€œI live in a little town where secrets don’t stay secrets for long. Women down at the Bon Marché Beauty Salon tell stories. I would have heard something by now. Really.”
    Margie explained that Carl was a dogged worker, the go-to carpenter and handyman of town—he got a dozen calls a day from people with problems and he’d say,