The Ring Chapter 15

 

 

HANS-PETER STEINER/MARGO LOUD STEINER

“I HAVE TO put the car in the garage,” Hans-Peter said as soon as he had Margo settled on his couch with a throw over her and the heat shoved up to take the spring chill off the room.

She remembered her mother-in-law knitting it. She had helped turn the skeins of various shades of green yarn into balls one time after they ate at his parents’ house before they were married.

Beethoven, followed by Bach, had been playing on the radio. At the time she hadn’t known it was going to be a wedding present for them. She had insisted that he keep it even though she loved it both for the beautiful shades of green and the memory of how she wrapped herself in it while she nursed Bethany on cold winter nights.

What was taking so long to park the car? After all, he had assigned space in the garage. She always found the underground parking interesting with its assigned parking spot. The cars were parked double-decker. His was on top.

By the owner punching a code the platform over the parked car would come out and down. Hans-Peter then would drive his car onto the platform, lock the car, get out, push another code, and the platform would return to its upper position.

“Scheiss! Scheisse! Scheiss! Scheisse!”

Margo struggled to a sitting position. “What’s wrong?” Hans-Peter was usually calm no matter what. “Someone smashed the windows when I came upstairs with you.” he said.

HANS-PETER STEINER

IT IS STRANGE with Margo here, Hans-Peter thought when he woke the next morning. In the three days since he had picked her up at the Stuttgart train station they’d fallen into the same patterns they had before they had separated some two decades ago.

His bedside clock read 2:37. His bladder told him he really should get up. Like many German apartments the toilet was in a separate room from the bath and shower. If the tiles were old fashioned, he didn’t care.

Regina had wanted to change the tiles. She’d said all the tiny green stars were too busy and besides the green was a dirty tone. She brought home some sample “modern” white ones with a geometric red line. That was toward the end of their relationship.

Hans-Peter postponed ending the marriage to Regina not out of laziness, but he was three quarters through his book on Viking tools and didn’t want to take the time. He supposed that should have been another of his many signals their relationship was wrong.

His interest in clothing styles and the life ups and downs of celebrities was nil only matched by her disinterest on anything that happened before last year.

When they had gone to a reception in honor of his last book sponsored by the publisher and filmed by BBC for a special segment to be included in a series on pagan festivals around the world, Regina had taken extra care on her appearance. She adored these receptions, dinners and parties.

In his opinion, they were what he had to do for book sales that allowed him to live well without the constant university lecturing. He liked being able to select his topics, or topic-sharing them with his assistant.

The second bedroom, which was Bethany’s the years she spent with him and his office on years when she wasn’t, was where Margo was sleeping. She had moved from the couch to the bedroom.

The Rolloden were up even though it was dark. When they were married, he would work late only to discover when he went to bed she would be curled up in her usual fetal position with the moon streaming in the window.

Margo was almost in the fetal position now except the foot with the cast was out straight over the other leg.

She’s aging well he thought. Only a few gray hairs were scattered through her thick brown hair, which she kept long, usually battled into a single thick braid wrestled from the top of her head to the middle of her back.

She claimed she kept it long in honor of the young Collette, her favorite French writer. One thing Hans-Peter had loved about his ex-wife was her eclectic interests. She said that inspired her art. Not that he wanted to marry again, he wasn’t sure he was good at it, but he certainly would not select an airhead no matter how great her breasts were.

Margo’s face had barely any lines, much like Medora, her mother, that old witch. The witch made him wonder if perhaps there was something to Margo’s fears about the ring. Nein, nicht möglich.

He knew she wanted to get back to work on her commissions. Perhaps while her ankle was healing, rather than go back to the States, she would want to go with them to the dig in Sweden. Should he ask now or wait?