by Ray Garton
It was a wonderful sight, and this time, Margaret did not hold back; she let her laughter flow freely. She hung her garment bag in the closet and put her vanity case in the bathroom.
They spent the morning talking about the upcoming reunion, and Lynda gave her specific instructions.
“Whenever you sit down, make sure they can see your legs,” she said. “And when you dance — are they having a dance? They are? Okay, then make sure you dance nice and close to all those gone-to-seed quarterbacks and basketball players while their wives are watching. You might not get to see the results, but I guarantee you those pot-bellied has-beens will when they leave. They’ll hear about it all the way home and long into the night.”
Then Lynda laughed so loudly and raucously that Mary stepped into the room and said, “This is still a hospital, y’know, lass. You might be wantin’ to show a little consideration for those patients who aren’t medical miracles.” Mary winked before disappearing out the door again. “I don’t know,” Margaret said quietly. “I think I’ll just show up, have a couple drinks, say hi to people, make small talk, have dinner and go.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Or was that Captain Kirk?”
“No, it wasn’t Kirk. I think it was Ricardo Montalban in Star Trek.”
“Whoever. Walk softly and carry a great bod.”
Margaret had not been able to continue her conversation with Dr. Plummer, although the doctor had paid a late visit to Lynda the night before. When Lynda requested a walk outside. Dr. Plummer had approved enthusiastically, with the stipulations that a nurse would have to accompany her with a wheelchair in case she needed it, and as long as Lynda stayed out of the hot Arizona sun.
So, before lunch, Lynda and Margaret went into the courtyard outside the hospital, holding hands.
It was a spacious diamond-shaped area of concrete and fine gravel, bordered by shrubbery and colorful violas. In the center and around the edges were several wooden benches flanked by large concrete ashtrays and garbage receptacles. Mary followed behind slowly with a wheelchair.
The instant she stepped into the sun, Lynda moaned with almost sexual pleasure, closed her eyes and turned her smiling face up toward the sky.
“Oh, that feels so good, so good!” she said, squeezing Margaret’s hand so hard that it hurt. Behind them, Mary said, “It won’t be feelin’ so good when you pass out and crack your skull on that concrete, now, will it? Doctor said you weren’t to be in the sun.”
“But Mary, it’s so warm and — ”
“Stick to the shade or I’ll be kickin’ your miracle ass up around your miracle shoulders!”
Laughing, Lynda did as she was told. They stayed in the shade, walking slowly around the edges of the courtyard.
“Lynda, why am I the only visitor you’ve had since I got here?” Margaret asked.
“You’re the only visitor I’ve had since I got here.”
“Well, maybe the family’s gone, but surely you’ve got friends.”
“Not really. Being married . . . well, it was one of those marriages where his friends were my friends, and my friends were neglected. He didn’t like them.”
“None of them?”
“He was very jealous. He didn’t want me hanging around with anyone with whom I had a history. So I neglected my friendships, alienated my friends, and before I knew it, the only friends I had were his.”
“Okay, so where are they? I mean, maybe he’s enough of a prick not to come see you, but what about the friends you made through him?”
Lynda chuckled coolly. “When we divorced, I got the house and one of the cars. He got all the friends. I would’ve gotten the dog, too, but he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My old friends have good reason to stay away because I treated them like shit to please my asshole husband. As for my asshole husband’s friends . . . they’re assholes, too, so where’s the loss in that? In fact, I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I was going to slip away without any visitors, which was fine with me, because I didn’t want anyone to see me looking like a corpse. But that was before you came.”
They walked slowly around the courtyard and finally sat on a bench for a while, still in the shade, talking and laughing as Mary waited with the wheelchair, looking more and more impatient. Finally the nurse said, “Contrary to what you might be thinkin’, I’ve got a whole job to be doin’ four floors up on the inside of this buildin’.”
“Oh, Mary, you’re such a grouch,” Lynda said with a grin.
They went back to Lynda’s room, but she did not get into bed. She paced the room for a few minutes, then, at Margaret’s urging, sat in a chair beside Margaret and held her hand.
Lynda’s lunch was unidentifiable at first, but turned out to be quiche.
“I hate quiche!” Lynda called as Mary left the room after delivering the tray.
Mary spun around. “What’re you wantin’ me to do about it? Call out for a pizza for all I care! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you shouldn’t even be on this unit! They oughta send y’home or give you a job! God knows you’re a pain in the ass as a patient!” Then she hurried away.
“That’s not a bad idea!” Lynda said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Grab the phonebook in that drawer! We’re gonna have a pizza with the works.”
By the time the pimply-faced delivery boy got to Lynda’s room with the large pizza, he’d gone through several nurses, including Mary, who had apparently given him quite a hard time. The boy looked terrified. He was even cautious about taking Margaret’s check. Lynda gave him a ten dollar tip for his trouble, but he didn’t even look pleased; he simply looked relieved that he could go. Once he was outside the door of the room, his sneakered footsteps broke into a quickly pattering jog.
As they ate their pizza, which had everything on it, including anchovies, heads continued to pop in the door curiously, following the smell.
They laughed and talked as they ate, and watched the shopping channel. They behaved as if they were at a party to which all the other guests had forgotten to come.
And, of course, they held hands . . .
19
Around five o’clock, Lynda joined Margaret in the bathroom, insisting that she help her get ready for the reunion. Like two little girls playing dress-up at their mother’s vanity, they giggled and fussed and agreed and disagreed about the fine points of hairstyle and makeup. Before she was dressed, though, Margaret insisted that Lynda leave. She wanted to present herself to Lynda fully dressed, give her the full effect and get her honest reaction.
Margaret finally walked out of the bathroom in her red velvet sheath, with smooth bare legs, two-inch black suede heels and a short strand of real pearls around her neck. In her right hand, she held a black velvet clutch purse.
Lynda, who was seated in her chair watching television, gasped. It was a long deep-throated gasp of genuine amazement. Margaret spun around once in front of her, smiling, and asked, “What do you think?”
“My God, Margaret, if I were a man I’d have a pup tent in my lap right now!”
“You think so? I tried on nearly every dress in the store, but I — ”
“Oh, you made the right choice, trust me. You’re gorgeous! You look like some femme fatale, like . . . like Michael Douglas should be humping you up against a kitchen sink on the big screen.”
“Oh, stop it, for God’s sake! You’re supposed to compliment me, not disgust me!”
“I didn’t mean to. But I meant that you look like you should be on the big screen. I’m not kidding. You’re beautiful.”
Margaret saw the tears glistening on Lynda’s cheeks as she stared up at Margaret with an expression of awe.
“All those years I told you that you were fat . . . and ugly . . . all those years I made you feel so horrible about yourself. Who would’ve thought . . .”
“Oh, come on, Lynda, don’t cry. Please.”
Margaret went t
o her, leaned down to embrace her, but Lynda put her hands on Margaret’s shoulders and held her back.
“Don’t mess yourself up,” Lynda whispered. “I’m fine. I’m just feeling . . . some much deserved . . . pain and regret. Stand up. Straight. Don’t you dare mess that dress. I’ll kill you if you do.”
Margaret stood up straight, but reached down and placed a hand on her sister’s cheek, smiling.
Lynda said in a breath, “I was never . . . ever . . . as beautiful as you are right now.”
“That’s the highest compliment I could ever receive,” Margaret said. “’Cause you are one hell of a dish.”
“You’re not wearing underwear, are you?”
“What?” Margaret pulled her hand away and blushed. She wasn’t.
Lynda grinned. “You’re not! But that’s good! No lines, nothing, just that wonderfully smooth and curving figure.”
“Well, that’s why I’m not. I tried, but . . . it didn’t look right.”
“Of course it didn’t. And you can get away with it. I’m telling you, Margaret . . . tonight, you are a sex goddess. Tonight, you’re going to get all the lusty attention and adoration that Marilyn Monroe got for years. So sit back and enjoy every second of it, will you? For me? Please?”
Lynda reached out a hand and Margaret took it. Then Margaret reached down for the other hand, so that she was holding both of them.
“If you want me to be a sex goddess,” Margaret said, “I will. I’ll even sign autographs if anyone asks.”
They both laughed.
Lynda stood and they embraced — “Careful, careful,” Lynda said, “we don’t want to muss you.” — for a long moment, Margaret rubbing her hands slowly over Lynda’s back.
“I’ll come back here afterward,” Margaret said when they separated.
“Visiting hours end at eight o’clock,” Lynda said. “If anyone tries to stop you, feel free to beat the living shit out of them.”
“I promise.” Margaret said, laughing . . .
20
The reunion was being held at the Royal House Hotel. It was the closest Harlie could come to posh. That was not to say it was not a very nice place. In fact, it seemed that the hotel was so conscious of being in a small town that it almost went overboard in trying to make up for it.
A uniformed doorman greeted Margaret and held the door open for her, nodding with a smile as she went inside.
In the lobby, to the right of the entrance, a long table had been set up with two nicely-dressed women sitting behind it. Margaret almost walked by it, until she saw the sign identifying it as REGISTRATION. Then she saw the nametag worn by one of the women behind the table.
HI! I’M AMELIA, the tag read. Amelia Turner, formerly half of The Couple at school, the much-lusted after girl who had taken every opportunity to publicly humiliate Margaret with the help of her quarterback boyfriend, Daryl Cotch. She wasn’t immediately recognizable, though. There was more of her than there used to be. She wasn’t fat, but she had thickened to the point of shapelessness. She looked sturdy, hard . . . but like a tree trunk rather than an athlete. Large glasses rested on her nose. She wore a blue paisley outfit and her blond hair was short and wavy above her thick neck.
The woman beside her didn’t look at all familiar and wasn’t wearing a nametag.
Margaret approached the table, smiling.
“I’d like to register for the reunion,” she said.
Amelia looked up at her pleasantly and slid a nametag and felt marker across the table to Margaret. Her eyes became puzzled even before she spoke. “Well, now, you don’t look familiar.”
Still smiling, Margaret simply leaned forward and printed her name slowly and precisely on the tag. As she did that, Amelia slid the open registration book over the table toward her. Margaret peeled the tag from its backing, stood up straight and pressed it gently to the top of her dress, just over her left breast. Without giving Amelia a chance to read the tag, Margaret plucked the pen from her hand, signed her name in the book, leaving the address and phone number spaces blank, then handed the pen back.
Amelia’s eyes squinted a little through her glasses as she leaned forward, reading the nametag as she handed over a program booklet.
“Margaret?” she said. Her eyes quickly looked Margaret over from top to bottom. “Well, now, I can’t say that I remember a Margaret.” She turned the registry around and read the name. Her head snapped up, eyes wide. Her chin dropped as the pen slipped from her fingers and clattered to the table. “Fuller?” she whispered in unconcealed amazement. Then, louder: “Margaret Fuller?”
Margaret smiled again. “See you at the dinner, Amelia,” she said as she turned and walked away.
Behind her, she could hear Amelia talking to the other woman behind the table, her voice starting in a whisper, then rising in a high, befuddled yammer, only to plunge again to a hissing whisper.
Margaret couldn’t have stopped smiling then if she’d wanted to. She felt somehow taller than when she’d first entered the hotel.
She rounded a corner so she’d be out of sight of Amelia, took a seat on a maroon velvet loveseat beside a drinking fountain, put her purse in her lap and began thumbing through the program. The schedule began with cocktails in the King’s Lounge; that had started twenty minutes ago. After that, a “Reacquaintance Party” in something called the Queen’s Parlor — Margaret thought, Sounds like a gay bar in the Old South — where group and individual photos would be taken. Then, dinner and dancing in the Royal Banquet Hall.
The program booklet was scattered with pictures from old yearbooks: people mugging for the camera, couples caught unawares as they kissed behind the cafeteria, a group of boys throwing one of their own into the pool. Each picture had a caption beneath it, a one-liner that was meant to be clever but came off as tepid.
And then she saw one picture that made her smile fade away and made her stomach twist into a knot.
Margaret looked at herself. Her round face and double chin (with a bright, swollen pimple on the top one) filled the upper right corner of one page. Strings of melted cheese dangled from her mouth to the slice of pizza she’d just bitten into. The caption read, “Dieting to fit into that prom dress!”
Sucking both lips between her teeth, Margaret felt her breath coming in short, staccato bursts, and she knew if she didn’t stop that right away, she would hyperventilate. She also felt the back of her throat burn with tears, which she refused to let out because she didn’t want to spoil her makeup.
Her hands began to tremble as they held the booklet, then shake . . . and then they closed into fists, crumpling the program booklet between them until it was wadded into a ball.
A bathroom. She needed to find a bathroom. She’d get hold of herself, then she’d join the festivities.
As she stood, leaving the crumpled booklet on the loveseat behind her, she muttered under her breath, “Show them what a real fucking diet is . . .”
21
By the time Margaret walked into the King’s Lounge, the cocktail party was well under way. The second she passed through the long, dark entryway into the lounge, she saw a crowd of laughing, talking people, none of them identifiable in the dim, smoke-misted light, but most of them wearing the big, obnoxious nametags on their lapels, shoulders and breast pockets.
At the far end of the lounge, in a corner, a jazz quartet played quietly, barely audible above the din of voices.
As her eyes adjusted to the murky light, Margaret began to look at the laughing, talking, drinking faces around her, moving slowly through the lounge. She went to the bar, got a Bloody Mary, then ambled into the crowd, mingling silently, looking, watching, listening to snatches of conversation.
From behind, Margaret heard a guffawing laugh, and someone slammed into her back. Her Bloody Mary slipped from her hand and splattered over the carpet at her feet.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” a man said.
She turned to him. He carried a drink in his right hand, and he was enormous
, tall with big rounded shoulders, with an enormous belly that his ill-fitting dark suit could not conceal. His face was bloated, red and sweaty; puffy, wrinkled bags formed half-moons beneath his eyes and his hair was slicked back, though it was hard to tell if it was slicked with mousse or perspiration.
When they were facing one another, the man’s eyes moved first over her face, then over her body. “Hey, I’m really sorry.” He glanced down at the spilled drink. “I’ll buy you another one, whatta y’say.”
He’d already had plenty, that was clear. In fact, as he grinned at her, he swayed ever so slightly back and forth. She glanced at his nametag.
HI! I’M DARYL C.
Apparently, his bleary eyes had not yet taken a look at her nametag.
Tucking her purse beneath her left arm, Margaret smiled and said, “I’d like that, thank you.”
“Well, c’mon, then, honey,” he said, taking her elbow in his left hand, a bit too firmly, and leading her through the crowd toward the bar.
On the way, she remembered the things he’d said, the things he’d done . . . in hallways . . . on the steps in front of the school . . . in the gym . . . at dances . . . always with Amelia, the two of them, laughing at her, teasing her, humiliating her . . .
But she’s just so gorgeous, Amelia . . . so sexy . . . I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s incredible!
“What’ll you have, hon?” he asked, setting his drink on the bar and lighting a cigarette.
“Well, that was a Bloody Mary that I dropped back there.”
“Then a Bloody Mary you’ll have.” He pounded a fist on the bar and ordered the drink, then turned back to her. “Hey, are you with the reun — oh, yeah, you gotta nametag. Margaret? Hmph,” he grunted, looking her over with a frown, as if someone had just asked him a riddle, his mouth twisted into a wriggly line. “I can’t say I remember a Margaret. What’s your last name?”
The drink arrived and he paid for it.
Margaret lifted the drink, took a sip and said, “Well, I can’t say I remember a Daryl, really . . . Oh, no, I take that back. There was one Daryl. But he was a real hunk. Muscular and handsome. A quarterback. You’re pretty chubby.”