by Johi Jenkins
Why the hell am I thinking about him? She asks herself. She shrugs off the raincoat and hangs it back on the coat rack. She folds her arms, slumping against the wall. She supposedly didn’t care about Tommy before, yet she was upset all week because he didn’t call. And now he comes over saying he wants to take her out on a date and she doesn’t know what she wants.
She feels like a criminal locked in her house, and Tommy is the warden at her doorstep protecting her garden. What do I do? She wonders. She’s not even sure if she wants to go out with him. But she does like the fact that he wants to take her to dinner. She should go. She will go.
But how can she act casually around him after having such carefree sex? We should start over, he said. Okay. Ignore their dirty little deed. This is just a date with a guy. But then she worries about what to wear, how to act and whether she should start anything sexual with him. Too late for that, she says to herself with a raised eyebrow that no one sees.
She fights herself about it and realizes that she is still hiding behind the door. She pushes off the wall and makes up her mind on the spot. She really does want to go out with him, and have him treat her like a girl he likes, not just a girl he had sex with. If she doesn’t do it now she’s going to regret it. So she runs into her bedroom and strips down, tearing through the piles of clothes on the ground. She finds a pair of tight jeans and tugs them on with only her sports bra on. Nothing in her room works. Nothing matches and everything looks stupid on her. She puts things on halfway before ripping them off and discarding them to the floor.
“How do I fix this? How do I fix this?” she mutters while moving about the room.
She closes her eyes and tries to empty her mind. Tommy wants her, and it’s probably for her body. It doesn’t matter what she wears. He wouldn’t say a word about her outfit if it looked horrible on her. She reaches under her arm and feels the elastic of her sports bra. Why fix what’s not broken? Tommy is in a Polo, so why bother? She hates her shoes, her jeans and everything she has on, but it doesn’t matter, does it? She moves away from the mirror and decides to wear the last shirt she tried on without thinking about it.
On the way out she grabs the switchblade off her desk and extends the blade with a flip of the wrist. She folds it back and puts it in her pocket—she’s going out, alone, with some guy in his car. He could take her anywhere. After all, what does she really know about Tommy? He could be just as dangerous as the guy at the party. Or worse, he could have made that entire scenario up just to get her on his side and started the rumor himself. Sure, he’s nice and cute, but that doesn’t make him trustworthy.
The door opens just as the sun sets, and Margarette steps out into the last ray of light. Tommy is sitting on the steps of her porch. He looks up at her and smiles.
“It would be silly of me to make you wait longer,” she says softly, enjoying his reaction.
Tommy shrugs casually. “I was just getting comfortable.”
“I’ll tell you the truth. I’m using you.”
“How?”
“I’m not going to have sex with you again,” she announces, and Tommy’s head drops effectively refusing eye contact. “But I am hungry.”
He looks up at her and his smile returns. “I can fix that.”
“And I don’t have a car.”
She opens the door to his car and starts to climb in. Most mistakes happen in an instant, but this feels like a mistake in slow motion. The feeling permeates through her every action, every word, that nothing could be more wrong than to go with him.
“Where are we going?” she asks as he guides her into the car. Somewhere special, he had said.
He answers just as he shuts the door. “My parents’ house.”
“What!” she shouts at the glass and by the time he gets in she has to start over. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” Tommy replies. “They’re okay.”
All the blood in her face fades as the car screeches as it jets forward. She would never have agreed to this if she had known his intended destination.
His sports car sits low to the ground and she feels like every car in Coyote Falls is looking down on her. She knows everyone is expecting someone else on the passenger seat at every stop sign, light and straightaway where people look over and pretend to not stare. The whole drive she tries to change his mind, threatening to jump out of the moving car, but it only makes him drive faster in order to retain her as they head toward the other side of town.
On the edge of town she sees the first corner of the Gallager manor next to a stable. Tommy wants her to see the grounds before going into the house. She indulges him wanting only to delay meeting the parents. She wonders if they know about her. Probably. Everyone close to him must know by now. Not even old people are exempt from this quality of gossip.
He opens the side door to the house. A simple hallway and stairs lead to the kitchen. Tommy claims to be a decent cook, and asks her to sit at the counter as he preps. He walks into the pantry and then pulls some utensils from the drawer. She sits at a stool, quietly internalizing her hatred for chairs without a real back. Only a faint light glows under the kitchen stove hood, filling the kitchen with shadows, and the dishwasher running surrounds them in a quiet hum. She relaxes for a moment, not minding so much being in his house, because at least they’re alone.
She should have seen it coming—as if she ever got anything she wanted.
A solid wood door clicks behind her and her nails dig into her leg. She turns and curses inwardly as she sees May walk in out of nowhere with a full paper bag.
“Oh hey… I made groceries,” May starts, when she sees her brother. Then she notices Margarette. “Tommy? Who’s your friend?”
Oh come on. Margarette saw the look of recognition in May’s eyes, and she knows that May knows her name. That bitch, she thinks.
“This is Margarette,” Tommy says, clueless as to what is going down between the two girls.
May nods unconvincingly.
“It’s a service entrance,” Tommy explains when he mistakes Margarette’s expression for confusion. “It’s an old house.”
Plucky, Margarette asks, “Who services it?”
Immediately after saying it she feels stupid, knowing someone must really be a servant in this house. He turns and pulls a frosted vessel out of the fridge. May gives Tommy a strange sisterly look with a veiled meaning.
“No one right now,” Tommy answers. “There was a cook, but we lost him.”
Margarette smirks. “The house was too big?”
Tommy smiles, but continues in an oddly sober tone. “Louis died six weeks ago. We really liked him.” He adds to lighten the morbid pause.
May shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything.
Margarette immediately becomes contrite. “I’m sorry. How did he die?”
“He got a virus. He took some time off to see some doctors, but it was really quick. He was really kind.” He gushes in a guilty way as if his prior comment didn’t convey loss.
“That’s terrible,” Margarette says.
May cuts in. “He was an excellent chef. Mother picked him out because he spent a lot of time in Italia.”
“Yeah,” Tommy adds. He smiles a little. “Although she didn’t know about his Italia boyfriend.”
May scoffs. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?” he quips.
“Did you grow up in this house?” Margarette asks, looking around for another subject.
Tommy smiles and switches topics. “Only the last ten years or so. But in that time they renovated the house a few times. Well, Mom still does it about twice a year; it keeps her busy.”
Margarette wants to tell him she’s terrified to meet his parents, but not in front of May. She doesn’t even know why he brought her there. She doesn’t know how to explain how uncomfortable she is.
May displaces Tommy from the counter so he slides back empty-handed to the kitchen island, and she starts arranging things and chopping them.
“So you’re cooking tonight?” Margarette asks May.
“I am,” the older sister replies. “We don’t want to burn dinner.”
“What, like the toast?” Margarette chirps without thinking. Then she grits her teeth in regret as she can almost hear May’s thoughts shout, No, dinner is not just toast, you poor, brainless girl.
May gives her a superior look. “I’m glad when Tommy brings over his little friends for supper. It makes things so much more fun.”
Margarette’s embarrassment vanishes at May’s choice of words and she smiles. “That’s a funny word. You should just say dinner.”
“It’s more appropriate to say breakfast, dinner and supper,” May corrects her.
“Oh… sure,” Margarette says, rolling her eyes when May isn’t looking. Then she asks, a little cruelly, “So where’s your husband?”
May pauses to unmask the intent. “He’s working late.”
“That must be difficult for you.”
Margarette can tell her false empathy is irritating May, but continues to pick at the open wound.
May doesn’t flinch. “It gives me a great deal of free time.”
“A lot of time to think, I’m sure.”
May abruptly changes the topic. “So what does your mother do?”
“She doesn’t do that much anymore,” Margarette answers vaguely. “She got let go.”
“Oh,” May says, with fake concern. “These are really trying times.”
“For some.”
Margarette turns to Tommy and asks him unimportant questions about the house, just to keep him talking and not have to talk to May. She hears people talking somewhere else inside of the house, and feels awkward hiding in the kitchen talking to Tommy without introducing herself to the owners of the house. But at no point does it occur to Tommy to introduce her to his parents.
After a short time dinner is ready, and May places the pasta, sauce, meat, and some vegetables, all into different serving bowls. Margarette expected something more grandiose or harder to pronounce than spaghetti. But she helps Tommy bring the trays and serving utensils to the dining room table and arrange them in the center. Margarette is surprised to see the table is set for eight people as though a formal dinner was happening. She comes to the conclusion that the table is set every day, and rolls her eyes thinking it’s a big waste of time. She thinks of her dinners at home, which consist of heating up something frozen and eating on the couch in front of the TV. The rare times she cooks, she eats right out of the saucer. No point in dirtying yet another dish for herself to clean.
Tommy pulls out two chairs as they place the last bowl on the table. He sits and tugs Margarette’s skirt gesturing for her to sit at his side. Fortunately May doesn’t see that. Why would he do that? Then it hits her, where else would she sit? She’s not a guest by choice, and this is a super creepy date. May sits across from Margarette and doesn’t say a word. Nobody touches the food, and Margarette doesn’t question why; she just waits for someone else to make the first move.
After an awkward minute, Mrs. Gallager enters the room and takes her place at the end of the table. She wears thick pearls on her neck and cracks on her face, but not on her lips where people smile. Her face wrinkles under her eyes and chin as her old hawk eyes glare at the newcomer. But she manages to say a few choice words.
“Thank you, May, for cooking dinner. Tommy, who is your friend?”
Margarette has to fight the urge to shake her head. It’s like an ancient version of May; they even say the same things.
“Mother, this is Margarette. Margarette, this is my mother, Cynthia.”
Mrs. Gallager lifts her chin an inch and surveys Margarette, but doesn’t say anything. Margarette feels like she ought to say something even though it’s clear that the woman is not happy with her presence.
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Gallager,” Margarette says, choosing to avoid getting kicked out by not calling the woman by her first name.
Mrs. Gallager lowers her chin and says curtly, “Likewise. May, pass the vegetables.”
Dinner apparently begins without Mr. Gallager, but Margarette is not one to question the strange ways of the strange family. The layers of awkwardness in the conversation are further complemented by Tommy not warning anyone that he was bringing Margarette. She looks back for an exit and the sky rumbles as if to bind her to the chair. She pivots back to the table and catches Mrs. Gallager’s eyes on her.
The woman doesn’t even flinch being caught staring. She merely asks, “What is your mother’s name?”
“Laura,” Margarette replies emotionlessly. The woman asked for a name, and that’s what she got. Margarette recalls her mother used to be part of a bridge club; that she played cards when she worked at the Chamber of Commerce. That was a long time ago, but she wonders if Mrs. Gallager would recognize her mother’s full name.
Mrs. Gallager raises an eyebrow as if taken aback at Margarette’s impropriety. But after a second she seems to regain her composure. She turns and addresses her son. “Tommy, I was glad to hear you ended your connection with Sharon. That girl wasn’t right for you. I knew it from the beginning.”
“Mother, now is not the time—”
Margarette doesn’t even hear what Tommy says. It doesn’t surprise her that Mrs. Gallager isn’t a big fan of Sharon, but to bring up an ex-girlfriend in front of a new date is not right, no matter what is said about the ex. She tries to tune out the rest of the conversation but catches bits like “nice distraction” and “fleeting” with which she seems to insinuate that Margarette’s role in Tommy’s life is likely a short term fling. Mrs. Gallager continues until Margarette sees red and continues to stare at a point in front of her, trying not to react. However, that seems to satisfy the older woman because at that point she then moves on to her target her daughter.
May twists anything her mother says into a demeaning or degrading comment and spends some time dissecting the personal questions her mother inflicts. Tommy however is only teased by the mother for the situation at hand as if he was a child ignorant of sin.
Margarette’s ears feel like they are bleeding by the end of the evening. During the middle of dessert Mrs. Gallager asks Tommy if he is open to dating other people and Margarette almost wants to scream. She has had enough, and at that moment wonders why the frick has she sat there this long taking this abuse in silence. But she’s not one to make a big scene in someone else’s house, so she simply excuses herself without any further explanation and walks to the kitchen, the only other room she knows in the house.
After a minute her anger keeps increasing, not waning. So she steps outside in the heavy rain and walks down the driveway to the street.
An old saying creeps into her head, reminding her that she was a fool for accepting his invitation.
Never get too attached to anyone unless they feel the same, because one-sided expectations can mentally destroy you.
Chapter 9. Stumped
Margarette reaches the property’s gate completely soaked and is trying to figure out how to jump it when Tommy finds her.
“Margarette! Wait up!”
“Leave me alone, Tommy.”
“Margarette, I’m so sorry.”
She turns around to face him in the rain. He sounds panicky and looks like an idiot with his collar raised. She redirects the anger she feels and focuses on him, and at that moment she almost hates him. “Why the hell did you bring me here when I asked you not to?”
“I… I thought you’d want me to.”
“What? What part of me telling you I don’t want to go did you think meant Just kidding, I do want to?”
“No, I meant… before you told me that. After I first did it with Sharon she insisted on meeting the parents… to make it official, I suppose. I thought you wanted—”
“Are you fricking kidding me? Did you just compare me to fricking Sharon? That I’d be in any way similar to her?” she almost shrieks.
“No, I didn’t mean to!”
Tommy rushes forward and tries to grab her but she swats off his hands. He looks crushed at her rejection. “I am so sorry. I promise never to take you back there again, unless you ask me to.”
Like she would ever ask that. But his voice sounds truly remorseful, ashamed even, so she loses control of her anger and she doesn’t want to keep yelling at him. He truly is just an idiot who hasn’t figured out girls. “Whatever, Tommy. I have to go.” She turns to the door by the gate. “Open the gate.”
“Okay. I’ll take you home,” Tommy offers, not understanding her as usual. He presses a button on his keychain and the gate opens.
“Just stay. I can find my own way home,” Margarette snaps.
“Margarette… I had no idea it was going to be like that.”
“Look, I just need some time alone. I need to think. Everything in my life is so screwed up. A walk would do me some good.”
“No. I screwed up. I just want to start over.”
“Maybe you should go talk to Sharon. Fix things with her. Stop trying to force something with me. It’s not going to happen.”
“I can’t do that.”
“It could haunt you forever not trying. Even if you think you can’t, you should try to go back to her,” she says, as if she was doing him a favor.
“No, I meant you. I’d regret losing you, Margarette.”
Margarette narrows her eyes through the pouring rain. Tough. You don’t have me to begin with. “You don’t even know me,” she says. “I don’t think you’ve ever experienced real regret….” She trails off figuratively and then literally as she leaves the property.
“Wait!” Tommy runs back to his car and catches up with her at the end of the block as she struggles to walk on the soft ground. He rolls his window down and calls across the street to her, not caring that his car is getting wet.
“Margarette, please let me take you home. You’ll catch a cold. And I do know you. I feel like I’ve known you… forever.”
She continues to walk without looking at him. “That’s cute, Tommy, but it’s not going to work.”