by Jane Lotter
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I’M MARGO
I find the place I’m searching for, walk in, and take a seat. There’s a fellow who gives a brief introduction: old business, new business, followed by a short pep talk. Then we break into small groups.
Because we’re in the basement of a church, my group of a dozen or so ends up in the Sunday School room. We sit in a circle, perched on little wooden chairs, the kind they have in elementary school. I’m scrunched up on a chair that was designed to hold a kindergartener. My knees are more or less in my face.
We go round the circle, everybody taking turns and introducing themselves.
“I’m Margo,” I say, when it’s my turn.
“Hi, Margo,” returns a chorus of voices. Everyone smiles and nods and is generally cheerful. Naturally, I’m repulsed.
“I’m Margo,” I repeat. I’m stalling because this is it, The Moment of Truth. This is when I’m supposed to tell everyone I’m a drunk. This is when I’m supposed to admit to the world that I’m an alcoholic.
Well, I can’t do that. How can I possibly do that? Perhaps I could tell a half-truth instead. Perhaps I could start with, I don’t know, a prologue.
“My father was an alcoholic,” I say. “My mother was a probable alcoholic. My half sister, I’m pretty sure, has a cocaine habit. And my niece is . . . well, she never met a party she didn’t like.”
There’s a murmur of polite laughter. Everyone is on the edge of their seats, or at least on the edge of their tiny wooden chairs. They’re watching me. It’s like we’re all in this together and if I can just admit I’m one of them it will somehow, through some alchemy, help the entire group to heal.
“Anyway, I’m Margo,” I say. “And I don’t really have a problem with spirits. I’m a social drinker, occasionally. But I’m fine. Although alcoholism does run in my family.”
A few people exchange glances.
“Excuse me for interrupting your fellowship,” one woman says to me, “but we’re all drunks here. Were you looking for the Al-Anon meeting?”
Another woman pipes up. “Al-Anon is for families and friends of alcoholics,” she says. She sounds almost happy about it. “It’s a special group all their own. They meet next door.”
Spit it out, I tell myself. Spit it out!
“I’m Margo,” I say again.
The first woman opens her mouth in an attempt to say something.
“I believe I have the floor,” I say. “Please don’t interrupt.”
Christ, this is hard! “I’m Margo,” I repeat, and by now the entire room is convinced I suffer from aphasia. They’re worried they’ll have to listen to me repeating my name over and over for the rest of their lives. I pause, searching for the right words.
“I’m Margo,” I say one more time, getting into the rhythm of things. “And there’s something I’d like to say.”
A man near me mutters, “Not her name again, please.”
“I’M MARGO!” I shriek. “MARGO! MARGO! MARGO!”
I have their attention. “AND . . . I . . . AM . . . A . . . FUCKING ALCOHOLIC!”
Now I really have their attention.
“There, I’ve said it! All right? Everybody happy? Let me spell it out for you. I’m a drunk, a sot, a boozehound. A dip-so-maniac! Gin, gin, gin! I can’t get enough of it! I wish it came out of the water faucet, so I could brush my teeth with it. I’d pour it on my breakfast cereal if only Kellogg’s sold something with green olives and vermouth.”
The lady who told me they were all drunks gapes at me, dumbfounded. I glare at her.
“Not only that,” I toss in, “for years, I was unlucky in love. And did I mention I recently GAVE UP SMOKING?”
I swear she physically recoils.
“So now the whole lot of you know what I am,” I say. “For once in my life I’ve told the actual bloody awful truth. And telling the truth—especially to you pitiful, tippling, red-nosed juiceheads—sucks beyond belief. It burns like I’m on fire, like I’m covered in hot, molten lava. I’ve told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Gin! Do you hear me? Gin is what I’m saying!”
Another woman is watching me. She has this expression like she feels sorry for me, like she knows what I’m going through. Oh God, it’s pity. Someone is pitying me. I’m pathetic. I feel woozy, and the room begins spinning. Even so, words fly from me like battery acid.
“And now,” I say, “if you think I’m going to tell you the story of my life, if you think I’m going to open up and share my troubles with you all, admit to you I’m at the end of my rope, that I need your help because I have nowhere else to turn, that I’m hoping you’ll throw me a lifeline. If you think I’m doing that, well, you’re in for a rollicking big disappointment because—”
They’re all staring at me. “Because I’m not opening up! I’m not sharing my troubles with anyone. I’m not!” Like a woman possessed, I twist wildly in my chair. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!” I cry like a toddler. “Never, never, never!”
I glare across the circle and see that woman again, the one with the sympathetic face, a face that reminds me of the kindheartedness of my own dear mum dead and gone these many years. And it’s then that something in me shifts. Years and years of stiff upper lips, and I’m all right, don’t worry about Margo. For once, it all comes to a head, the hurt comes spilling out like apples rolling madly from an overturned cart.
I crack.
I crack like an ostrich egg dropped into a giant, sizzling pan. I crack like a thousand-year-old sequoia hit by lightning. I crack like Mount Vesuvius erupting all over those poor people in ancient Pompeii.
“God in heaven, help me!” I cry. My body is quaking so hard, I look like I’ve been strapped to an industrial-grade paint shaker. People around me are poised as if on starting blocks, as if ready to leap up and race to my aid. “Please!” I say. “Are you blind? Can’t you see? I’m falling apart! I need a drink!”
There’s a man sitting near me, his eyes gone big as saucers.
“Call 911!” I scream at him. I hold out my arms, pleading. “For the love of God, I’m begging you. Call a liquor store! Call a distillery! Call the people at Gordon’s gin!”
A smiling Middle Eastern man clears his throat. “We have several tasty varieties of diet soft drink,” he offers.
I ball up my fists and beat them against my thighs. “I’m in agony!” I cry. “It feels like I’m being eaten alive by tiny insects. Somebody, please, please, please—GET ME AN EMERGENCY MARTINI!”
For a moment, no one moves. The room is silent.
I glance around the circle at everyone. Everyone stares back. I release a long, frustrated moan. Still moaning, endlessly moaning, I slide off my kindergarten chair and onto the floor, where—not unlike a kindergartener—I dissolve into a puddle of tears and helplessness.
A gray-haired woman looks down at me. I lie there, curled up and sobbing by her feet. “Thank you for sharing,” she says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SELF-DEFENSE FOR WOMEN
Several kind and caring people help me up off the floor of Alcoholics Anonymous. I am hugged, I am handed a copious amount of tissues. The meeting goes on for quite a while, and I form new friendships. I get a sponsor; I can check into detox if I need it, but I don’t think I will.
I promise to attend two meetings tomorrow: one in the daytime, one in the evening.
Eventually, I make my way back to Manhattan Architectural Salvage. It’s nightfall. I have a headache. My cell phone has been off for hours. When I walk through the door, I’m sure I look a sight. Tully and Dottie are sitting together at the kitchen table, the remains of some takeout food in front of them.
“Thank God,” Dottie says when she sees me.
Tully gets up. “Where have you been?” he says. “We were worried. Neither one of us could get hold of you, so Dottie came here.”
“I had a meeting,” I say. I cross to the kitchen cabinet where the gin is kept. I open the cab
inet door. A cockroach scuttles away.
A jar of coffee beans rests on a shelf inside the cabinet. Also, for some reason, a bag of bubble gum. I ignore the bottle of gin sitting there. Instead I get down the coffee beans and the bubble gum. I unwrap a piece of gum and put it in my mouth. I stand at the counter and begin grinding coffee.
“You’re making coffee?” Dottie says, over the whirr of the grinder.
“It was a long meeting,” I say, grinding coffee and chewing gum.
“Everything okay?” Tully says.
I put the ground beans and some water into the coffee machine. “I saw your ex-stepfather,” I say. “He wanted to buy the Spy Team script. But then I set it on fire. Accidentally. Sort of. So there isn’t a multimillion-dollar property anymore. It’s gone.”
“She’s in shock,” Dottie says.
“You’re the second person today to make that observation,” I say. “I’m beginning to think I’ve spent most of my life in shock.” I push the button on the coffee machine, which sputters to life. Tully stands there, watching me. “Sorry,” I say to him. “This morning—didn’t you have something you wanted to tell me?”
“It can wait,” he says.
I unwrap a second piece of bubble gum and shove it in my mouth, along with the first. “I’ve given up cigarettes,” I say. I lay the package of gum on the counter. “And liquor.”
Tully regards me for a long moment. Then he goes to the counter and picks up the bag of gum. “Bazooka,” he says, looking at the bag. “I wrote about them in my chewing-gum book.” He unwraps a piece and puts it in his mouth.
“I’ve joined AA,” I say.
Dottie looks gobsmacked. Tully walks back over to the table and offers her the bag of gum. She takes a piece, unwraps it, and studies it. “Flamingo pink,” she says. She pops it in her mouth.
“I’ve admitted I’m powerless over alcohol,” I say, turning to face both of them. I lean back against the sink. “Powerless over lots of things, really.”
“Well, who isn’t?” Dottie says. She chews her gum thoughtfully.
There’s a knock at the door. We all three ignore it. The knocking repeats, louder this time.
“Kind of late for visitors,” Tully says. He blows a pink bubble.
“I’ll get it,” Dottie says. “No more puppies. At this hour, it’s probably a cat.”
It’s my half sister. It’s Charlotte.
She plunges into the room, looking around. “Jiminy Christmas,” Charlotte says. “This place. It’s worse than I remember. The Addams Family meets the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Her eye falls on an impressively large, ornately framed mirror. “Although this has possibilities.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” Dottie says—a figure she made up on the spot. “And that’s the prix d’amie.” The bargain price for a friend.
“I’ll think about it,” Charlotte says. She considers Dottie. “I met you once, years ago. You had a juicy little shop.”
“Maintenant, it’s bigger. And juicier.”
“I’ll drop in.”
Tully steps forward. “Hello, Mother Illworth,” he says.
“Not unless you’ve changed your name to Ricky Wallingford,” Charlotte replies.
“Hello, Charlotte,” I say.
She turns to me. “Greetings, Little Mar. Can you guess why I’m here?”
“Spy Team,” I say. “But you’re too late. It was incinerated.”
“Oh, I know,” Charlotte says. “Malcolm texted me. What a waste.” She admires her reflection in the ten-thousand-dollar mirror. “Actually, I’ve come to apologize.”
“For sending me on a wild goose chase?” I say.
“What? No. That was an illegitimate business proposition. Excuse me, I mean legitimate. I had no idea Georgia would do the things she did.” She cocks her head at the three of us. “Is there some reason you’re all chewing gum?”
“We’re dieting,” Tully says.
“Oh. How retro.” Charlotte catches sight of the coffeemaker. “Coffee! God, I could use a cup!”
Dottie pours out four cups of coffee. We all sit down at the table.
“Biscuit?” I say to Charlotte, holding up the tin.
Charlotte takes a chocolate biscuit from the tin and examines it. “Let me tell you,” she says, “this is not a biscuit. It’s a cookie. And it’s about two hundred calories.” She sets it down on the table. “I’ll pass. Listen, Margo, when you left Malibu, I admit I was hoping you’d bring back Spy Team, along with Georgia. But my feelings have changed. I don’t want it anymore. I mean, if you hadn’t set it on fire, you could have it.”
“But don’t you need to make up your losses on Muscle Man?” I say.
“Losses?”
“You said on the phone Muscle Man was a dog.”
“God no, you misunderstood. I said I was working like a dog. Woof, woof! Don’t you look at television, the Internet? Muscle Man premiered last night at the film festival. The audience went wild. They loved it. It’s going to be huge! Tarantula! Excuse me, I believe that’s gargantuan. Plus, I have several irons in the fire—sorry, you know what I mean. I’m in preproduction on a sequel to Thelma and Louise. The working title is Don’t Look Down.”
“Thelma and Louise drove off a cliff into the Grand Canyon,” I say. “They’re dead.”
“Did audiences see that?” Charlotte says. “Was it shown on screen? No. Always leave room for a sequel. Those two broads landed in the Colorado River and floated downstream. The tagline is: They Survived the Fall.” She spreads her hands. “Which reminds me. Speaking of survivors, I brought—I want to show you something.”
She pulls an old photograph from her purse and passes it to me. It’s a picture of Charlotte, me, and our father. We’re sitting together in the MG. We look . . . well, you’d have to say we look almost happy.
“Remember that day?” Charlotte says. “Daddy took us for a ride. You were nine. You sat on my lap. You’d never get away with that now—seat-belt laws. We drove out to the beach and he handed the camera to some man and had him snap our photo.”
“He used to do that sometimes,” I say, gazing at the picture. “Take us for rides together.”
“And when we got back, Mama would yell at me till she was purple. She was furious whenever I spent time with him. Or you.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say.
“How could you?” Charlotte says. “Mama and I lived in a whole other wing of the house. She could carry on all night about how Daddy had betrayed her—and me—and no one heard her but me and the housekeeper. I hated having to choose sides like that. I hated the way Mama treated you, the way she obviously expected me to treat you. It scared me, made me feel bad. I have a load of guilt about that. You were just a little girl.”
I remember Charlotte saying something similar back in Malibu, about our childhood, about me being just a kid. Has it been on her mind all this time?
“Ever since Georgia ran off,” Charlotte says, “ever since I hired you to go after her, I’ve been spending time in Daddy’s sanctum . . . his sanctimonious . . . his . . .”
“Private office,” Tully says.
“Thank you. I hadn’t been up there since I was a teenager. So many things in that room, so many memories. I held on to it all because Mama did. But there’s something else Mama held on to: her anger. She never let go of it because she was wounded. Well, we’re all wounded. Life cuts up everybody.”
“Amen,” Dottie says.
“It took me years to understand why Mama never wanted to share with you, Margo. It was because you weren’t her daughter. Only I’m not my mother. And after all this time, I want to share with you. I want to share because—” Charlotte stops. She’s silent for a moment. She asks Dottie for more coffee.
“I want to share,” Charlotte begins again, after Dottie pours coffee, “because—”
“You’re afraid of a lawsuit?” Tully says.
“No. I want to share because—aw, hell.” She reaches
out and puts her hand on mine. “Because you’re my sister. Not my half sister, let’s forget about that. You’re my sister. You’re family.”
The four of us sit there, as mute as the antiques that surround us.
“You can have the mirror at fifty percent off,” Dottie finally says.
“She can have it for free,” I say.
“Deal,” Charlotte says. “I get the mirror, you keep the car.”
“You mean the MG?” I say.
“I do. Ha-ha. We’re back where we started. Though where you’re going to keep a car in Manhattan—”
“It’s not as though she’d need it every day,” Dottie says.
“I know a garage in Jersey,” Tully says.
“Thank you all,” I say. “However, you’re forgetting I don’t drive.”
“Oui,” Dottie says. “But Mr. Benedict clearly takes you where you need to go.”
Tully reddens.
“You tell ’em, honey,” Charlotte says to Dottie. “Oh, and remind me, Margo, to write you a check for thirty thousand. You did try to find Georgia.”
“Sixty thousand,” Tully says.
Charlotte looks down her nose at him.
“Plus expenses,” he says.
“Coffee is pricey in this town,” Charlotte says. She sets her cup on the table, stands up, and stretches. “Still, I feel so much better! That was worth two years on the couch crying in front of Dr. Fieldshutter. Where’s the sandbox?”
I point her in the right direction.
After Charlotte steps away, Tully takes the bubble gum from his mouth and wraps it in a paper napkin. He asks for a biscuit. I pass him the tin.
A moment later, there’s a knock at the door.
“I’ll go,” Dottie says. “I’m expecting the Humane Society.”
Dottie turns the handle on the front door. But when she does that, the door doesn’t so much open as explode inward. A man bursts across the threshold.
It’s Boone.