chat right now. I have to work.”
“Okay. But…” Somehow Bitsey managed to smile. “How about we take you to breakfast tomorrow?”
Meg’s sullen gaze slid away. “Why? So you can rag on me about working in a place like this?”
“Because I want to visit with you,” Bitsey answered. “Because you’re my daughter and I love you.”
I’d known Margaret since she was twelve or so, and though she’d always been an independent child, I’d never seen her challenge her mother. Plead and cajole, perhaps, even whine. So the hostility I now saw was something entirely new.
Fortunately this new Meg person hadn’t totally taken control of sweet Margaret. For although Meg wanted to say no to the breakfast date, Margaret couldn’t quite pull it off. With a sigh she nodded. “Okay. Fine. But not till lunchtime. Or even later.”
“She needs her beauty sleep,” Cat said as Margaret melted back into the sweaty noise of the crowded club.
Bitsey didn’t laugh, and Cat sent me a look that said, “Do something.”
I put my arm around Bitsey’s shoulder. “She’s just stressed out, hon. I mean, look at this place. Working here has got to be tough.”
Bitsey was back to trembling again. “I wonder if her boyfriend is here. The one with the ‘roots rock’ band,” she added, a sneer in her voice. Then she sniffed and wiped her eyes, ruining the effect of her sarcasm.
“I think you ought to cut off her allowance,” Cat said. “The brat didn’t even notice your new haircut.”
Bitsey smiled, but Cat and I knew it was forced. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “If I can’t drink or eat, I might as well sleep.”
“Or exercise.” My jest was no more successful than Cat’s. To make matters worse, on the way back to the hotel, Bitsey called Jack, only there was no answer, not at home or at his office. She left messages both places and tried to shine a good light on it. But later I heard her crying in the bathroom.
We went to bed somber and woke up little better. But at least we had the whole morning for exercise.
“You’re doing good,” I said as Bitsey attacked the stair-climber as if it were Mount Everest. Her eyes were puffy and her short hair stuck out in a punky kind of way.
Across the room Cat pedaled a stationary bike very, very slowly. “You’re looking buff, Bits,” she said.
“What I need is a punching bag.” Bitsey huffed the words out.
Cat hooted. “Damn, the girl’s getting tough inside and out. You really are good at this personal training stuff, M.J.”
I grinned. It was nice being good at something. “Watch out world, ’cause here comes Bitsey, killer bunny.”
“All I want is to not kill them when I sit on them,” she muttered. “Except for Margaret. Meg.” She made a face as she stretched out the word. “I wouldn’t mind squashing that brat.”
We went to the brat’s house without calling beforehand. The first sign of trouble was the broken front step. Then the porch had an old couch on it.
“My, my. Looks like home,” Cat quipped. “You don’t need a trailer to live like trash, I guess.”
Bitsey’s face took on a pinched expression. “Maybe y’all better wait out here.”
I grimaced. “Are you sure, hon?”
When she nodded, Cat and I hung back. We didn’t like it, though, especially when, after her third knock we heard a loud, angry male response. “Who the fuck is it?”
I thought Bitsey would fold, but I guess I underestimated the power of maternal love. “Margaret!” she cried. “Open the door. It’s your mother!”
Margaret came to the door, but she only opened it a crack before closing it.
Bitsey trudged down the steps. “She’s coming,” was all she said. Two minutes later Margaret hurried out. She had on jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of chunky sandals, clothes the old Margaret would have worn. But the pale face with the sunglasses, and the blue-black hair with its blood-red streak were jarring in the unrelenting sun of high noon.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, giving her a hug, wanting to make her smile, but not succeeding.
Cat ruffled her hair. “So. Where’s a good place to eat around here?”
Bitsey was the only one who didn’t touch her, and Margaret kept her distance, too.
We found a Shoney’s. Once we were all settled with our buffet lunches Bitsey asked, “Do you like my hair?” forcing Margaret to look at her.
Margaret stared at her through the dark glasses for a long moment before the difference seemed to register. “You cut it. It looks good. It makes your face look thinner.”
“Her face is thinner,” Cat said.
“You look thinner, too,” Bitsey said to her daughter.
Margaret shoved her mixed greens around with a fork. “I’ve been working a lot.”
“How’s school going?” I asked.
Her fork clattered down onto her plate. “Look. I don’t want to be grilled, so let’s just get it over with. Here’s the deal. I dropped out of school and I’m not going back.” She glared at her mother. “So if you want to cut off the money, fine. I’m doing just great at Tavernous.”
“Yeah,” Cat said. “And you’re living in the lap of luxury, too.”
“Fuck you!” She stood up but Bitsey grabbed her arm before she could storm off.
“Margaret Anne Albertson! What kind of way is that to speak to someone who loves you? We all love you and we’re all worried about you.”
“I don’t need you to worry about me. Okay?”
The people at the next table were trying not to notice us, but without much success. I don’t like scenes and I know Bitsey hates them, but Cat is a different story. Once you rile her up, it wouldn’t matter if the pope himself was watching. Without warning she stood and snatched the sunglasses off Margaret’s nose.
The girl froze. So did Bitsey. The bruise around Margaret’s left eye was faint and probably old, but there was no mistaking what it was.
“I thought so,” Cat said as she sat down, picked up her fork, and began calmly to eat. “She has that same belligerent attitude I used to have in my first marriage. I couldn’t stand up to him, but I sure as hell stood up to everybody else.”
“Fuck you,” Margaret repeated, only it came out a shaky, little-girl whisper. Not very sincere.
Bitsey caught her by the hand. “Margaret, honey. Sit down. Are you all right? Let me see—”
“Mom, no!”
