MARGO LOUD
POWERS
MARGO TURNED HER key and reached for
the light switch to the left of the door. By now, she was getting around on one
crutch combined with a hippity hop
movement.
She looked around her
home, her studio, her tiny home and felt good. There was the table with her
paints and brushes, the couch covered with a blanket to hide the holes in the
upholstery.
Daylight Savings Time had
gone into effect while she was gone. Late afternoon sun streamed into the
window over the table.
She had no grass
deliberately, preferring flowers that came up every year without wanting any
care.
Who was she kidding?
Bethany had planted the mutti-no-work garden. Somewhere in her desk was a
notebook that her daughter had made for her so she would know what the flowers
were called. The left page was the flower in color, the right a pencil sketch.
When Margo turned the
page, Bethany had given her the history of the flower. Her daughter had
artistic talent, but no desire to use it. Shame, but Margo wanted to make sure
her daughter never felt guilty for following her own path as she had done
herself.
Even when she used
flowers in designs she never named them. How many times had she thumbed through
florist sheets and copied flowers never learning or caring for what their names
were. Then again, she made up flowers, too.
None of it mattered. She
was home. She could begin working again.
Hans-Peter and Henry
Willis followed her in with the suitcases.
Margo found it hard to
believe that she was glad that Hans-Peter came for the summer. She still needed
help.
They had laid out the
ground rules. He was editing his documentary. They had arranged for him to rent
studio space in Boston, and he would take the train each day into the city. He
was also using time to work on his book.
Margo started on her
orders. She had written to all the people who had placed orders, who had been
understanding about her accident. With the exception of the woman who Margo had
called the Duchess. She had cancelled.
Until the cast was off
Hans-Peter would do most of the household chores and run the errands.
There was one double bed
and one air mattress. Both were upstairs on the mezzanine. The toilet was on
ground level along with the shower.
In Stuttgart for their
last three weeks together they had shared a bed in greater and greater
intimacy. The idea of him sleeping in the double bed upstairs with her or on an
air mattress downstairs seemed weird but as Margo pointed out, “I need to be
near the toilet.” When the cast was off, she would reclaim half the mattress.
“I can’t offer you
anything to drink or eat.” Margo said to Henry. “Hans-Peter can run to the
store though if the car still starts.”
“I started your car
several times when you were gone. No problems as of two days ago. And if you
check the fridge there’s eggs, milk, orange juice, hamburger. Bread too.”
For the first time Marge noticed
the bowl of apples on the countertop. She hopped over to Henry and hugged him.
“Thank you.”
“Now sit down for a
moment.”
She did.
“I’m not telling you what
to do, but you should know Heather wants that damned ring back.
*****
THE BIRDS SANG a chorus in the trees
just beyond the flower garden. Margo had missed the melodies when she woke. The
traffic and streetcar melodies just weren’t the same.
She stretched as best she
could on the couch with her ankle in a smaller type of cast. Granted she was
more mobile than she had been, but it still wasn’t easy.
With the exception of a
bluejay, robin and crow, Margo couldn’t identify one bird from another anymore
than she could identify different flowers. She had done a bird series of dishes
that had sold well featuring robins. Okay males had red chests, but the female
of the species remained a mystery to her. Her blue jay collection sold well
too.
As she stayed listening
to the bird song, she felt happy. Today she was going to be back at work full
force. Yesterday she had spent part of the day reorganizing her materials.
Some of her paints and
brushes had dried out. Hans-Peter had driven her to the art store for
replacements. It was not a quick trip because Becca and Richard, who owned the
art store, wanted to know all about her accident and the exhibition, in that
order.
Hans-Peter had set up his
working area also, although he would need the equipment at the studio to do
some of the editing of what they had filmed in Sweden. When he was back with
Margo in the evenings, he would work on the book that would accompany the
documentary unless they decided to watch a film on Netflix.
Back when they were
newlyweds, a lifetime ago, they didn’t have the money to go to the movies.
Margo lay on the couch, savoring
the last minutes before getting up; she could hear her ex-husband’s snores
floating down from the mezzanine. Unlike many women snores didn’t bother her.
She twisted herself out
of bed and hopped over the counter started the coffee. Hans-Peter had brought
his favorite coffee from Germany, saying although American coffee had improved
over the years, German coffee was better. The aroma of coffee percolating must
have woken him up because he came down the stairs.
He had put on a few kilos
over the years, but he’d been so skinny when they were married that the extra
weight looked good on him just as the sprinkling of gray in his hair looked
good.
“Coffee?”
“Almost.”
“I appreciate it, but you
should be saving your energy for your work. I’ll make us some
Kartoffelpuffer.”
Margo loved the potato
dish which Hans-Peter had made for them when they were married and again when
she’d been recovering. She tried to ignore how the years of separation had
brought them closer together, but she didn’t want to think about what that
meant. All her life Margo had created a path to somewhere, but she would
abandon the goal when something new came along that seemed a better choice.
Overall, it had made her life work better than sticking to one path.
While he was cooking,
Margo maneuvered in the shower then hippity hopped from the bathroom to find
her paint splattered jeans and T-shirt.
As she finished dressing,
she heard a truck drive into the driveway followed by a door slam then a knock
on her door.
Hans-Peter answered it,
signed for the UPS package. “The ring is here.”
Still declaring she
didn’t believe in curses, Margo had not wanted to fly on a plane to the United
States with the ring. She was happy to admit nothing had happened good or bad
on her flight to France, but she told Hans-Peter wasn’t going to tempt fate.
She was a nervous flyer, anyway, why let her overactive imagination work
overtime on an eight-hour flight.
“I could kid you about
letting the ring damage the UPS plane, the pilot having five kids that will be
left half orphans. . .” he had said.
She’d stuck her tongue
out, a behavior that she had given up years ago. In reality, she checked if
there was any news of a UPS plane from Stuttgart to Boston having problems.
There had been none, and now the ring, the beautiful ring, was back in her tiny
home.
How silly she had been
thinking of curses. There were no such things. There was bad luck and bad luck
was not caused by rings.
After breakfast, before
she brought out the clay that would make the tea set, she put the ring next to
her potter’s wheel. She couldn’t wear it when she was working with the clay.
When she was busy with orders or just busy giving birth to her ideas, she
couldn’t wear it. If she left it on the work table, it could, would get lost.
Hans-Peter had said more
than once, “Give the damn ring to your sister.”
Was she being childish
holding onto a ring to stop her sister from winning? She and Heather would
never agree on how to live their lives. They didn’t agree on what to wear, what
books to read, how to pass their free time. So what?
The phone rang. She was
able to wipe enough clay off her hands to pick up the phone and nestle it
between her head and shoulder. “Hello.”
“Hi Margo. Henry here.”
They exchanged the usual
meaningless sentences.
“I thought I’d drop the
dog off tonight on my way home from work.” With Hans-Peter still with her,
there would be someone to give poor Camille regular walks until next month. As
much as Margo had liked the dog from puppyhood, and as much as she had not
wanted the dog to be put in a cage until the powers that be could find a home
for her, if they could find a home for her, she wasn’t sure she wanted her full
time. Camille was too sweet to be shuffled back and forth.
“I bet you’ll miss her.”
“More than you’ll ever
know. She’s become a part of my office. The sales staff, never mind my admin,
fight whose turn it is to walk her and play with her.”
Margo took a deep breath.
“Henry how would you feel about keeping her?”
There was silence on the
other end of the phone.
So much for that idea,
Margo thought. She would be a loving owner, but she was more suited to cats who
needed less work.
“Are you sure about
that?”
“It just came into my
head, but . . .”
“I know you love the dog,
and you could have sleep overs, or maybe doggy sit when I have to go to a
conference or something.”
That settled it. Henry would keep the dog. Margo would have visitation rights. She'd be like a grandma to the animal.
*****
HEATHER
LOUD POWERS
TENSION STILL FLARED between Grayson
Heather, although less than earlier, but it was a subject that bubbled under
the surface.
Heather and Grace sat in
the living room on face-to-face matching couches. Grace was in Jeans, but
Heather was wearing linen slacks.
Even around the house Heather
dressed in ironed, color-coordinated clothes. Even her underwear was
color-coordinated.
With Grace home for a
long weekend, Heather was trying to get her daughter on her side of what she
had come to think of as The Great Ring War.
They had just finished lunch,
baloney sandwiches, a Saturday tradition for the family. Heather thought she
would give it another try.
Grayson was in his
leather chair, color-coordinated of course to the rest of the furniture. “No,
absolutely not. Waste of money. You don’t need the stupid ring. No lawyer.”
Heather did not say she
would be spending her own money.
“I keep telling your
mother to forget it,” Grayson said. His feet were on a matching hassock as he
played with his mobile.
“Who cares about the ring?”
Grace asked
“I do. It was my
mother’s. Granny’s and Great Granny’s. I want it to go to you, stay in the
family.”
“Margo is in the family.
And it can go to Bethany.”
“I’m the older.”
“I’m going upstairs. This
isn’t what I came home for.” Grace had perfected her stomp-out-when-annoyed
walk long ago. She had not used it for years, but she employed it now.
“Really, you should leave
this alone,” Grayson said as the doorbell rang.
Heather stood up and
walked to the door. “Margo,” she said. “What are you doing here? And
Hans-Peter. Come in.”
“We’re not staying. I
came to give you this. I’m finished with this stupidity.” She handed Heather a
small blue velvet box. “Good luck, you’ll need it.” She turned and walked back
to her car that was parked in front of the house.
Heather opened the box to
see the ring and then slipped it on her finger. She held it to the light to
make sure all the diamonds were in place.”
“Looks like your sister
is the better person,” Grayson said.
“Or realized the ring
belongs with me.”
Heather wore the ring the
rest of the day, stopping to admire it regularly.
At dinner, the subject of
the ring did not come up. Heather didn’t want to spoil the remainder of Grace’s
visit. They had the traditional baked bean and hot dog supper. Had Heather
known Grace would be home, she’d have made the beans in Great Granny’s beanpot
rather than open a can. The pot had served Saturday night supper for four
generations. No one could say that Heather didn’t care about family tradition.
“I think I’ll go to Rosi
and Ralph’s,” Grace said. “I haven’t seen them since the baby was born.”
Heather bit her tongue
rather than say how Rosi was not married and had produced two babies within
three years.
“Don’t be too late.”
Grayson kissed his daughter.
“Drive carefully,” both
said.
The couple sat down to
watch an episode of Bones on Netflix. They hadn’t watched it first time it
had been on television. They both enjoyed binge watching rather than wait a
week for new episode.
“I think I’ll go to bed,”
Grayson said. He kissed Heather on the forehead. “Don’t put the chain on the
door unless . . .”
“. . .unless Grace is
in.” Heather stretched out on the couch.
“OH SHIT!” Grayson’s
voice came down the stairs. Heather ran up.
Her husband stood outside
the bathroom. Water was running into the hall. The toilet had flooded, ruining
the new bathroom rug that Heather had just put down.
THE END
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