Chapter 11 Mothers and Daughters
Mothers and Daughters
At their first meeting, the Bettys had decided that future gatherings would be potluck affairs, easing the burden on the hostess.
So Margaret baked two cakes, one for their second Bettys meeting and one for Walt and the kids, but mostly for Walt. German
chocolate was his favorite, and she was hoping to avoid another cheese sandwich incident.
Margaret slid the first cake into her green Tupperware cake carrier, then raised the plastic edge a smidge to burp out the
excess air. She looked toward Beth, who was sitting at the kitchen table playing Mouse Trap with Suzy and Bobby.
“The cake needs to cool for another half hour yet. Bring a slice out to Daddy in the TV room before you serve yourself, all
right?”
Beth stopped moving her red plastic mouse along the board.
“Why can’t he get it himself? Why do I have to be the waitress?”
“Because you’re the oldest. And because I’m paying you a quarter to keep an eye on your brother and sister and make sure they
get to bed on time.”
“Mrs. Kimble pays me fifty cents when I babysit for her.”
“Mrs. Kimble doesn’t provide room and board.”
Suzy moved her mouse to a build space and added a red plastic chute to the board. “I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “Give
me a quarter and I’ll put myself to bed.”
“Me too!” Bobby rolled the dice and stuck his tongue out at his big sister. “Why does she get paid and we don’t?”
“Because she’s the oldest.”
“So what? That’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair,” Margaret said.
Beth clawed her hands like a cat ready to pounce, leaning toward her brother. “Hear that, runt? I’m in charge.”
“Daddy is in charge,” Margaret said. “Beth? Be nice to them, I mean it. And everybody, wash your own dishes after you finish
your cake. Don’t leave them in the sink.”
“What about Daddy?” Beth asked. “Does he have to wash his dishes?”
“Don’t be fresh,” Margaret said.
After warning them to be good one last time, she carried the cake to the foyer and left it on a chair near the door, then
walked to the den. Walt was sitting on the couch with his shoes off, drinking Miller High Life and watching the news. Walter
Cronkite finished telling America about the collision between a Soviet nuclear submarine and a Finnish merchant ship, then
launched into the evening’s top story.
“In Birmingham, Alabama, civil rights leaders Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Ralph Abernathy, Fred Shuttlesworth, and fifty others
were arrested for parading without a permit. Dr. King is being held in solitary confinement. A spokesman for the Kennedy administration
said . . .”
“Walt? I’m heading out now.”
Margaret came up behind the sofa and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Hmm? Oh. Okay.”
He nodded but didn’t take his eyes from the television.
“I just wanted to get over to Charlotte’s a little early,” she said, “in case she needs any help. There’s cake. Beth will
bring you a piece and make sure the little guys go to bed on time. I’m sure she’s got it under control, but maybe you could
check in around eight, just to make sure, okay?” When he didn’t respond, she squeezed his shoulder. “Okay, Walt?”
“Yes, okay.”
Margaret bent down and kissed the top of his head.
“See you later then. Love you.”
Walt took a drink of his beer. “Uh-huh. Me too.”
Returning to the foyer to gather her things, Margaret noticed that the gift-wrapped book from Babcock’s was still tucked inside
her purse.
After glancing toward the den to make sure Walt wasn’t looking, she ran upstairs to the bedroom, fished a black pen from the
nightstand, and drew a heart on the green paper. She laid the book on Walt’s pillow and trotted back down the stairs, collected
the cake carrier, her purse, and the shopping bag with Helen’s book recommendations, and opened the front door.
In the kitchen, Beth boomed, “Mouse trap!” Bobby immediately began to wail, howling about unfairness and summoning his mother
to referee.
Margaret closed the door, pretending not to hear.
* * *
Margaret was surprised when Denise opened the door.
“You’re early.” Her scowl said she was surprised too, and not in a good way.
Though shorter and less well endowed, Denise bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Her nose and chin were slightly too
pointed, her shoulder-length hair was the same shade of maple-leaf-in-late-autumn-red, and her green eyes held the same keen
intelligence.
But from what Margaret had seen, the similarities ended there.
For one thing, Denise didn’t care one whit about clothes. Though she now attended the local public high school, she was dressed
in the pleated plaid skirt and blue blazer with a gold crest on the pocket that had been the uniform of her old school in
New York. According to Charlotte, this is what Denise wore every day, and it drove her crazy.
“After eleven years in private schools, wouldn’t you think she’d be excited about finally being able to wear anything she wants?” the clearly exasperated Charlotte had said. “I don’t get it. Is she trying to look like an oddball? Doesn’t she want to make friends?”
Margaret doubted that, but who could say for sure?
“Sorry,” Margaret said, responding to Denise’s scowl. “I thought I’d come early to see if Charlotte needed help.” She lifted
up the cake carrier, as if to prove her good intentions. “I can come back later if—”
A voice floated from the upper regions of the house.
“Denise? Did you answer the door? Who is it, darling?”
Denise turned her head and shouted over her shoulder. “One of your friends!”
“Which one?”
Denise turned back to stare at Margaret. Though this was at least their third meeting and possibly their fourth, none of them
seemed to have left an impression on the girl.
“Margaret. Mrs. Ryan.”
Denise turned away again. “It’s Mrs. Ryan!”
“Maggie’s here? Well, let her in! I’ll be right down.”
Moments later, Charlotte floated down the wide staircase with a smile and a lifted hand, a gracious queen greeting the commoners.
Wearing a sheath dress of gold-colored silk shantung, a single strand of pearls, and a pair of light tan pumps with a small
gold buckle, she looked wonderful and seemed to be in a very good mood. She kissed Margaret on the cheek and told her she
had indeed decided to serve sidecars as the cocktail du jour.
“I gave some thought to daiquiris,” Charlotte said, her heels rap-tapping on the parquet floor as she led the way toward the
living room. “And whiskey sours. But the sidecars seemed better for spring, sweet but not too sweet. Still, you can’t—”
Crossing the threshold, Charlotte froze in midsentence, shocked into silence by the sight that greeted her. Margaret was shocked
too. If the living room had been a mess during her last visit, today it was a disaster zone.
The expensive sofas and chairs were so piled with papers, books, and clothes that no one could sit on them.
The coffee and side tables were littered with overflowing ashtrays, empty highball glasses, pencils, pens, paintbrushes, balls of crumpled paper, and silvery tubes of oil paint.
One was missing a cap and had dribbled a yellow blob onto a walnut sideboard that was probably worth more than Margaret’s car.
Several unpainted canvases were leaning against the furniture.
Three easels held canvases in progress, all abstract in style.
The largest of the three, measuring about three feet by four, was thickly spattered with dozens of colors.
Fortunately, much of the floor was covered with canvas drop cloths.
Otherwise the hand-knotted oriental rugs might have suffered the same fate as the sideboard.
Charlotte’s face turned red. She spun around to face Denise.
“I asked you to tidy things up before the Bettys got here!”
Denise clucked her tongue in the way only teenagers can, communicating her disdain with one short but eloquent tsk. “That’s
what I was doing!” she shouted, flinging an arm toward a bookcase in the corner, the only piece of furniture in the room that
seemed to be fulfilling its intended purpose. A child’s Radio Flyer red wagon, filled with boxes, was also stationed nearby.
“It’s not my fault that one of them showed up early! Why is this my problem anyway? It’s your party, your friends. I’ve got more important things to do than spend the rest of my life cleaning up your messes. My writing sample for
Oxford has to be mailed by the end of the week.”
Charlotte planted a hand on her hip. “I am so sick of hearing about bloody Oxford. If you think that running off to England
is going to magically change your life and turn you into something you can never be, you’ve got another—”
Charlotte was getting very red in the face. Margaret turned a bit red too. She felt like mumbling an apology, saying she’d
come back later. Instead, sensing that mother and daughter were winding up to hurl the kind of words they’d live to regret,
she stepped between them.
“Denise, I’m so sorry. I don’t blame you for being upset.
I hate it when guests show up early too.
But since I’m already here, I might as well pitch in and help tidy up before the others arrive.
You go work on your essay. Charlotte and I will finish cleaning up.
Really,” she said, responding to Denise’s doubtful look. “Everything’s under control.”
Denise looked like she wanted to say something, but she pressed her lips together and slunk off toward the door. Just before
she made her exit, Charlotte squared her shoulders and started to lunge forward. Margaret pulled her back.
“Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t.”
* * *
Margaret shook her head inwardly, thinking about the day she’d offered to help Charlotte finish unpacking and how Charlotte
had assured her it wasn’t necessary.
“It’s all but done. Shouldn’t take more than two or three hours . . .”
Charlotte had been either lying or deluding herself. No person in her right mind could have believed such a mess could be
sorted out in a few hours, and now it was even worse.