Trash_ Stories - Dorothy Allison [70]
“Jackie can’t deal with confrontation, you know. Never could,” Margaret goes on. “It’s easier for her to give in and pretend the whole thing was her fault. I’m surprised she didn’t offer to pay for the spray paint they used.” Margaret nods at the waiter pleasantly as he takes her empty glass, while I lean forward slightly trying to see if his other ear is pierced. Paula sees what I am doing and frowns.
“Christ, you really don’t know how to behave, do you?”
“What?” Margaret has seen nothing and doesn’t understand what Paula is talking about. I pass my glass to the waiter.
“Another beer,” I tell him with a grin, and watch Paula’s mouth tighten with rage. The waiter ignores her and smiles at me, his eyes lingering on the ancient set of figures I pulled off a charm bracelet and hung from the half-dozen rings in my ears.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Paula hisses, as he walks away.
“Flirting with a queen.” I smile at her lazily. “Gonna call the Lesbian Thought Police on me? Betcha it’s something Fawn and Pris could handle in an afternoon. They could come ’round with a couple of gallons of paint and a few hours to kill. No sweat.”
“Are you drunk?” Paula has that righteous expression that always provoked me to rage when we were living together.
“Oh shit.” I give Margaret a tired smile hoping she’ll rescue me.
“Of course she’s not,” Margaret throws in immediately. That’s Margaret’s third margarita the waiter is bringing back. Lately she and I have discussed how tiresome it is that the women’s community has suddenly discovered alcoholism after all these years. There are letters to the editor in the women’s papers and well-meaning workshops at every possible feminist gathering, most of which smack of self-congratulatory evangelism. Like Paula, everybody begins first by talking about how healthy they are and how pitiful the poor alcoholic is. It reminds me too much of the prayer meetings I hated so as a child. How could you ever know if you were in a state of grace or not, and why did the people who were so sure of themselves always seem to be hiding something? What I love about Margaret is that she’s never sure of much of anything.
“What do you think? Do you think I’m an alcoholic?” Margaret asked me the last time we went out to dinner together. “Lee wants me to talk to my therapist about how much I drink.”
I’d shrugged. “Is it getting in the way of anything you want to do?” That was a silly question, since obviously drinking is getting in the way of her and Lee living happily ever after, which is the one thing Margaret is absolutely sure she wants to do.
“Well . . .” She’d hesitated, then shrugged. “No more than working for a living and taking care of my mother.” Margaret works as the head teller at a midtown bank, a job that’s a little like living on the firing line in a small-arms tournament. She spends her weekends picking up after her mother, a beautiful but prematurely senile woman whose four married children have left her to Margaret to nurse and protect.
“Mama shit on that blue chintz couch again last week, and you know how embarrassing that is for her. Took me three hours to get it even half clean. I’m thinking I may have to re-cover it, but then I suppose she’ll just have another accident. The doctor said I should have the furniture covered in plastic, that it’s just gonna get worse, but damn, I can’t do that to her. It took her so long to get some nice things, and she loves them so.”
I didn’t tell her what I thought, that mostly Mama didn’t notice much of what she sat on anymore.