Shooting J. R.
by Amy Welborn
argaret opened the front door and looked into the living room. She readied a pleasant smile. But it was only Kathleen in the room, wedged into the corner of the window seat, hiding, Margaret decided, behind the faded olive-colored drape. Kathleen pointed a TV Guide in the direction of the back yard.
“She’s with Lisa. They’ve been out there an hour.”
That was a good idea. Lisa was closer to the girl’s age and was, of course, the one who’d invited her. The day was gorgeous, perfect for sitting outdoors, a cool breeze from some other blessed land relieving Washington of an August oppression. Margaret had walked from the Metro station, enjoying it, despite the risk to her hair. She checked the small mirror on the wall next to the door. Still intact and unwilted. Still too gray, too. Next time, would she dare ask to have it colored?
She sat down on the other end of the window seat and briskly pushed the curtain back.
“Did I miss lunch?”
“No. I made chicken salad. It’s ready to go.” Kathleen noticed Margaret’s look. “What?”
“You always put lemon juice in chicken salad.”
“Everyone puts lemon juice in chicken salad. Sister.”
“I don’t. My mother didn’t. My Aunt Grace didn’t. Sister.”
Kathleen waved Margaret’s mother and aunt away with the fat little magazine. The Fall Preview. She peered around the curtain. “She’s laughing.”
Margaret looked. Lisa and the girl were sitting in folding lawn chairs under the ancient magnolia tree in a corner of the yard. The girl held one of the enormous ivory blossoms, occasionally lifting it from her lap to her nose. She stroked the petals against her cheek and chin. Lisa was sitting forward in her chair, talking intensely, as usual. Her dark hair was drawn back into a brisk ponytail, deepening the impression that she was tightly wound and ready to spring. She tapped the girl’s knee, she moved her hands in the air as if she were pulling taffy, she evidently made a point related to the magnolia blossom. The girl nodded. But she didn’t laugh.
“Your hair looks nice.” Kathleen was looking at Margaret, hopefully. But today, Margaret could tell, Kathleen was especially keen on hope. “Who does it again?”
“The mother of one of my students. “
“I should have her do mine.”
“You should.”
Kathleen swallowed this. “Does she charge you?”
“No.”
“Would she charge me?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. You’d have to ask.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”
Margaret nodded. “You’re unbuttoned,” she observed, turning back to the yard. “You must need a larger size.”
Kathleen gasped a tiny “oh” and tossed the TV Guide on the window seat. She worked the button on the blouse, the light blue blouse that was embroidered with images of the Eiffel Tower and various French words. The button popped completely off.
“Oh, this,” Kathleen sighed
In an instant, Margaret could see Kathleen’s hope collapse. It never takes much, she reflected. Kathleen’s green eyes filled.
“I thought I was one size, then another, and now this doesn’t fit. I wish I could keep my sizes straight. All of this—these things—it’s so much harder than I thought.”
Margaret handed her the button. “You’d better go change. They’re coming in.”
“Oh, and I don’t know what else I have—do you—no, I’m so much more bosomy than either of you. Mercy.”
Doors opened and closed all around Margaret. She stood and held out her hand to the young woman being introduced to her as Jennifer Harper from Ohio. Down the hall, drawers slammed.
She was about Lisa’s height—in fact, Margaret considered, she could be Lisa’s younger sister. Dark hair, cut in a bob like that skater from the last Olympics—Dorothy something. Curious, bright eyes and even similar, distressingly pale skin, skin that had prompted Margaret to ask Lisa, when she first met her years ago, at a time when she still worried about things, “Are you ill, my dear?” For a time, it was a joke between them.
“Welcome.” She pressed Jennifer’s hand quickly and let it go. “You’ve come a long way. Did you have a good trip?”
“It’s not so far. My friend has a friend here, and we had some time before school started back again. We’d never been to Washington before. So we counted up our pennies and drove out.”
This is Shooting J. R. by Amy Welborn, published in The New Pantagruel, in May of 2006. Discuss this article in our forum. View all Pages at once. Display a "printer-friendly" version. Send a copy to a friend. Find out who links here. TNP in Technorati. [#539]