Page 19 of Margo's Got Money Troubles

“Just not here,” Elizabeth said. Her lipstick was the exact shade of pink as her skirt suit, and Margo imagined an entire closet of clothes, all a vibrant raspberry sorbet, like a rich-lady version of Batman, though she knew it was too good to be true. Elizabeth looked like the sort of woman who also wore beige.

How was it possible to hate the person who was saving you?

“Sure,” Margo said.

“So, you agree?” Elizabeth asked, almost incredulous. Had she expected Margo to argue? That was the only inkling Margo had that she might be getting taken advantage of in some way. She hadn’t put it together that this was not a lot of money for these people, that she could have asked for twice as much and Elizabeth wouldn’t have balked. Margo had Mark’s whole life in her power. She could end his career, destroy his marriage, ruin his reputation. The Me Too movement was everywhere, all around them, in the news every single day. A year ago, Mark would never have been fired for sleeping with a student. Now everything was changing. The past bulged and contorted beneath a new lens. It was beginning to seem as if even the once whorish Monica Lewinsky had only been a poor intern taken advantage of by the president of the United States. Men were being pilloried, men were being canceled, men were going to lose everything!

But it was beyond Margo then, that long-ago Margo, to imagine that $50,000 wasn’t a lot of money to someone.

Mainly, she thought Elizabeth, Larry, and Mark had arranged all of this on the assumption that Margo was some low-class, immature girl who might get mad and call Mark’s dean on a lark or show up at his house for drama’s sake. Margo could have told them she would never do this. But now her survival depended on them believing she could.

So she signed everywhere they told her, too embarrassed to actually read it right then in front of them. When she got back to her car, she stuffed the contracts in the glove box. She didn’t want to look at them. They seemed almost dirty. The check she drove immediately to the bank to deposit. She’d never had a bank balance higher than $500 before. It seemed like so much money. She worried the teller might challenge her, accuse her of forging or stealing it somehow. Margo signed the back and handed it over, and the teller said, “Is that all?”

I can still see her, that Margo, floating back to her purple Honda Civic, so numb inside, almost shell-shocked. She wasn’t sure what she should do next. Bodhi had miraculously fallen asleep, so she went to the Arby’s drive-through, ordered two Classic Beef ’n Cheddar sandwiches, and ate them both in the car while he slept. As the fat hit her bloodstream, she realized she was extremely happy. She had $15,000. Yes, she felt gross and degraded, but she had done it. She’d saved them.

I like getting to be the me now watching the past me. It’s almost a way of loving myself. Stroking the cheek of that girl with my understanding. Smoothing her hair in my mind’s eye.

Margo was dreading the dinner with Kenny. Shyanne had arranged it after she finally told him that her daughter had a baby.

“Fine,” Margo had said. “Where are we going?”

“Applebee’s,” Shyanne said, “so dress nice but not too nice.”

Margo received the message. Shyanne was a big believer in dressing for the job and usually spent more time agonizing over the outfit she’d wear than what she would say in any situation. She’d coached Margo her whole life on the science and art of communicative clothing. Shyanne wanted Margo to dress in such a way that Kenny would know she’d tried and considered this a special occasion, without making him feel embarrassed that he hadn’t taken her somewhere nicer.

“Worn to death?” she asked. Shyanne had a belief that wearing one item that showed visible signs of wear inspired sympathy in people because you were clearly doing your best with what you had.

“Maybe that little black cardigan with the pilling,” Shyanne said.

“Or I could do old tank top, nicer sweater?”

“He’s not that detail oriented.”

“Okay, can do. What time?”

It was only once they were seated in the Applebee’s that Margo realized with delight that they would be eating. Margo had always been mildly gluttonous, mostly because she could afford to be. She honestly wasn’t sure what she’d have to do to put on weight, but certainly the occasional chili dog or Cheez-It orgy wasn’t going to do it. Nursing had brought her appetite to new radiant heights. She looked at the full-color photos of the Applebee’s menu like it was a rich-people Christmas catalog. The riblets glittered darkly, and the fried shrimp seemed to sparkle with promised crunch. Margo’s mouth flooded with saliva. “Do you think we should get an appetizer?”

“I don’t know,” Shyanne said.

“Margo, I want you to know,” Kenny said, “that this meal is my treat, and you can order whatever you like, no expense spared.”

He smiled at her warmly. Maybe because of the sheer number of dinners Mark had bought her, she had a sudden flash of wondering what Mark and Kenny would make of each other and almost laughed out loud. She pictured something instantaneous, a chemical reaction, both men completely dissolved into foam within seconds.

“We don’t need an appetizer,” Shyanne said.

“Maybe you don’t need one, you’re about to order a margarita the size of your head, but I need one,” Margo said.

“Margo!” Shyanne said sharply. “You know I don’t drink!”

Margo froze. “Oh,” she said, “I guess I forgot?”

Kenny laughed. “That’s quite all right,” he said.

She didn’t know what he meant. Was it all right that obviously Shyanne did drink and was pretending not to drink to please him, or all right for Margo to have forgotten a basic fact about her own mother?

“What looks good to you, Margo?” he asked.

“Nachos or wings,” she said.

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