Page 21 of Margo's Got Money Troubles

“Oh,” Margo said. “Oh, congratulations!”

Shyanne made a kind of throttled cry that would make sense only in the context of sex or sports or maybe gambling. It was the guttural, emotional noise of winning.

“So, do we have your blessing?” Kenny asked.

“Yes, of course,” Margo said, even though the idea of every Thanksgiving and Christmas being ruined by Kenny’s constant, exuberant presence made her sick to her stomach. She looked at her mother, next to her in the booth, who was crying and shaking with happiness. I never want to do this, Margo thought. I never want to marry anybody ever.

And then Kenny stood, looking so determined and embarrassed that it touched Margo. She could see suddenly and swiftly every single time Kenny had been beaten up on the bus or chickened out of talking to a girl. It was as if his middle school self were momentarily superimposed on his middle-aged one. Kenny crouched on the brown carpet of the Applebee’s and pulled out a ring box. He flipped it open.

“Shyanne,” he said, “you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

Margo was aware that the restaurant had paused, that people were watching, and also that Kenny was blocking the aisle. She was tensed for the moment when a server with a big tray would need to get by.

“Yes,” Shyanne cried, fanning her face with her fingers spread wide. “I say yes!”

“Let me finish,” he said.

Margo was looking at the ring, a pink diamond in a cushion cut. Maybe he really did know Shyanne.

“Shyanne, I would be honored if you would let me be the boring to your beautiful, the strong to your delicate, the serious to your silly. Shyanne, will you be my wife?”

“Yes,” Shyanne said, though she was crying so hard only Kenny and Margo could hear her. Kenny slid the ring on her finger. She hugged him and clung to him kneeling there before her, his head smashed awkwardly into her breasts, and the whole restaurant burst into applause.

Well, Margo thought, looking around at all the people clapping. At least they would probably get a free dessert.

Chapter Six

About a week later, the doorbell rang. Bodhi was asleep, and Margo paused to see if he would wake up, but then the knocking started, so she scooted to the door and opened it a crack.

On or off TV, Jinx always wore the same thing: black jeans or leather pants, black turtleneck, black leather blazer. Like some kind of unholy priest. On his long, thin fingers he wore many rings, and he often clasped his hands together in ways that looked strange and artificial. He would fold them up like you fold an umbrella.

He had never called her back, but she always saw Jinx on his terms, and he often showed up unannounced. It wasn’t even that odd that he had his leather duffel bag with him.

“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked, delicately pitching his voice low in case Margo had someone over.

“No, I’m just— You haven’t returned any of my texts in, like, weeks, and I left you a voicemail, did you get it?”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I came as fast as I could. I didn’t have my phone because I was in rehab, they don’t let you have your phone. When I got it back during discharge, I had about a million voicemails. I listened to yours and I drove straight here. Can I come in? I can write you a check right now.”

“Oh,” Margo said. “Um, yeah. But I figured out the money thing, so...” She held the door open for him. She knew her father had been in rehab before. They had always sort of glossed over it. She wondered if this meant things were bad for him.

Jinx ducked slightly as he entered the apartment. “This is nice,” he said.

She hadn’t entirely realized he’d never seen her apartment before. “Do you want something to drink?” Margo asked, and Bodhi began to wail from the back room. “Let me get him, and then I’ll make you some tea or something.”

Jinx loved tea. It started with green tea in Japan. Now he was deep into herbal teas and disgusting drinks made of tree bark, and he could tell you the medicinal properties of plants in great detail, though Margo was never sure whether any of it was real. “Rosehips are just tremendous for inflammation,” he would say, holding a teacup in his folded crane hands.

Margo returned with Bodhi firmly latched on to her left tit. She thought it would be weird nursing in front of her dad, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. “As soon as he’s done, hand him over. He is absolutely precious. He’s amazing, Margo.” Jinx looked at her, and his eyes were glassy with tears.

Margo had a strange feeling of vertigo. This was maybe the first time she’d ever made her father proud, or at least the first time she was aware of it. “So are you in town?” she asked, crossing over to the kitchen to put water on for tea.

“Yes, and on a semipermanent basis, I think,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Mayhem is retired now,” he said.

Margo had known Murder and Mayhem her whole life, and a visiting Jinx had often meant a visiting Mayhem, Mayhem being much more interested in hanging out with little kids than Murder. Before he got into wrestling, Murder had been an enforcer in some L.A. street gang. That was how he got his ring name, from actually murdering people.

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