6:30 p.m.: Margo decides that the Minister needs contact lens solution and sends Lib to town to buy it. Lib picks up submarine sandwich en route, dazzling “sandwich technicians” with curls.
9:00 p.m.: E-mail to Rox, bitching and whining.
10:30 p.m.: To bed, too exhausted to read.
11:00 p.m.: Margo crashes into room, turns on all lights. Consumes butter tarts with snuffling noises. Prepares for bed as loudly as possible.
12:00 a.m.: Lib lies awake listening to Margo snore.
Another day, another town, another school visit. It’s 7:00 p.m., and we’ve just checked into the Downtown Motor Lodge, which (surprise) is a twenty-five-minute drive from downtown anywhere. I feel at home immediately, because the rust, orange and brown decor is reminiscent of my parents’ basement. Having gained a small head start on Margo, I switch on the swag lamp and throw my things on the bed closest to the washroom. I’m stretched proprietarily across it when Margo crashes into the room and I smile innocently in response to her glare. There was a candy machine in the lobby; maybe I’ll curl up with a bag of pretzels and watch mindless sitcoms on TV. That’s about all I feel up to tonight. I hide the remote while Margo unloads her beauty aids in the washroom, then start digging through my wallet for change.
“So, Libby.” Damn. It speaks. “I’ve made some revisions to tomorrow’s speeches. I want you to input the changes and have them printed.”
I look at my watch pointedly before responding. “And where do you propose I do that, Margo? It’s almost 7:30 and we aren’t in the heart of a thriving metropolis.”
“It isn’t my job to help you figure out how to do yours. I’m sure you’ll find a way. I’ll be in Mrs. Cleary’s room if anyone needs me.”
I throw my shoe at the door as she closes it behind her. Okay, I wait a few beats first so she can’t hear the thud, but the act of defiance still makes me feel better. I input her changes, which, in my humble opinion as speechwriter/lady-in-waiting/flunky, were completely unnecessary, and head over to the motel office, computer disk in hand. My faint hope that someone there can help with the printing flickers when I find Dwayne, the night manager, hunched over the front desk crafting a Gents sign with a wood-burning kit. But he surprises me.
“Sure, we have a printer, honey. Come on in.”
At this rate, I may even be able to catch the second half of Will and Grace. My heart sinks when I see the primitive piece of junk they call a printer. I explain politely that my disk is not compatible with their printer and Dwayne directs me to a place in town that can do the job. I collect the keys to the government “limo” from Bill, who’s ensconced in his room with a detective novel and a large pizza. He offers to come along for the ride, but fraternizing with Laurie is what set Margo off in the first place, so I decline.
During the drive, I imagine all the ways I could tell Margo to shove it. If the copy shop is closed when I arrive, I’ll head right back to the motel and compose a snotty resignation letter, I decide. Oh, right, no way to print it. Fortunately, the shop is open and I am soon on the road again, having surmounted another of Margo’s obstacles. Hard not to feel good about that! I perk up even more when the Golden Arches appear on the horizon— I do deserve a break today. And how nice to discover a new talent on my drive back to the motel… Like my father before me, I am able to eat a Big Mac with one hand and steer with the other. Since I’m starting to feel quite good about myself, I chant my affirmations between bites: “I am an accomplished speechwriter. I embrace my challenges with grace. I accept all the blessings the universe offers me.”
Then I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and burp. What the hell?
The extra duties Margo assigns me are obviously part of her scheme to isolate me and break my spirit. She wants me out, of that much I am sure, and if she sees me as a threat she must sense my potential. Well, bring it on, baby. I am not going anywhere because I embrace my challenges with grace.
Full of renewed enthusiasm, I burst into our room, only to find it empty. Well, if these speech revisions are so damned important, I’ll deliver them personally into the Minister’s hands. Maybe I’ll even convince her to rehearse them for a change.
When I knock at the Minister’s door, Margo’s dulcet tones ring out.
“Who is it?”
Ignoring the fact that it’s Margo, I carol out, “It’s me, Minister. I brought your revised speeches for tomorrow!”
“Is that you, Lily? For heaven’s sake, Margo, get up and get the door.”
“No problem, I’ve got it,” I call, pushing the door open and freezing at the sight of Margo on her hands and knees in front of the Minister.
“Well, come in, Lily,” says the Minister. “Don’t be shy.”
Flustered, Margo scrambles to her feet, dropping a bottle of black-cherry red nail polish in a cloud of cotton balls. I’ve interrupted a pedicure. The Minister, quite oblivious to Margo’s dismay, leans back in her chair, smoothing the feather trim of her diaphanous lounge outfit.
“Be careful,” she says as Margo stumbles over a pair of feathered mules. “Do you realize how much those shoes cost? Lily, what was wrong with the speeches?”
“Margo made a few changes and sent me into town to—”
“Some minor but critical edits, Minister,” Margo interrupts smoothly. “Libby was good enough to see they were made.”
“Thank you, Lily. I hope you got dinner?” Mrs. Cleary masterfully hoists a California roll to her mouth with chopsticks.
My jaw drops even further. Is she warming up to me? Or just warming up to the open bottle of wine on the table? And where the hell did they get that fine spread of sushi in this backwoods town?
“I did, yes, thanks.”
“Well, we have enough to spare if you’d like to—”
“Libby can’t stay. She has work back in our room,” Margo says, pushing me out the door.
“This little piggy stills needs polish, Margo,” the Minister says as the door closes behind me.
Speeches still in hand, I head back to our room, retrieve the remote from under the mattress and flick on the television. Only one channel is clear enough to watch and at the moment it’s running Dukes of Hazzard. I turn down the volume and call my answering machine. It would be nice to hear the voices of family and friends just now.
“You have no new messages.”
And the sun sets on another fine day.
Everything looks better in the morning—or so says my mother, the incurable optimist, who has never met Margo. Still, it is going a little better today. First, I was victorious in the shower wars, thanks to my proximity to the bathroom. I raced in the moment I heard her stirring, and then deliberately took twice as long as usual to style my hair. By the time Margo got her turn, Laurie was knocking on our door to warn us about checkout in ten minutes. Margo chose to spend the ten minutes shovelling scrambled eggs into her mouth and has therefore been running around without makeup, her wet hair drying in pleasing strings. We’re on the plane before she gets a chance to pull her cosmetic bag out of her briefcase.
Mrs. Cleary, who has been idly flipping through a decorating magazine during the flight instead of reading her speech, wrinkles her perfect little nose and exclaims, “Good Lord, what is that smell?”
At first, all I smell is her own cloying perfume, but then I detect an acrid odor. The Minister’s gaze is fixed on Margo, who is shrinking behind a green Clinique hand mirror, as she applies her eye makeup.
“Margo?