Library Card

 

A selection of novels, stories of imaginary worlds, were stacked into a neat pile on the counter. The librarian slid Margo’s dated, worn library card across the counter.

“I’m sorry, Margo. It’s expired.”

The library card was the only piece of paper with Margo’s name. It was confirmation she had actual ownership of something.

 “Can you un-expire it?” Margo knew it was a long shot.

 “Yes.” But this time, unfortunately, Margo, you have to pay the two-dollar fee.”

~~

Margo called for her mother, putting aside the used, empty Woolworths bag intended to be returned full of literature. “Gail!”

No answer. Gail doesn’t like when her daughters call her by her first name. Perhaps it explained the lack of response.

The house had an unusual stillness as it was typical: someone was shouting, stomping or demanding something, which was usually Darcy—Margo’s sister. What Darcy asked, Darcy received. As in Matthew 7:8, for everyone who asks, receives. Though, in Darcy’s case, she didn’t ask. Darcy demanded. Darcy expected it. Darcy felt entitled.

 Just as when Darcy demanded a pair of L.A. Gear. In her defence, all her other friends had them—so she had to have them. How her mother had paid for them, Margo wasn’t sure. So, Darcy stomped and shouted in her new trendy sneakers. Margo suspected that something else or some other materialistic reason dictated Darcy’s future demands and tantrums.

Margo pulled out a cushion from the couch. She pushed her bony fingers in between the grooves and slid them around the tight corners in search of loose coins. Her fingers brushed off a coin. Maybe a dime? A quarter?

“What are you doing? Christ! You’re making a mess, Margo.”

 “Sorry, mom.” Margo replaced the cushions into their original setting.

Gail turned to the kitchen. Margo followed behind. “Mom, mom—”

“What is it, Margo?”

“I need to renew my library card.”

“Then renew it. Why are you telling me?”

“I can’t. I have to pay two dollars.”

Dishes clattered. Cupboard doors slammed. Gail scooped the spoons off the kitchen table. With a pile of silver gripped in her hand, aiming and pointing it at Margo.

“You girls better start cleaning up after yourselves.” She threw the spoons into the sink, smashing off the other filthy plates and bowls.

“Look at that!” Gail pulled a bowl from the dirty pile in the sink. Margo investigated the bowl of leftover cereal and milk.

“The milk, for heaven sakes. There’s still milk left in the bowl. You supposed to drink what’s left of the milk—still good milk—it’s a waste—pure waste. Kids in those poor countries, Africa or God knows where starving to death, and here you damn girls throwing out good milk.”

Gail insisted that all poor, starving children are only from Africa. Africa isn’t a country. It’s a continent, which Margo tried to correct her one time on geography as they were watching one of those programs about a poverty-stricken country, where it only cost one cup of coffee a day to save a child’s life.

“Mom, can I please have two dollars?”

“What the hell you want two bucks for?”

“I just told you to renew my library card.”

“Is that what they are charging today? Christ sakes, I can get a two-litre of milk for that, and maybe more.”

“Mom.” Margo sat at the kitchen table, and her chin rested in hand.

“I don’t have it. And don’t you start. Darcy’s been giving me trouble all morning, going on about wanting money again for a new pink banana clip and going on about money for the school dance tonight. What kind of name is a hair clip anyway, banana—”

“Doesn’t she already have lots of accessories?”

“Well, apparently, she doesn’t have the pink ones like her other friends have.”

“But, Gail…”

“I just told you. I don’t have it. And don’t call me Gail. What’s it with you lately calling me by my first name. I’m not your best friend. It’s mom, mother.”

Margo didn’t have a best friend. But she knew that wasn’t the point.

“But, you just got your welfare cheque a few days ago.”

“Yeah, and where do you think that went? We need food, didn’t we? You girls need new socks and underwear, didn’t yeah? Can’t have you going around with the heel torn out of your socks and holes in your underwear. I do have some pride, yeah know.”

Gail reached for her coat draped over the kitchen chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To make a phone call.”

“The phone’s cut again?”

“Yes, having heat and electricity was more important this month.”

“Whom you calling?”

“Never mind, who.”

“Whom.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you correcting me again?”

It was a rhetorical question. And Margo knew what rhetorical meant. It was another word found by accident in Margo’s ‘surprised word of the day.’ A game she played with a dictionary rested open on her lap as she closed her eyes, allowing her finger to guide, anticipated another discovery into language, a newly discovered word.

The house grew silent—no loud voices, no aggressive tones, words, nor opinions. The only sound came from the subtle splash of warm soapy dishwater and a gentle clang of the dishes as Margo organized the clean plates and bowls into the plastic dish tray. She reached for the last of the clean bowls, pushed her hand, hard, inside the dish to ensure to remove any possible moisture. She placed the dry bowl into the top cupboard, cling.

A cup of loose change? She reached her hand further in the far corner of the cupboard. She discovered a cup of money.

Pennies. 

Digging her fingers into the bottom of the plastic cup, she discovers, buried deep amongst the copper, was silver. Not nickels nor dimes, even better—quarters.

“Yes!” She squeezed the two quarters in her palm. Then quickly secured her findings in her pocket. A door slammed. Someone descended the stairs.

 Stomp, stomp.

Darcy.

Darcy, hand on hip, crimped hair tied up to one side in a neon green banana clip. “Where’s mom?”

“Probably across the street—Mr. Spears—making a phone call.” Margo hauled the rubber plug from the sink. The water raced down into the drain while excess suds remained.

“What? Why she…?” Darcy reached for the phone mounded on the kitchen wall. She grabbed the receiver, then slammed it back in its cradle.

“Fuck. Now, how are the Bursey sisters gonna call me now?”

Darcy had been swearing a lot more lately, more than usual, since she’d been hanging out with the Bursey twins. Words, which Margo hasn’t heard of. Like the word, cunt. The sound of the word feels sharp—short—immediate, far from elegant. She tried searching the dictionary, and the only word that had come close was cunning.

Cunning: having or showing skill in achieving one’s end by deceit or evasion.  

Cunning seemed like a fitting description for Darcy. Perhaps Darcy’s cunning abilities had manifested her new footwear.

 “Why are you doing the dishes? Did mom give you money for that?”

“Because I am. And, no. She didn’t give me money.”

Darcy leaned over the sink, moved in closer. “Oh, so you’re doing at the goodness of your heart. God, you’re so lame.” Darcy smacked her in the back of the head. Margo’s ponytail flipped. She raised her arm out. “Stop it! Get away from me.”

Darcy, with a sly grin. “Loser.”

 “Mom’s not gonna give you money for your stupid, lame banana clip.“

Darcy swung around and pointed her finger. “You shut your mouth.”. “Besides, I get what I want.” She poked her index finger hard against Margo’s shoulder blade. 

“Stop it!” And without a second thought, Margo grabbed onto Darcy’s banana clip, hauling it down hard.

“Ow!” The plastic teeth of the clip were pulling, dragging, digging into Darcy’s hair strains. “Ow…let…go!”

The clip snapped clean in half.

Margo held the faulty clip. She ran for the front door. Her sister cried. “You little…” Darcy’s was advancing. “You little bitch!”

Now—outside—across the street, Margo appeared to be out of harms’ way. Knotted hair Darcy stood in the front doorway, tears streamed down her face, as she held the other half of the hair clip.

Gail, poking her head out of Mr. Shears’ kitchen window. She’s holding a dishrag, wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “What the hell is going on down there? Margo, you getting your sister worked up again? Christ sakes, making a scene. Someone may call the cops, or child services, the way she’s screaming. You swore someone’s being murdered.”

“I’m not doing anything. Margo called above. She started it.”

 “Get in here. Mr. Shears wants you to run to the store for him. Good lord, those two today.” Gail muttered as she closed the kitchen window.

Margo stood in Mr. Spears’ kitchen. “Why are you mopping Mr. Shears’ kitchen floor?” Margo asked.

“Why? Ten dollars is why.” Gail dumped the mop back into the bucket, hauling it out. She rang out the excess water, slapped it onto the floor, moving it back and forth. “You’re in my way, Margo. Go out to the living room. Mr. Shears wants you.”

Mr. Shears rested in his recliner with an empty teacup and the tv clicker. He pulled out from his wallet a two-dollar bill. “I need a box of tea bags, sugar. Now, they have to be the sugar cubes. Don’t forget.”

“Yes…I mean, no, I won’t forget.” Margo removed the bill from his fingers.

“And when you get back,” I’ll have a little reward for your troubles.”

A cash reward?

~~

Margo closed her eyes with a copy of the Oxford Dictionary open to the M’s, allowing her index finger to choose the word of the day. She discovers monaural: adj. 1. of sound reproduction in which one source of sound is used. She followed her finger to the word below: monetary adj. 1. of the coinage or currency of a country; 2. of money.  Margo looked at the four coins placed on her bedside table. The two additional quarters were added to her small fortune, payment for the errand she ran for Mr. Shears. She toyed with the coins in her between her fingers. Her monetary gain for books, stories, imaginary worlds was slowly coming along—too slow.

A knock came from the front door. Margo’s curiosity pulled her to the bedroom window to investigate. There was a couple. Two women. She has seen them before. The same couple arrived the same every Saturday at 3:45 pm.

“Mom! It’s the Jehovah’s Witness at the door.”

“What? Watcha say?”

“Jehovah Witness — it’s Lindsay and Patricia.”

A mix of female voices filled the house. “Gail, hi, how are you?” Possibly, Patricia.

“Come, come,” Gail said. “Oh, don’t mind your shoes…no, no, don’t fuss…told you before… it’s fine, keep your shoes on. Come on in.”

At the top of the landing, Margo eavesdropped on an adult conversation. There was something curious yet disingenuous about adult interaction. At least, what she learned from her mother’s behaviour. Like how her mother’s demeanour shifted when in the company of other adults, anyone that appeared to be of higher social status. Maybe it gave Gail a sense of importance, a sense of pride in being in the presence of someone other than her kind. That was others with lustrous hair, respectful clothing (as Gail had perceived), and clean language with subtle tones. Perhaps Gail simply wanted to engage in ‘adulting,’ interacting in adult conversation.

So, when Lindsay and Patricia visited, there was a new Gail. Though only temporarily. A short-lived Gail pulled out her china teacups, which her late mother had given her. The story how the china that Gail never grew tired in telling. It seemed to be the only story she told that gave her a sense of significance.

A copy of the Watchtower was on the kitchen table. Margo picked it up. This week’s issue discusses A Way to Happiness. Last week was When Disaster Strikes. “Where’s the sugar bowl? Gail searched the cupboards.

“Here.” Margo placed the sugar bowl on the tray with the cups of tea. Gail rummaged through the pantry. “Where’s that box of powered cream donuts. I swore there were a couple left.”

“Darcy ate them.” Margo flipped through the publication.

“When?”

“Yesterday, she shared the last of the two with the Bursey twins.”

“Figures,” Gail collected a tray. “Those damn Bursey sisters.” She carried the tray of tea toward the living room.

A partition divided the living room and kitchen, with an opening of a cut-out window. The view from the living area hid a narrow view, seeing only the top of Margo’s head bent down and the worn cupboards that needed a fresh coat of paint. Margo slapped through the pages. What is the way to happiness?

A purse placed on the counter was one of the women’s. Not her mother’s. Gail rarely carried a purse. When she had it, she usually carried her money, balled up and shoved it into a coin purse. The purse was slightly open, with bills peeking out: a five-dollar bill, ten-dollar bill, and a single dollar bill.

Margo peered into the living room., Gail was caught up in telling her story. The ladies appeared interested. Gail was at the part where her mother’s china wear was almost seized at Canadian customs because it wasn’t declared on the declaration card.  Gail suspected that her mother was charged a small fine for failing to do so. But Gail may exaggerate that part of the story to create a dramatic effect in her narrative because it was another version, which Margo wasn’t aware of.  

Margo eyed the purse. The single dollar bill peeked out further than the other bills. Her hand crept toward the purse until she had her fingers on the target. Glancing up to keep on guard—and with caution—Margo slid the dollar bill from the opening. When she secured the contents inside, Margo squeezed her hand, creating a tight fist.

“Darling, where are you going?” Gail asked. “Come…come here for a second.”

“No, I have to go to—”

“Mar-rr-go, I’ve asked you to come here, please.”

 “Here.” Gail rummaged through her coin purse. “I know you wanted some money for your library card. How much was it again? Two bucks? A dollar—?”

“Well, isn’t that precious,” Patricia said. “You like to read, Margo? It’s so lovely to see the young ones read—”

“And literature is fundamental to a child’s development,“ Lindsay added. “You sure have a supportive mother.”

Gail beamed with pride. “She always got her nose in a book, Lindsay. “Every time I turn around, one couldn’t pyre it away from her.” The adults laughed simultaneously.

Margo’s cheeks burn. She squeezed her fist.

“Don’t have to do that, Mom.”

“Now, don’t be modest.” Gail grabbed Margo’s free hand, stuffed the bill in her palm, closing her fingers shut, creating another tight fist, securing another small fortune inside.

“Now, you go on.”

~~

The extra dollar got Margo three powered cream donuts and two strawberry lollipops. She placed down her purchases along with her library books on her bed, Little Prince, Little Women, Little House on the Prairie and Charlotte’s Web. From her back pocket, she drew her new library card. Margo sniffed the newly fresh paper, feeling the fresh card in between her fingers. She admired her name written in fresh black ink: Margo Wilkins.

Downstairs, Gail was preparing dinner. The kitchen came to life as dishes clanged, the oven door creaked open, receding with a bang as Gail lift a heavy plate out. Darcy pleaded with her mother, thinking that now she had a stronger case to get a new clip—as she held a piece of her broken banana clip as evidence—in convincing Gail she deserved a new banana clip. Her argument was weak, as Gail didn’t comply and turned the subject around about Darcy, the last of the powered creme donuts. Darcy claimed it was Margo who took the last donuts.

Gail was not convinced.

Margo turned to her selection of books and chose The Little Prince from the small pile. Soon the voices downstairs absorbed into the background temporarily become white noise. Margo bit into the donut and left powered residue on her lips. She fell deep into another story, deeper into another imaginary world, this time, one she had yet discovered. She was eager to know, who’s this little Prince? What adventures will he take? What worlds will the little Prince explore? And whom will he meet along his journey?

Margo felt a reaching hand.

Darcy.

Margo’s lips revealed evidence of white sugar powder. Darcy’s eyes were swollen, tightening lips, and she snatched the brown paper bag with the remaining donut. Margo watched her sister leave the room, slamming the door behind.

There was no ‘battle of donuts.’ Instead, Margo allowed her sister to pirate the pastry. It was slightly stale anyway.

Margo returned to her imaginary world. But only for a little while, until Margo would eventually return to the stark reality of her outside world. A reality where hair clips were held in high regard, the retold story of the china teacups. And the reality where Margo was a thief but justified. Margo had to do it. She had no other choice. Nobody got hurt. Nobody would ever know. Or could they?

Margo followed the narrative, once again chased words across the page.