Margo

The flour that filled the bakery air muted her bright make-up and settled on her clothes and exposed skin. Clumps of sugar granules stuck in the bottom of her apron pockets and filled the treads of her sneakers. Margo wore the provided white shirt with the bakery name over her right breast. She wore a crucifix given by her boyfriend; as if to sanctify his lust when he was on top of her, he would finger the cross. 

The bakery was a small structure adjacent to the Americana Restaurant to make desserts for the menus and to sell to the patrons walking to their cars. Midday, Margo carried a tray of cream-filled donuts into the restaurant kitchen, where the overlapping aromas of the cooked food gave the rooms the odor of a hotchpotch stew. A cook blocked her path and took the tray from her, brushing against her breast, ignoring the protest in her glaring eyes. The Hispanic kitchen staff and male waiters called Margo ‘tetas,’ she complained to her co-worker and friend Sancha, who was ridiculed for her name: “Hey Sancha, “did you ride your donkey Rucio to work?”  

Margo lived with her parents in a small ranch home south of the bakery, where most residents left early in dark uniforms, starting older cars with unmatching doors and fenders or waited for a bus at the marked streets.  

When her shift ended in the early evening, Margo changed out of the white shirt and into an orange sweater and walked wearily through the parking lot to her ride home while her car was being repaired. The moonless sky was covered by clouds that snuffed out the blinking lights of the evening stars. Periodic beams of arriving and departing cars illuminated the parking lot with blinding headlights that faded quickly as the car turned toward the exit onto Route 54. Margo’s boyfriend sat in his rusted car; cigarette smoke leaked out from the open window on the driver’s side. Brian was tall and lanky, whose constant stoop diminished his height. He got out from the driver’s side; his jeans hung low on his hip. 

She leaned in and kissed him, "Te quiero," Margo said. 

“Te quiedo, tambean,” he answered in mispronounced Spanish, his arms thrown around her and his hands resting on her buttocks. He drove her home with one hand draped over the steering wheel and the other gripping the soft flesh of her thigh. Sancha didn’t like Brian, calling him “Hombre Blanco,” later shortening to 

“Blanco.” 

“Did you look for a job today?” Margo asked him.

"No, I'm still getting unemployment. I'll wait until it's run out."

“What did you do, hang around Philly, the drug dealer, all day?”

“He doesn’t deal; he uses the stuff to chill and sells some to his friends. Why don’t you fix him up with Sancha? She’ll keep him from the stuff.”

“Just like I do you.”

His hand moved up her leg. “I’d like to do you.”

She slapped his hand playfully.

A few days later, Margo left work early; the bakery was slow. Clouds nestled in the sky and droplets leaked from the dark entrails. Parking on the street, she went into the house and called her mother. No answer. She continued calling into the silence as she went through the rooms. She knew her mother wouldn’t leave with no car available. Margo contacted a woman down the street, but her mother wasn't there. Preparing to phone her father, she looked through the front window and watched Brian's car pull into the driveway. She rushed to the door and saw her mother exit from the passenger side carrying a bag with the logo Willie’s Groceries imprinted on the brown paper. Brian got out and opened the rear door to take two more bags from the back seat. Margo grabbed his arm while Brian carried the bags into the house. 

“Why are you here helping my mother?”

“I called your house to find out when you were getting home, and your mother mentioned she was waiting for you or your dad to take her shopping, so I offered."
Margo’s nose crinkled. “I take her shopping; you didn’t have to.”

He answered, his mouth in a half-formed grin. “Maybe I think your mama’s hot.” 
They helped her mother empty the bags and place the contents in the cabinets or the refrigerator. Brian was invited to dinner.

He whispered to Margo, “Can we wait in your room?”

Margo looked at her mother bending over the stove, her dress sliding up the back of her thighs, and turned quickly toward Brian. He shifted his eyes just before 

Margo was fully facing him.   

They went upstairs to her bedroom. Brian looked around the fading pink room at the remnants of her childhood: stuffed animals lined up on the soft chair, a music box on the dresser, frozen in a pirouette, and a frilly-dressed doll leaning on the bed pillows. He looked at a framed drawing of the Virgin Mother on her nightstand.

Heading toward the bathroom with a shirt and jeans over her arm, she said, “I’m going to change out of my uniform.”

“Don’t go in the bathroom to change.”

"You are a horny dude. What's the big deal? You've seen me in my underwear."

“When I do, I feel I own you because no other guy knows you that way.”

“Brian, you’ve been inside me; isn’t that enough? And you don’t own me.” 

Brian lowered his head. “Where’s my picture?” he asked.

Margo smiled, “We put it in the basement to scare the mice.”

“Come on, where is it?”

She reached into the nightstand drawer and took out the silver-framed photo of him squinting at the camera, leaning against the hood of an old car. “When I get mad at you, I put your picture away and replace you with the mother of Jesus. She’s up there more than you.”

Expecting a retort, Margo was surprised when Brian said nothing and, sitting on the bed, stared out the window. 

“You know my mama; when am I going to meet your mother?” she asked. 

“I’ll introduce you, don’t worry. She works crazy hours at the supermarket. She’ll like you, I'm sure. She doesn't like Hispanics because my father ran off with a Mexican woman.”

“Stupido, I’m Hispanic.”

“No, you’re not; you’re Puerto Rican, an American citizen, for god’s sake.”

“Okay, let’s try something else. The Mexican woman your father ran away with; what if she was born in the U.S., would she be an American, too, just like me?”

He looked down, “Yea, I guess so. But your family didn’t sneak over the border.” He put his hand over his mouth, but the corners of his upturned lips and puffy cheeks were visible.

She shook her head and went into the bathroom.

When she came out, Brian was still sitting on the bed, looking out the window at the lone tree in front of the property. 

“You got something on your mind?” Margo asked.

"I heard there are jobs at the warehouse on Willams Street. I will apply tomorrow and make money so we can rent a place with your salary and mine."

She sat down beside him. "If you get the job, if you make good money, and if we can find a place we can afford." She kissed his cheek. "That's a lot of ifs."

"You forgot: if your parents approve, your father won't cut my balls off for taking you away. He doesn’t like me.”

She put her hand on his crotch and laughed. “Nobody’s taking those away. My father likes you; he wants me to quit my job and attend community college. He thinks you . . .”

“Thinks what?”

“You don’t want that for me.” She touched his arm. “I heard him come in; don’t say anything at dinner.”

Brian started to speak, but she pulled him toward the stairs. 

The next night, Brian came to her house, and while they talked, Margo noticed that he was looking away. "What's wrong, mi amante?”

“Huh? Oh, I didn’t get the job. Also, Philly got arrested and wants me to handle his stuff while he lies low. It’s just until the court hearing. His lawyer says he can get him off.”

"Are you crazy? You got a record; they'll put you away if you get caught."

“I didn't do jail time. Besides, it’s just for a little while. I won’t sell to kids or nothing like that, and it’s mostly weed.”

Margo walked away and refused to take his calls for the next few days. The next evening, she picked up the receiver and said, “What do you want?”

“I want to see you and give you something.”

“What is it?”

“I bought a bracelet so you won’t be mad at me. It’s got little diamonds.”

"Brian, how can you afford it? Shit! You bought it with drug money." She hung up, but the receiver bounced off the cradle and fell to the floor, his pleading voice muffed by the shag.
 
A few days later, Sancha called.

“What’s up? I’ll see you in about a half hour at work.”

"Margo, I drove by your boyfriend's home, and there was a police car in front. I pulled over to watch two cops leave the house. His mother came out, and she was crying."

“Did they take Brian?” Her voice was shaking.

“No, they didn’t arrest anyone I could see. But I think the cops are looking for him. What did he do?”

Margo explained how Brian was temporarily handling Philly’s drug sales.

“Oh, shit. I heard some kid died from bad stuff.”

“Sancha, Brian would never sell bad stuff to a kid. It must have been Philly or some other seller.”

“Don’t matter, and maybe Philly told the cops your boyfriend took over his business. He threw Brian under the bus.”

At dinner, Margo was quiet and didn’t respond when her mother asked what was bothering her. After work the next day, she called Brian's home several times but hung up after a few rings. A week later, Brian contacted Margo, and she grabbed the phone before her mother could pick up the receiver.

His voice wavered. “I didn’t sell to no kid. Philly must have. Maybe the kid took too much.”

“Where are you?”

“I won’t tell you. I hear the cops are trying to find me, so best you don’t know. I told my mom I had a girlfriend but never said your name or where you lived. But the police will find out and come to your house.”

“When will I see you again?” Margo asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, sniffling. 

In a few days, a detective knocked on the front door, asked Margo's mother about Brian and requested to speak to Margo. She’d just returned home from work and was still in her uniform when she came down the stairs.

“I told them Brian is a good boy. He helped me bring in the groceries one time,” her mother offered.

Margo said she didn't know where Brian was and that he’d called her from a pay phone once. She didn’t respond when the detective asked her to notify the station when he contacted her again and to encourage her boyfriend to turn himself in.  
Margo never heard from Brian again. 

Margo’s street, like most others in the area, has a distinct sound: the rattle of a loose sewer cover as a bus passed over, the rumble of the car with a perforated muffler, the daily ranting of an unhappy couple leaking through an opened door until silenced by a slam—discordant noise signifying normalcy. The following month, Margo dressed in her bakery outfit, the cotton material stretched over her midsection. The police had returned to ask further questions but lately had stopped arriving at her home. Sancha was seeing a customer who asked for her phone number while she put the pastry inside the bakery bag. Margo no longer wept at night, but the picture of Brian stayed on her night table, and the framed image of the Blessed Virgin was on the stand in the hallway. 

Jim Hanley’s background includes careers in the military, Human Resources, and as an adjunct professor. He has had over ninety short stories published in print and online magazines. Transitioning to the novel, Jim has had six novels published by independent, small publishers.