Yet another unfortunate
consequence of my parents divorcing was the introduction of Margaret
into my young life. Margaret, the mother of the man considered my
stepfather, became my mother's mother-in-law shortly after she
divorced my father.
A woman in her eighties and
me a single digit, I remember the first meeting as if it was
yesterday. My mother, her husband, Margaret, and I all crammed
around a metal table awkwardly placed between the refrigerator and
back door of this stuffy worn house. Margaret had thinning grey hair
which she repeatedly patted with gnarled fingers, thick glasses which
magnified her shifty eyes, and teeth which periodically sought escape
from her mouth before she somehow lassoed them back in with her
tongue. My mother told me not to stare, but I found it difficult not
to glance her way during a breakfast of fried eggs, salty bacon, and
toast with unevenly spread butter. Not having much of anything to
say to anyone, I ate silently while listening to my mother agree with
everything the man said and to the clicking of Margaret's teeth on
their perpetual journey from inside her mouth to outside her mouth
and back again. Finished with my plate, my mother asked if I cared
for more bacon. Before I had a chance to nod my head in agreement,
Margaret shoved the paper towel lined porcelain plate of bacon in my
direction with the remark, “Go ahead, Piggy! Eat it all!”
Surprised by the sudden clanking of plates, I sat perfectly still
frightened by this old woman's outburst.
In the months and years to
follow, more Margaret tantrums ensued when least expected. One time
while on leave from her nursing home, the man bathed Margaret in the
only tub in the house. She somehow escaped the bathroom half dressed
yelling someone or so and so was after her. Too engrossed in my
television program in the next bedroom, this was usually the time I
increased the volume.
My mother and this man liked
to what I refer to as “dump” Margaret on me for extended periods
of time. With the one television in the house being in the guest
bedroom upstairs, one could sit on the hard bed or in the wooden
rocking chair. With Margaret with me, I had no choice but to sit on
the side of the bed with the maroon bedspread. While watching Hee
Haw or whatever
happened to be on these Saturday evenings, Margaret would rock and
mumble horrible sentiments about me and my mother under her breath.
Since I knew it would be hours before my mother would take a break
from her smoking and listening to country music with the man in order
to climb the creaky stairs to check on me, I decided one night to
simply gaze at Margaret. I could sense Margaret knew I was doing it,
but I did not care because I knew no one would believe her if she
told. To me, this man and his mother were nutty, and I despised
every minute I had to spend with them in this
twenty-four-hour-shades-drawn house.
When the man was at work, my
mother's solution to her mother-in-law situation was to jump on
Margaret's furniture. This was the same furniture in the same
arrangement as when Margaret lived in the house and raised her two
sons, one being the man. Finally, though, my mother's sofa assaults
came to a conclusion with Margaret's passing as well as my being
called by names eponymous with farm animals.
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