A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,12

went back to pretending an interest in the magazine.

“You like soccer, Bets, don’t you?”

“I play soccer. You’re the one that likes it.”

“Listen, Betsy, why don’t you take the ball out in the back yard and—”

“Ha. Have you seen our back yard? It’s not even big enough for anything.”

“Big enough to dribble a ball. See how long you can keep it in the air.”

“I don’t want to.”

Seth’s voice turned suddenly unfriendly. “Betsy. Go outside. Five minutes, I have to talk to your mother.”

Betsy looked from him to Meghan, who hesitated before taking sides.

“It might be better, sweetie.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going.”

“Betsy, give us five goddamned minutes!” Seth blurted out.

Betsy burst into tears. She strode past her father to the back door, threw it open, stepped out onto the deck, turned back and yelled at him. “Why can’t I hear?”

“She’ll tell you about it soon enough,” said Seth. “It’ll be smoother this way.”

“I don’t care about smoother!”

He brought the ball to her, resting it like the world in his palm, but she swatted it away. It rolled back inside into the tangle of chair legs under the kitchen table.

“Did it ever dawn on you that Mommy might like it better if she and I can talk alone for a minute? Think of mommy for a change.”

“You think of mommy! You never think of mommy. You don’t even love her!”

“Five minutes,” Seth insisted. He took the door handle and started to close it against her.

“It’s my house, mine and mommy’s, and you’re pushing me out! It’s not your house, it’s mine!”

“Yes. It’s yours,” Seth said sternly. “In five minutes it’ll be yours again. Outside. Please.”

Betsy stepped out and slammed the door shut behind her as hard as she could. The whole house seemed to shake and reverberate. Meghan opened the door.

“Darling, please. Five minutes. For me. Just to get him out of here. Then we’ll do something fun together.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want. You think of something. Take five minutes to think of something you’d really like to do.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Meghan hated resorting to bribery, but sometimes it’s whatever works. She could see the wheels begin to turn in that ten-year-old head. “Good girl,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

8

Betsy watched through the window of the deck door as her mom and dad moved from the kitchen into the living room.

“Make her buy you a pony.”

She turned. Her neighbour, the man Derek, was in his back yard watching her.

“Don’t look at me,” Betsy said angrily.

“Suit yourself.”

He had a wrench in his hand, but the fence prevented her from seeing what he was working on. He bent down out of sight. She could hear hammering, metal on metal, then cursing. Then more banging, and a grunting noise, the sound a man makes when he can’t get a bolt to let go of its nut. “Fuck it,” she heard him mutter. Then, “Good enough.”

Then he appeared again, looking at her from over the top of the six-foot fence, as if he were standing on a chair. “Come over here, would you?”

She stood still. She had an urge to run back inside the house, but even at the tender age of ten she had her pride, and didn’t want to be dismissed as a child, they way her parents had just done. She wanted to stand her ground. He watched her, waiting for an answer. She stared back at him.

“Cat got your tongue? What’s your name, anyway?”

She almost said it, then didn’t.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were a mute,” he said.

That got her back up. “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she retorted, dressing the words in a child’s snobbery.

“And why’s that?”

“My mother doesn’t like you.”

“Whatever. I’m difficult. Difficult to like, impossible to love, or so I’m told.”

Betsy began to walk in tight circles on the wooden deck. Certain boards underneath her feet made different creaking sounds. She could play them like music. She stopped and looked at him.

“How come you never go to work?”

“Is that your question, or your mother’s? I don’t work. I don’t have to.”

“Everyone has to work,” she told him.

“Wrong. That’s what they want you to think. I have a little nest egg and I dole it out carefully. You can get by on almost nothing if you don’t worry about appearances. I call it creative indolence, or shabby happiness. I’m living it.”

“It sounds weird,” said Betsy.

“I disagree. I think the world is weird, and I’m the sane one. I’m centered, and consistent—compared to me, most people are bipolar.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s just a label.