A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,48
lay back down to sleep.
AT NOON DEREK WAS sitting at his picnic table in a threadbare housecoat, the Saturday Globe and Mail spread before him, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a chipped mug. Betsy’s head appeared over the top of the fence, looking down on him like a mischievous angel.
“Is that your breakfast—coffee and a cigarette?” she asked.
“No. Coffee and a cigarette is what’s popularly known as a whore’s breakfast,” he answered irritably. “Throwing in a newspaper elevates it to an intellectual’s breakfast.”
In a singsong Betsy asked, “How was your Friday night?”
“If you want to be my friend, you need to learn something: Don’t bug me when I’m reading the morning paper.”
“I saw you with someone last night,” Betsy said teasingly. “Is that your girlfriend?”
“Did you hear what I just said?” Derek scowled.
“Is she still inside?”
“No. She turned out to be a head case and I kicked her out. Didn’t you hear the yelling?”
“You kicked her out? In the night time?”
“Screw off, little girl,” Derek muttered. “You hear me? Get lost. I’m sick of looking at you.”
Betsy’s mouth fell open, and the tiny gasp that came from it was the sound of her heart shattering. She dropped from sight behind the fence; seconds later Derek saw her scuttle up the steps to her deck and dash tearfully inside the house. He felt a pang of remorse, and almost called out to her, but in his hung-over mind the urge to apologize was trumped by a fierce desire for peace and quiet, caffeine and nicotine.
AN HOUR LATER HE was still in his housecoat, stalemated against a brutal hangover, stretched out atop the picnic table using his rolled up newspaper as a pillow, snoozing in the sun.
“Hello Derek. Are you awake?”
He opened his eyes and saw Meghan looking at him, from the exact spot Betsy had occupied earlier.
“First the daughter, now mommy dearest,” he muttered darkly, shielding his eyes with the crook of his elbow.
“She doesn’t need to be verbally abused on a Saturday morning.”
“Is that what I did?”
“From what she told me, yes you did. I have enough to worry about without you adding to it.”
Squinting in the sunlight, Derek dragged himself to a sitting position, tugging at his housecoat to keep his privates covered. Meghan caught a glimpse of his thigh and glanced away quickly to avoid having to acknowledge that something might have briefly been on display. Glancing down, Derek satisfied himself that he was decent, then fumbled for a cigarette.
“Here’s my theory of worry, yours to take away at no charge,” he told her. “Physically, we humans are hardly more evolved than our mammalian brethren, but mentally, through some fluke of evolution, we’ve developed a massive consciousness, which compels us to build elaborate empires of worry in our minds. Upon death, like our physical bodies, these worries dissolve into maggot food. Why worry about maggot food?”
“I’m not. I’m worried about my daughter.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Don’t you think your lady under siege is an appropriate metaphor for your own life?”
“I already have a therapist, thank you. She made the same observation, but I’d already thought of it myself. She at least believes me when I tell her what I’ve experienced.”
“She’s paid to dole out sympathy. Or pretend to.”
“Maybe I should pay you then,” Meghan said sharply. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re willing to listen to me, that you haven’t told me to get lost. But it would be so much easier if I thought you believed me.”
“What difference would it make if I did?”
“It would help me a lot. I could pass information to Thomas without you getting all strange about it, and letting me know by smirks and grimaces that you think I’m a freak.”
“This Thomas, what is he like? He looks just like me, correct?”
“His face is the same, but he’s better groomed. He holds himself well. He’s very fit—he spends much of his time in training, for jousts and warfare. So he gets lots and lots of hard exercise. And there’s no junk food in his diet, it’s pretty much coarse bread and meat, from what I’ve seen. So yes, he’s like you, but in better shape, and better turned out. Super-fit people are never slobby, it seems.”
Derek sucked in his paunch and sat up straighter on the picnic table. “I’m actually in pretty good shape for a man of thirty-eight,” he said.
“If you say so,” Meghan answered. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to