Speechless. Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ me and break my spirit. She wants me out, of that much I am sure, and if she sees me as a threat she must sense my potential. Well, bring it on, baby. I am not going anywhere because I embrace my challenges with grace.

      Full of renewed enthusiasm, I burst into our room, only to find it empty. Well, if these speech revisions are so damned important, I’ll deliver them personally into the Minister’s hands. Maybe I’ll even convince her to rehearse them for a change.

      When I knock at the Minister’s door, Margo’s dulcet tones ring out.

      “Who is it?”

      Ignoring the fact that it’s Margo, I carol out, “It’s me, Minister. I brought your revised speeches for tomorrow!”

      “Is that you, Lily? For heaven’s sake, Margo, get up and get the door.”

      “No problem, I’ve got it,” I call, pushing the door open and freezing at the sight of Margo on her hands and knees in front of the Minister.

      “Well, come in, Lily,” says the Minister. “Don’t be shy.”

      Flustered, Margo scrambles to her feet, dropping a bottle of black-cherry red nail polish in a cloud of cotton balls. I’ve interrupted a pedicure. The Minister, quite oblivious to Margo’s dismay, leans back in her chair, smoothing the feather trim of her diaphanous lounge outfit.

      “Be careful,” she says as Margo stumbles over a pair of feathered mules. “Do you realize how much those shoes cost? Lily, what was wrong with the speeches?”

      “Margo made a few changes and sent me into town to—”

      “Some minor but critical edits, Minister,” Margo interrupts smoothly. “Libby was good enough to see they were made.”

      “Thank you, Lily. I hope you got dinner?” Mrs. Cleary masterfully hoists a California roll to her mouth with chopsticks.

      My jaw drops even further. Is she warming up to me? Or just warming up to the open bottle of wine on the table? And where the hell did they get that fine spread of sushi in this backwoods town?

      “I did, yes, thanks.”

      “Well, we have enough to spare if you’d like to—”

      “Libby can’t stay. She has work back in our room,” Margo says, pushing me out the door.

      “This little piggy stills needs polish, Margo,” the Minister says as the door closes behind me.

      Speeches still in hand, I head back to our room, retrieve the remote from under the mattress and flick on the television. Only one channel is clear enough to watch and at the moment it’s running Dukes of Hazzard. I turn down the volume and call my answering machine. It would be nice to hear the voices of family and friends just now.

      “You have no new messages.”

      And the sun sets on another fine day.

      Everything looks better in the morning—or so says my mother, the incurable optimist, who has never met Margo. Still, it is going a little better today. First, I was victorious in the shower wars, thanks to my proximity to the bathroom. I raced in the moment I heard her stirring, and then deliberately took twice as long as usual to style my hair. By the time Margo got her turn, Laurie was knocking on our door to warn us about checkout in ten minutes. Margo chose to spend the ten minutes shovelling scrambled eggs into her mouth and has therefore been running around without makeup, her wet hair drying in pleasing strings. We’re on the plane before she gets a chance to pull her cosmetic bag out of her briefcase.

      Mrs. Cleary, who has been idly flipping through a decorating magazine during the flight instead of reading her speech, wrinkles her perfect little nose and exclaims, “Good Lord, what is that smell?”

      At first, all I smell is her own cloying perfume, but then I detect an acrid odor. The Minister’s gaze is fixed on Margo, who is shrinking behind a green Clinique hand mirror, as she applies her eye makeup.

      “Margo? Answer me, please.”

      “I have no idea, Minister,” my roomie replies, looking guilty as she casually snaps the lid of her briefcase closed with her elbow.

      “Open it,” the Minister commands.

      “My briefcase? Why? There’s nothing in it but notes.”

      “Let me see for myself,” says the Minister, more bemused than harsh.

      “Why don’t I ask the pilot? It smells like chemicals.”

      “Margo, open your briefcase.”

      Margo clicks it open reluctantly to reveal a few date squares from Monday’s school visit, half a tuna sandwich of relatively recent origin and an ancient orange, molded almost beyond recognition.

      “Eeeew!” the Minister and I exclaim in unison. “Get rid of that immediately,” the Minister adds.

      Sheepish, yet defiant, Margo stashes her treasures in the plastic bag I hand her. The Minister turns to me and rolls her eyes dramatically and we both laugh. We are actually having “a moment.” I laugh even harder when I notice that Margo has only applied her makeup to one eye and is looking like a “before and after” picture. Unfortunately, the Minister notices too.

      “Fix your makeup, Margo, we’ll be landing soon.”

      I must look too happy, because she turns to me and says, “As for you, Lily, your eyebrows are unruly. Margo has her waxing kit with her and I recommend letting her help you with them.”

      Margo pauses in the middle of her application of mascara to raise one penciled-in eyebrow at me over the edge of her mirror. How will I sleep tonight?

      Today was the lightest day of the tour circuit and we move into Fort Everest’s Have-a-Nap Hotel by 4:30 p.m. I have rest and relaxation on my agenda, but thankfully, Margo is here to rescue me from that.

      “What we really need, Libby, is a scrapbook of our trip and this would be a great project for you, since you’re so creative. I want you to get started tonight, while it’s all fresh in your mind.”

      And there you have it, folks, the spirit-busting task of the day. I knew she’d punish me somehow for my beautiful moment with the Minister, but this is an inspired move. I lack the “craft” gene and Margo knows it. Time to put my foot down, I decide. Skill with scissors and glue is not required of a speechwriter. I practice the words in my head: “Margo, I’ve worked some long days lately and I really need to take it easy tonight.” But when I open my mouth, waffle-talk trickles out.

      “Well, Margo, I’m not sure if I’m the right person for a job like that. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

      Where’s my father’s legacy now? This is the man who once asked his boss, “Would you like me to shove a broom up my ass and sweep as I go?” Wait, he got fired from that job. Which explains why I soon find myself wandering the aisles of a local dollar store, filling my basket with art supplies from Margo’s list.

      Back at the Have-a-Nap, I begin pasting photos, speeches and programs into the scrapbook. Running my glue stick across the pages is actually quite soothing and I don’t even mind СКАЧАТЬ