Chapter 7

Sophia returned to Central Park South with the still-exuberant feeling that she had won an enormous battle. She unlocked the front door with the key Blossom had given her and was surprised to see so many lights on. Maybe Larry Barker had brought Margo home and maybe he was still here. As the ugly image of Keith McClure disappeared from her mind, the handsome likeness of Larry Barker took its place. On and off she'd thought of the young director today, never permitting herself any extended thoughts, though, that would serve to entrench him in her being. He was Margo's fellow, and she was determined to remember that.

Locking the door after her, she slipped out of her coat, just in time to hear a door (probably Margo's) open quickly. Margo's voice cried out shrilly, "Beat it, you tenth-rate Cole Porter! Who needs yuh?"

A male voice Sophia didn't recognize called back, "You're insane! One of these days I'm going to read in The Mirror that they've carted you off to the loony bin!"

The door slammed shut and almost immediately a thin, wiry young man came dashing down the hall, scowling, his eyes ablaze. He saw Sophia but seemed to be unaware of her. Cursing, he hurried to the front door, unlocked it, stormed out, and slammed it after him.

"Go fly a coupla kites!" screamed Margo.

Deeply disturbed, Sophia ran up the hall to the bedroom. She didn't stop to knock. She opened the door.

"Marg?"

Her sister was sitting upright on the bed, her legs folded Yoga-style beneath her, in much the same way Sophia had seen her this morning, with the additional props now of a negligee and, in her hand, a glass.

Sophia began to speak her name again, then saw she was drunk.

"And furthermore, if you know what's good for you, you'll-" Margo blinked dully at Sophia, paused, then smiled slyly.

"Oh, it's you."

"Marg, are you all right?"

"Glowing."

"Who-was that?"

Innocently, Margo inquired, "Who was who?"

"That man."

"Oh, that's the boy who comes to read the gas meter."

Sophia took a tentative step forward, still not quite a part of this home, still certainly not as secure with her own sister as she wanted to be.

"Hitting it that hard?" she asked Margo, indicating the glass.

"Mmmm. With rabbit punches. Le'see. You were at a party tonight, right? At Lord High Executioner McClure's, right? And there was no one else there but you two, right?"

"But how did you know?"

"Because he's pulled that party gag on every girl under seventy-two. Did you get away reasonable intact?"

"More than reasonable. Perfectly."

"'Ray for our side. I would've told you 'head o' time, but I got home too late."

There was an awkward silence, Sophia not knowing if she should be seriously concerned or if she should be as flippant as Margo was obviously trying to be. Margo, too, was silent; whether it was because of the strange young man, Sophia couldn't judge.

Finally Sophia broke the ice. "I'd-better turn in, Marg. You get some sleep."

"Baby ... "

"Yes?"

Margo's eyes had a faraway look. Maybe she was entirely sober; maybe she'd merely been feigning drunkness for the effect it would give. Sophia considered it. Margo was the finest girl on earth, but she did often say and do things for effect. Now Sophia, moving to the foot of the bed, tried to adjust herself to seeing her sister in a newer light, and it was hard. Sophia had thought of her sister in terms of perfection, but gradually a new, perhaps more realistic, picture of Margo was coming through.

"Baby ... tell me things about Whoozis, your grocer from Willetsville."

Sophia sat on the bed and frowned. George March! Could it have been only last night that their engagement had been broken? Yes, that was right. Today was to have been their wedding day.

"What can I tell you? You remember George. You know the whole March family."

"The March family...." Margo said reflectively. "Queerest thing. Everything from Willetsville is one big blotchy blur to me. I can hardly even remember Dad; isn't that awful? Shows you it's possible to escape from your background. Six easy lessons; take Margo's Magic Elixir. You escape by the simple process of forgetting and setting your mind to forgetting." She laughed hollowly. "Baby, if you could do things again ... if you could marry this guy and have the guarantee served to you on a silver platter that everything would go fine and dandy and all the unpleasantness could be blotted out ... would you go back?"

"... No."

Margo grinned and took her hand. "Wonderful. That's a wonderful answer, baby. Never go back. Don't ever go back once you've left. Anywhere, anything. Even if things here and now and tomorrow are a million times tougher, face them. But don't ever go back."

"Marg, who was that man?"

"What man?" Margo barked irritably.

"The gas-meter man."

"Oh. An old flame. Somewhat flickered."

"He was here ... in this room."

"That's right. You shocked?"

"Well, you talked about Larry Barker. I thought he was a big case with you."

"He is."

"Then?"

"Then, then! Don't cross-examine me!"

"I'm sorry."

"No, Sophia, you're not. You're a sweet kid and you'd give your life, or some of it, for me, but you're not sorry. You want to know what makes Margo Holland tick, just like everyone else."

"I don't like to see you suffer."

"Ho. I should learn to keep my trap closed. I used to be so skillful at hiding what I truly felt underneath. Now I guess it's coming out in the wash. Know what I think?

I think if there was any justice in life and all things were equal and the right pairs got together, I'd be Mrs. Keith McClure now. Or he'd be Mr. Margo Holland, depending on how one looks at it. We're the same stripe. We both whine and call attention to ourselves. Way down deep we're both self-pitying meatballs. Toil not, neither do we spin. Like the fella says." She poised the glass to her lips.

"That gas-meter man," she continued somberly, "is a faceless, formless male, that's all. Someone to keep the loneliness away for an hour. But it didn't work. It never works...."

"Marg...."

"No, not a word. This is all as embarrassing as the devil. Go to bed, Sophia. Sleep well. You're a working girl now. I didn't even ask you about your new job, how you like it. See how center-stage I am?"

"Can I get you something, Marg?"

For a fumblingly long time, Margo didn't reply; she merely gazed ahead, past Sophia. When she answered, her declaration was spoken too evenly to be shuttled off as a spur-of-the-moment wisecrack.

"Yes," she said. "Larry Barker."

Sophia waited.

Soon Margo's pretty mouth widened in a fetching smile and she leaned forward to kiss Sophia's cheek.

"You go to bed. Listen to how I prattle; I'm a throwback to nineteenth-century melodrama. Nine-tenths of me is phony baloney. And the remaining tenth is fashionably preserved in alcohol. Go to bed, baby, and dream about the lovely life ahead of you."